ONLY TEARDROPS

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock, or anything else you could possibly recognise :)

WARNING: Johnlock. Don't like it, just don't read it ;)

I apologise in advance for the fact that this in un-beta'd. KokoMini has been very busy lately so she hasn't had a chance. Still, I didn't want to leave it too long. So, here you are. Leave a review when you're done and let me know what you think ;)

CHAPTER THREE: THE FLATMATE

xXxXxXx

I waited for you today

But you didn't show

No, no, no.

I needed you today

So where did you go?

You told me to call,

Said you'd be there

And though I haven't seen you

Are you still there?

Never Alone – Barlow Girl

xXxXxXx

John didn't sleep at all that night. He spent the hours sorting through all of Sherlock's belongings again, trying to decide what to do with it all. Most of it was spent looking through the notebooks, trying to decipher Sherlock's loopy scrawl, or just thinking. He had a few boxes set up around him, where he placed a lot of the items. Some he would move to his own room, some would remain in the living area – damn whatever his new flatmate thought. Some, though, he had nothing to do with. Would Mycroft want any of it? He would have thought the man would have just come and taken anything he wanted, if there was anything at all. Maybe he'd rather take it than John gave it away. Or maybe he just didn't care – that seemed more like Mycroft.

Then there were his clothes. They were all the wrong size for John – Sherlock was much taller and thinner than John. Still, he felt as though he couldn't just give them all away. They were of expensive taste, collared shirts and slacks, coats, scarves and his several dressing gowns. His socks were still perfectly indexed. John didn't end up getting all that much done that night, he simply sifted through Sherlock's things and thought.

Putting Sherlock's things in boxes felt like saying goodbye again. How many times would he have to say goodbye to this man? He'd thought he was saying goodbye at the funeral – that's what they're for, isn't it? He'd thought he'd be able to say goodbye. Oh how mistaken he was. John glared at the floor – here he was, a year later, and still hanging on to the memory of a man he'd lived with for a too-short period of time. He'd been to war, yet this was the hardest thing he had ever done. It just didn't make any sense!

John slowly sorted through the notebooks, flipping through pages and reading passages – sometimes pages. After only a few pages he was settled, reading desperately, word-for-word. The words, so properly articulated and in that haughty tone… It was almost as though Sherlock were back with him. He could almost hear the man saying the words… almost. It took him re-reading one line several times before he realised why it didn't feel quite right.

He couldn't recall what Sherlock's voice sounded like.

As soon as it hit him, he froze. He remembered that his voice was deep, his words pronounced articulately, spoken quickly and with full confidence. But he couldn't recall. He couldn't hear the man speaking in his own mind, couldn't close his eyes and almost imagine that the detective was back. He read frantically, trying to capture that sound, somewhere, somehow. He read for hours, hearing the words in a tone that could have been Sherlock-like, but was it his voice? Wasn't his voice a little deeper? A little warmer? Something so much more…? He just couldn't remember the particulars, no matter how hard he tried.

It was the early hours of the morning when he confused himself about the colour of Sherlock's eyes. Were they blue? Grey? Blue-grey or grey-blue? How long was his hair? How did it curl? What side did his lips always twitch to when he gave that genuine smile? All the little details were fading in his mind. He rushed to his room and rooted through his drawers, looking for a photograph to reassure him. He pushed papers and books out of the way frantically, focused completely.

It was at the bottom of the top drawer. A single photograph of Sherlock – the man wasn't smiling, in fact he looked exasperated. John giggled slightly at the sight. He hurried back to the study where he had all of Sherlock's notes and set about studying the image.

His eyes were a grey-blue. John frowned at them. In his mind they'd been… dull. How could he have forgotten that spark? The shine of intelligence, of mirth, of endless curiosity. That expression that constantly said 'I know something you don't know'. And of course he always did, John thought. He spent a long time studying the photograph, trying to press the little details further into his mind. He still couldn't remember what side his mouth twitched up at, or the exact sound of his laughter, but it was something.

Before he knew it the day was growing light outside the window. As the light reached him he glanced up. It looked to be a clear day ahead. The light flooded into the flat, illuminating the mess John had made while rummaging through things. It was completely trashed! John smiled for a moment. It looked like home again – he could almost picture Sherlock lying on the sofa, or striding in the door, or standing by the window, violin in hand. It was these things, the little things, which he didn't want to forget. He didn't want to even allow himself to let them start to fade.

