To: Sherlock Holmes
Subject: Talking
- You know how you used to talk to people, namely me, when they weren't - there? I always thought it was stupid.
- It makes a lot more sense now.
John finds himself muttering to himself, making mental notes out loud, grumbling on about how he needed to buy milk or how he hated the quiet.
He doesn't know who he's talking to, he just does it. It's almost a learned habit, John supposes, after eighteen months of thinking out loud to Sherlock. Even then, he didn't get a response eighty percent of the time, so he figures that it's not much different now.
One day, he actually caught himself talking to Sherlock. He had misplaced something and, in the disgust of the moment, had asked aloud, all intending to get an answer in response, what have you done with it?
He had realized his mistake, of course, seconds after he had said it. It took moments like those to make John realize that talking to yourself was a sign of loneliness. And John didn't really talk to himself as much as he was talking to a dead Sherlock, but the point was the same, wasn't it?
John's lonely. He knows that he's lonely and he's sick of it. He's determined to let the past go but every time that he even starts to think about forgetting Sherlock, he is assailed by this gut-wrenching feeling.
John's still lonely. John's still upset. John still misses Sherlock and John still talks to himself. John still wishes Sherlock hadn't done what he'd done, but he had, and John was the one who had to deal with it.
John secretly knows that he's not dealing with it.
To: John Watson
Subject: (No subject)
- Failure to deliver message.
AN: I'm still playing around with format. Don't mind me. I have one more snippet backed up and then I'm onto writing some reviewer ideas. Keep them coming! The ideas. And the reviews. Thanks!