After ruling out fitting into the pantry, under the desk or sofa, Sherlock inwardly cursed his height for the first time in a while (John would have easily fit into those places). The only way out of the flat was the way in, and he could already hear John hobbling up the stairs. He decided the only place that could effectively conceal his entire body was under his own bed and soundlessly hurried into his room to crawl under it. Rolling around to press his back against the dusty floorboards, he quickly checked to make sure no limbs were visible. Though he was confidant he had nothing to worry about; it was dark and John was drunk.
In the dead silence of the apartment, he could hear the doctor stumble up to the door mumbling to himself. By the sound of his gait Sherlock could make out that he had substantially sobered up. If there was anything the detective knew better than his own flat (the layout, which floorboards creaked, how long it took to get from place to the next), it was John. He would be able to visualize in his mind's eye all John's movement and where he was just by listening. Lucky for him the alcohol allowed for sloppier, louder movements and a more distinguishable voice. Sherlock closed his eyes and strained his ears in order to pick up every detail, unaware just how desperately he wanted to hear what was going on.
He heard a slow, heavy exhale.
"Shit," and for the first time in 3 years they were both back in 221b together again.
John was only slightly intoxicated now, the sight of his old flat had slowly deflated any droopiness out of his mind. It was only difficult to walk straight, but his thoughts, rapid and painful, were taking off at record speed. He was cursing himself as he made his floppy way up the stairs for giving the wrong address to Lestrade. Of course not everyday had been this bad, but not everyday he had to go into Scotland Yard, or see Anderson. It had been a rough one and he had headed down to get a drink to clear his head. He ended up just getting more and more upset and slowly lost track of the drinks and time. He had let himself feel the stifled grief he'd be ignoring for the past few weeks, ever since he asked Mary to be his wife. It was painful to unnecessarily revisit wounds he'd been trying to leave alone to heal and the last place he ever wanted to wind up in a state of half-drunken grief was 221b Baker Street.
Fear of what he'd find up there- or more specifically who he wouldn't find- began to take its toll and his heart was pattering around in little hallow tremors as he reached the top of the stairs. Realizing this was a horrible idea and knowing there was no turning back, he held his breath, closed his eye, and reached for the handle. With a loud exhale he let the door slowly swing open. Before daring to enter he scanned the room, taking in all he could.
A dusty sort of darkness crawled over everything, only being disrupted by muted light spilling in off the street through the windows. This perverted light accented the vast emptiness and the lack of Sherlock's once ever-present mess. John stood there in the doorway scanning the room filled with a sinking nostalgia.
"Shit," his husky, scotch-laden voice cut through the silence.
The skull caught his attention first, perched next to a couple of books on the mantle as if Sherlock had only just put it down. Everything was still all there- the carpet, chairs, desk, curtains, even that damn bull's head hanging on the wall. He was surprised to see how much Mrs. Hudson hadn't moved even after he left without looking back. Most of the bookshelves and desk had been cleared off, but there was still enough left to make the place look moderately inhabited. The now faded yellow spray paint smiled it's haunting grin through the fine coat of dust that clung to the wall opposite the fireplace, surrounded by boredom-birthed bullet holes.
"What are you smiling at?" John grumbled as he gathered the courage to cross into the room.
It was cool in the dark and morbidly still. Had John not been under the effects of a long night drinking, he would have noticed the softly shifted patterns in the dust on the bookshelf furthest from the door, where Sherlock had just been rummaging for one of his books. But John was focused on something else, namely trying not to turn around and run from the horrible motionlessness.
He stiffly crossed the room to the desk and gingerly placed two fingers on it, as if to verify where exactly he was. The doctor shut his eyes and lowered his head, remaining perfectly still as he tried to slow his racing heart. After a moment he exhaled in a quiet defeat and shuffled over the fireplace.
"Sherlock," he began with a heavy sigh, placing folded arms on the mantle, "What am I doing?" his voice was soft but low enough for it to travel into other rooms.
"I hate this. All this…" he gestured loosely with a hand around the room, "…this emptiness. I absolutely hate it," John paused to swallow hard, then continued. "It reminds me of how awake I was, how awake you made me. Now every damn day I have to wake up asleep."
The doctor turned his body sharply and stood to rant into the horribly empty room.