He had to talk himself into getting up after only a few moments. He had to tidy the flat again, he couldn't leave it all over the place, especially when he had guests coming over. Guests. He hadn't had them in a long time. Greg used to drop by the check up on him, and even Mycroft had come a few times in the months following. But they'd stopped coming around in the past few months.

Hours later, everything was packed away neatly in boxes. He'd piled the boxes to the side of the room, still undecided about what he was going to do with them. Sherlock's violin remained in its case by the window, many of his books remained in the bookshelves, but it was still too empty. Once it was all done John retreated back to his room so he didn't have to sit in that too-large, empty space.

xXxXxXx

Cooper was… nice. There was no other word for it really. He felt himself smile as he imagined what Sherlock would say. Agreeable, dull, tiresome, boring! He was ordinary, cordial. Usually John would find nothing wrong with the man – in any other situation they may have actually been friends. But the moment the man stepped in the door John disliked him.

He was too short. He wasn't as short as John, so he figured he really should have no right making that comment, but he was certainly shorter than Sherlock had been. He was tanned – only slightly, but it was still too much in John's opinion. His eyes were brown, dull, the colour of dirt. He was slightly built – not slim, but more like John himself. His smiled a lot, his too-thin lips stretching into a tight-lipped expression. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

John had come to these conclusions only moments after meeting him. He hadn't heard the doorbell when it had gone off so Mrs. Hudson had to escort him up the stairs to the flat. John could hear he coming up the steps, chattering on to the man about who knew what. When they came into the flat the man was smiling politely. Fake, a Sherlock-like voice snapped in John's mind but he ignored it.

"Ah, here he is," Mrs. Hudson cut herself off, "John! This is Cooper. Sarah had to head off to work so I promised to bring him up."

John nodded. "Thanks Mrs. Hudson." He watched as she loitered for a few moments, as if looking for an excuse to remain in the room, before giving up and heading back to her own flat. Once they were alone John focused on Cooper, scanning him over. He didn't like him.

"Hi John," Cooper smiled widely, offering a hand. "It's great to meet you. Sarah was telling me a lot about you on the way over here – it's great that someone she knew is looking for a flatmate, I don't know what I would have done otherwise. I don't want to bother her with my presence too much."

John took his hand with a firm grip. "Yes, well, wonderful to meet you. Tea?"

The two settled at the table with two cups of tea. John watched Cooper, they were both silent. It was strange for John to be feeling so awkward in his own home, but he simply brushed it off and returned the man's smile. "So, have you ever lived in London before?" John asked after a few moments.

Cooper set down his cup. "Yes, actually. I went to school here, hated it at the time so as soon as I could leave I was gone. I'm thinking it won't be so bad this time." He leaned back. "What about you?"

"Spent a while in Afghanistan before I got discharged. Couldn't really afford London but I could never bear to be anywhere else," he explained shortly.

"Ah," Cooper traced a finger around the lip of his cup, "Hence the flatmate. How long have you been living on your own now?"

"Just a year." John shifted, gaze flickering to the doorway and then the clock. "So, what is it you do?"

"A little bit of this and that. Freelance work mostly. You're a doctor, right? You work with Sarah."

"Right."

"What did your old flatmate do?"

John froze. His opened his mouth but no sound came out. He closed it again. What did your old flatmate do? It was an innocent question, nothing John could fault the man for. There was no way he could have expected John to react so strongly. It was a simple wondering of a curious man. John stared at him as Cooper frowned, unsure of what he'd done wrong.

Nothing, John thought, he'd done nothing wrong. It was a question that should not affect him so strongly, not after so much time had passed. It had been a year. A whole year. Why could he not even talk about this yet?

"Sorry, I-"

"No," John cut him off, voice quiet, "Its fine. He was a detective – consulting detective, he called himself, the only one in the world. He invented it." He smiled wryly at the memory of Sherlock saying the exact same thing when John had asked not long after he'd met the man.

"Detective, eh? That would have made life interesting."

John laughed at that. "Yes, it was certainly never boring. At the drop of a hat he'd be dragging me out on some case, or suddenly out of nowhere proclaiming he'd solved it. Life was never dull with him around."

"What happened?"

"W-what?"

"You speak about him so highly," Cooper clarified, "Just his mention made you both sad and happy at the same time. If he was so important why isn't he here anymore?"

