Sexy man, though, not my type

"Do I even want to know what your type is?" John asked and the demon grinned, lips stretching over sharp teeth.

Perhaps not, he stepped toward John. You know my type John you just don't think.

Most likely sorrow or something masochistic, he wiped away the images of Luke wielding a riding crop and shuddered. Wandering into the kitchen he decided to make tea, he assumed Luke had done enough helping to last him a century. Hearing footsteps behind him he turned around, Luke was still in solid form, curls shifting as he walked.

"Tea? Or do you not.." He trailed off. Did he need to eat and drink, he was a demon after all and he didn't really know about this stuff, hell he didn't really even believe it before today. The darkness around his eyes was really starting to get bothersome he could barely find the tea bags and cups; he almost dropped one when he tried to reach for it.

Tea would be lovely, but I'll make it you go sit. The demon said and shoved him to the side grabbing the cup from his hand. Startled he stumbled and hit the table, hitting the corner off his leg and he winced in pain. Making his way to his armchair he sat down and Luke set down his cup. John watched the steam disappear into the air he didn't know a demon could be so nice; he was about to voice this thought when he felt fingernails dig into his neck.

Am. Not. Nice. Never was, never am and never will I be, got it? He nodded, the hand tightened fingernails pressed into his skin drawing blood. I said. Got. It?

"Yes." He croaked and Luke released him. Putting his hand up to his neck he went to the bathroom to clean himself up. It didn't need much, just a cleaning and a bandage. He heard the chime of his phone and he answered it, it was the optometrist he never showed up to his appointment. Shit. He lied and said he had slept in too late also saying he didn't need to reschedule he didn't need it anymore.

His tea was cold when he got back (not without bumping into at least five things) and Luke was gone. Huh.

Two weeks passed and his vision still wasn't back (it hadn't even improved) but he was starting to be able to work around it. Working and sleeping were a lot easier now that Luke wasn't blabbing to him constantly, but the flat had felt a bit lonely without him around; a part if him even missed the man. Greg had asked about him when they went out for a pint, he just told him Luke had gone out of town to visit family and that he would be back soon. He knew it was a bad lie but at that point Greg was half drunk and was willing to believe anything.

For the first night since Luke had gone John dreamt. He was in a valley that seemed to stretch for miles, long green grass swayed to the rhythm of the wind. The valley was empty all except John who stood staring at the same place on the horizon, he was frozen to the spot like he was waiting for someone or something. A small pain ignited in his chest, like a candle flame small, but burned no less. He didn't think much of it was only a dream after all. And an odd dream it seemed to be, not significant to him in any way, it was actually quite lonely all alone with the wind his only company. Holding his breath he listened to the wind, it seemed to whisper the same two words over and over again.

"Sixty days." The breath whooshed out of his chest and he woke up.

Blinking harshly at the sunlight creeping through the window, John pulled the covers over his head it felt like he hadn't slept at all. Groaning, he threw off the covers and was greeted by the chilled air of the morning as he stumbled his way downstairs acknowledging how his eyesight seemed to be improved, not much, but every bit counted. Putting on the kettle he slumped into a chair and rested his head on the top, thinking about the dream. "Sixty days." Sixty days until what? He get his eyesight back, until Luke comes back? John had no idea and he wasn't all that sure he wanted to find out.

The kettle screamed sinking him back into his dull, blurry reality and he stood up grabbing a teacup and bag making his tea with no sugar but a slip of milk. Glancing at the sugar he thought of Sherlock, when they were on the Hounds of Baskerville case and he had "drugged" him with sugar in his tea. Then when he was locked in the lab and thought he had seen the Hound, he chuckled but his chest hurt. The small fire still burning deep within his chest not hot enough to burn, but it was an irritating pain stuck at the back of your mind with all the other useless things until it makes it's way to the front. Small flame burning he rubbed at his chest, maybe it was just heartburn, sudden heartburn he had no say in.

Leaving his full cup of tea on the table he went up to his room and got dressed. Today he was going to visit Sherlock's grave so he dressed casual, in his black and white stripped jumper and a pair of blue jeans nothing too fancy. John finds it odd that even though he has lost the excitement in his life his limp remains hidden deep within the tendrils of his mind. Or maybe it hadn't gone away because of Luke being there adding oddity to his life, he couldn't remember if the limps was there before Luke. It wasn't that long ago but the memories were hazy, surrounded by an air of whether they were real or whether they were dreams intertwining with half-forgotten memories to make up a whole new set of mind. Maybe Luke had always been with him, just hidden when Sherlock entered his life, sorrow from his post-war days trickling away with each new experience he had with Sherlock.

There was the rough time a week after Sherlock died that he sat in his room with his gun pressed to his temple, sobbing for the loss of his bestfriend until Greg had found him there some hours later and convinced him to put the gun down. Ever since Greg has kept a close watch on him, he tries to hide it but John could see the lingering pity and caution behind his eyes.

Arriving at Sherlock's grave he realized he forgot the flowers and silently cursed, oh well what can you do.

Sherlock's PoV (only one btw)

Sherlock made sure John was safely gone before he entered the flat, he scanned the living room. Nothing was moved, his experiments still sat on the table, the skull on the mantelpiece the unused things seemed to be coated in a fine layer of dust. Not letting Mrs. Hudson dust then. It didn't look like he was doing much of anything really, his armchair was left unused and the kettle was out a full cup of tea still left out. He went up to John's room staring at the bedspread, he's been sleeping okay no nightmares although he did dream quite vividly last night, a corner of the sheet wasn't folded underneath the mattress. Moving limbs.

Sighing he went back downstairs grabbed the paper and flopped on his armchair waiting for John to get home.

John's PoV again

The visit at Sherlock's grave went well, he didn't cry and his voice didn't even crack. Feeling a small burst of pride as he climbed the seventeen stairs to the flat he thought about Luke. Luke had become s big part of his life even though he was a demon and he was after his soul. That was big enough itself, but he had been gone and he missed the man. The flame was back (or present, had it really gone away?) and he rubbed at his chest. Entering the flat his eyes went straight for the person sitting in Sherlock's armchair their face was obscured by the newspaper but he knew who it was.

"Luke."