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"I can't do this without you, Sherlock," he whispers into the night. The wind whistles between the two buildings that seem to be closing in around him on all sides, despite the clear streetlights on both ends of the alley.
Do what? it seems to ask as it tousles the hair that has definitely not been washed recently — or combed. It sneaks between his collar and the skin on the back of his neck, making the hairs there stand on end.
"Everything," he chokes. "Anything."
John finally understands why Sherlock referred to his body as "transport." His own body refuses to obey his commands half the time — not that he needs it to, really. He doesn't step foot out of the flat. Hasn't for thirty-five days.
His body isn't important anymore.
His mind — or, more specifically, his memory — is where he spends most of his time. Reminiscing of days past, cursing himself for not spotting signs that Sherlock was anything but satisfied with his life, cursing himself more for not seeing them even now.
Cursing Sherlock for being so bloody Selfish as to leave John alone in the world full of idiots who didn't understand that he just wanted to be left alone with his thoughts and not be disturbed with trivial matters such as eating or taking care of himself.
Oh, Sherlock. Is this how you feel?
Felt, his traitorous brain is quick to remind him.
"Fuck you." John isn't sure whether he's addressing Sherlock or the voice inside his head.
Sherlock fell.
John is still falling.