John stared. Immediately an image of Sherlock on the edge of Bart's roof came to his mind, phone in hand. John could almost hear him again.

Goodbye John.

John bit his lip, taking a deep breath and trying to blink the image out of his vision.

"I… I'm sorry," he shook his head, "I can't…" He stood abruptly and rushed to the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, trying desperately to correct his breathing. This was NOT the time! He raised a shaking hand to his face, rubbing at his eyes. It was a simple question! Why did it affect him so strongly?

Yes, Sherlock had been an important part of his life. Hell, he hated to admit it, but Sherlock had pretty much become his life. Since they had met, Sherlock had become so ingrained in John's very existence. He was constantly running after the man, whether to simply fill in for Sherlock's skull, to help him out with a case (deal with human interactions) or to save his life, he never minded. No, he enjoyed it. Without that, he didn't know what to do. He worked at the surgery, and they seemed to like that he was much more reliable now, but John missed the unpredictability, the adrenaline, the chase.

But it was more than that. He missed knowing that when he came home from work, or shopping, or a walk, that Sherlock would be there. He would always be there. John missed the constant text messages during a work day, everything from case details to complaints of boredom. Sometimes he just stared at his phone, willing it to light up with a message. It never did.

"Are you okay?" Cooper called from the living room.

John stared at the doorway for a few moments, almost expecting him to be standing there. He wasn't. John took a deep breath and nodded to himself before walking back out to his guest.

"Sorry, I just… I have some stuff to do. I'll call you?" He didn't want to seem like he was kicking Cooper out of his flat, even if that is exactly what he was doing. Can't do this if you're living with the guy, he thought.

Cooper nodded, standing. "Sounds good."

They bid their goodbyes at the door and it was with a flood of relief that John closed the door behind him. He felt increasingly lighter as he made his way back up the stairs, glad to be alone again. As he entered the flat he felt like he was walking into a stranger's home, definitely not his own. It was so bare, open, impersonal. The boxes piled by the couch seemed to be screaming at him. They didn't belong there. They didn't belong anywhere. The contents weren't supposed to be packed away.

Before he could stop to think about it John crossed the room and grabbed the top box. He opened the flaps and took a moment to stare at the contents. Notebooks, newspapers, books. They were all stacked neatly inside, almost taunting him. John glared, bit his lip and up-ended the box on the floor. He grinned at the mess. That was much better. He immediately went for the next one, and the one after that. Each box was dumped unceremoniously around the flat – on the desk, the kitchen table, the floor. He didn't care that it was in the way, it was supposed to be there. It should always be there. 221B wasn't home without Sherlock.

Sherlock. John paused, looking around. It wasn't like messing the place up would bring him back. No, that wasn't possible. All he was achieving was undoing the work he'd already put in, and this was not dealing! He set the now empty box in his hands down, moving slowly across the room to sit at the kitchen table.

John practically collapsed into the chair, rubbing his palms into his eyes. He didn't know what he was doing anymore. Who was he supposed to be without Sherlock? Was he supposed to live a quiet life? Treat children and old people at work, spend his nights watching telly or out with some mates, only read about crimes in the newspaper? He couldn't imagine it, not anymore, not having experienced what life could be. Not without Sherlock.

John took a deep, rattling breath. Why was it so hard? He'd been fine before he'd met Sherlock – fine, not fantastic, but surviving. Now, he didn't even know how to do that! His breath caught in a sob, but he swallowed it. No, he couldn't do this. Not now.

It took him a few moments to be able to breathe again, and when he could he pushed himself to his feet and stormed back to the living room. The first pile of books he came across he kicked. Hard. They went spilling all over the floor. But John didn't care. He stormed to the desk, the window, and back toward the fireplace. That was when it caught his eye.

That skull. It still sat on the fireplace – he hadn't even thought about moving it when he'd been packing. Now it seemed to be staring at him, judging him. He rushed to grab it off the mantle, looking at it closer. Yes, it definitely seemed to be watching him, mocking him. Was it possible for a skull to laugh? John growled, using all his strength to throw the stupid thing into the fireplace.

There is smashed, a thousand tiny pieces. It only took a moment for John to realise what he'd done and the guilt almost swallowed him. He sank to his knees slowly before the broken pieces, another sob rising.

"Was that really necessary?"

John's head snapped toward the door, his sob catching.

In the doorway stood Sherlock Holmes.