"My life sucks, Sherlock, and that's your damn fault. You gave me what I had needed my whole life, and then stripped it away. And now I can barely stomach who I see in the mirror. I just see me without you. I mean…I mean, why the fuck am I still so broken?" His voice was rising in agitation, at himself and at the absence of his friend. He began to pace slowly and talk faster. "I'm just a candle that you put out, Sherlock. And I guess that goes to show just how pathetic I really am. But you shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have lit the goddamn flame if you were just gunna snuff it out, and you shouldn't have fucking died!" He slammed a frustrated fist against the mantle he had recently made his way back to.
The silence that followed the bang seemed to be draining the energy out of John. It was as if it were pulling down the barriers, and for the first time since he could remember, he gave up on trying to put them back up. The title wave of repressed grief swarmed over him like like a lion on its prey. It tore deep into the pits of his stomach, tears flowing like blood from a wound. He was a stern man, even more so these days, and collapsing just wasn't something within his comfort zone, no matter how necessary for his mental health.
After he exhausted himself John was able to pull himself together. He angrily shoved away the tears and straightened up, deciding that he was in too wretched of a mood to be almost completely sober. With a conditioned familiarity he walked into the kitchen, opened one of the bottom cabinets and found what he'd been looking for. Thankful that Mrs. Hudson hadn't touched the booze shelf. He grabbed a half full bottle of what ever was in there and unscrewed the top as he stood back up. He stared at the bottle for a moment as if disappointed it had to come to this. Brushing away the concern he took a long swig then exhaled violently in reaction. The burn was scalding but more than welcomed.
Continuing his slow walk, he wandered his way out of the kitchen blankly, looking around as if a tourist in a museum. After a few more gulps he had wandered down that short hall and found himself in Sherlock's room. He was standing in the middle of it, staring at the blue robe which hung from the bed frame, as if Sherlock had just taken it off the day before. He took another couple swigs from the bottle, then turned to sit down on the edge of the bed.
"You were such an ass, Sherlock, really." He said leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees, folding his hands together over the bottle. "Half the time I couldn't stand being in the same room as you." He gave a humorless laugh, "whatI wouldn't give for that now. But no, you had to go fuck everythingup." He was beginning to slightly slur again, his consciousness stumbling back down into the sanctuary of intoxication.
"You were sooblivious to somany things. But all those things were just thethings that never really mattered. You mattered. There wassomething…flawless about you. Absolutely fuckingflawless." He was speaking down into his drink now, watching the liquid swirl as he moved it around in his hand.
John twisted quickly and looked behind him at the bed he was sitting on, scanning his tired eyes over the pillows and still rumpled sheets. "You usedto slept there," he said as-matter-of-factly, pointing a swinging hand at the vacant spot, "everynight," he nodded to himself. "Well, actually not every night I suppose. Godknows how much you actually sleeped." Rolling his eyes, he gracelessly flopped back, so that the top half of his body was lying on top of the coverlet, and his feet were still touching the ground. A wave of nausea pushed against his thoughts in reaction to his quick movements, but he pushed it away with practiced skill. John started bleary-eyed up at the ceiling, arms spread out on either side of him.
"God I miss you," he whispered, letting the hand holding the bottle swing over the edge of the bed.
"Every day I'm alive is just another reminder that you're not."
Despite his attempts with the alcohol, that swelling tightness, that knotted pit, was growing again at the center of his chest.
"I'm so sick of it. Forever is a long time to be gone, my friend. Isalong fuckin' time." The doctor closed his eyes causing a few solitary tears to slide down the side of his head into his hair. He fell silent then, just dwelling in the heartache that accompanied lying in Sherlock's empty bed.
He had laid like that for a long time. He wasn't sure how long; it could have been a couple minutes, or a couple hours for how much he was concerned. At some point the bottle dropped out of his hand and made a soft thud on the floor. Ignoring it, he concentrated on the consuming darkness as it soaked into his skin. As he laid there he allowed himself to imagine Sherlock lying next to him on the bed, falling asleep with him. It hurt his heart thinking about how deeply, truly, he yearned for that. He cracked his tired eyes back open one last time, deep in thought.
"I love you, Sherlock," he said so quietly he wasn't even sure he had spoken it out loud.
"I never knew it, don't know how, and I found out too late. But for what it's worth, if you can hear me wherever you are, I learned since you died that I've always loved you."
With that timidly spoken confession still resting on his lips, he slid his eyes shut and fell into a cloudy, restless sleep.
Sherlock laid in total awestruck silence, absorbing and replaying every single brokenhearted word John had rambled off since he had stumbled into the flat. As John had been talking more and more, Sherlock allowed himself, for the first time since he pushed John out of his life, to shed tears. Of guilt, shame, loneliness, and unbeknownst to him, of love.