Chapter Text
John rushes through the bustling crowd in the streets of central London, pushing people aside as he runs.
Dark clouds start rolling in overhead, and he hears a crack of thunder.
His breaths become quick and short as he chases the few glimpses he gets of Sherlock’s navy coat and head of dark curls running in front of him.
“Sherlock!” He yells after him loudly, receiving him nasty glares from passerby.
As he speeds up he closes in on the man ahead of him just enough to brush the rough fabric of his coat with his fingertips, before he loses his pace and falls behind again.
It feels like he has been chasing him endlessly through this crowd for hours, days even, but it doesn’t matter how many times he nearly catches up to him or calls out his name, Sherlock never slows, and never looks back.
***
John emerges from the depths of sleep, startled awake by the sound of vacuuming down the hall. He reaches his hands up to his face, only to feel tears leaking from his eyes, which he quickly scrubs away.
He sits up in his bed, stretching his limbs out as he squints against the morning light that pours in through his window.
***
It had been a year since Sherlock Holmes had died.
John had never used the words “committed suicide”, no matter what any autopsy said, because he knew that Sherlock would never do that to him.
After a year John felt like he would’ve learned to cope with the loss of his best friend, and he had-going to work five days a week as a part time doctor at the local clinic, finding a routine in his schedule everyday; even making time to go on runs (although not as often as he would like)-but every night he was reminded of what happened.
It’s like his brain didn’t want him to forget that Sherlock was gone.
But how could he?
It was hard not to think of him everywhere he went, traces of Sherlock stained every part of the city, and had etched into the hard outer layers of his heart.
It was especially hard to forget while living in the flat they both once occupied; but he had learned to push those thoughts away.
Burying the demons that haunted him far down enough so they could only reach him in his nightmares.
***
John managed to get out of bed, walking from his bedroom into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
It must be Sunday if Mrs. Hudson is cleaning so early, he thought to himself.
All of his days had begun to blend together since…the accident.
He really only relied on Mrs. Hudson to wake him up or remind him what day of the week it was, which he was grateful for and would like to thank her for, if he could find it in himself to talk to anyone.
He had seen his therapist in the early months, as he felt like a strong hand and guidance would help him get through the grief he was experiencing.
But she would tell him everything he didn’t want to hear, like how his feelings were normal, grief helps you process the love you never had the chance to express, it was okay to not be okay, and blah blah blah.
John wished that he could find comfort in her support, but every offering of sympathy and encouragement to get in touch with his feelings felt…empty.
She had even tried setting him up with a “Families in Grieving” support group to help him “connect with people who were going through the same thing”.
But after two months of mundane conversations about feelings and unhelpful advice, he dropped the class, and his therapist.
Because of course John knew she was trying to help, as well as the people trying to support him in Group A3 of “Families in Grieving”, but he couldn’t take it anymore.
Because as much as they tried, it seemed as though no one could understand how he felt.
No one could understand the loss of the one person he felt connected to, no one could understand the nature of their relationship and how when they were together everything just made sense.
It was like there was a large hole that had torn into him, and scooped out some part of his identity.
He was robbed of someone that understood him and the way he thought and felt, without even needing to speak.
So, no, he didn’t feel the urge to talk about what was going on in his life to anyone, which left him the option of not speaking at all.
John leaned against the counter with his mug in hand, pouring the now steaming water over a tea bag.
He bobbed the tea bag up and down with his finger, watching the way the water rippled as he did.
He let out a long breath, savoring this peaceful moment with himself where he was still waking up; his mind too tired to wander.
He walked over to his chair, but not before grabbing his feather duster, which he brought up to the spotless chair that still sat across from his, dusting off the nonexistent grime that never had the chance to settle atop its black leather.
After he felt satisfied, he took a seat in his chair, and stared at the empty space in front of him, as he did every morning.
John sipped at his now lukewarm tea, and felt a sad smile appear on his face.
He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill as he continued to look at the empty chair before him.
His eyes wandered around the rest of the flat, which was just as messy as Sherlock had left it, with papers stacked and disorganized on their shared desk, envelopes and documents speared to the mantle above the fireplace.
A small smile graced his lips as he recalled every crazy and outlandish habit of Sherlock’s, which made him a horrible roommate, but there was never a dull moment in the flat.
The thought caused a familiar warmth to spread throughout his chest, settling a comforting haze over the grief-stricken shell of his body.
But that feeling soon flickered out as he heard a familiar knock on his door.