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John entered his flat, and his depression instantly returned. He sighed and walked into the kitchen to brew some tea that he wouldn't end up drinking. As he was filling the kettle with tap water, there was a crash from the direction of Sherlock's room. John dropped the kettle and dashed towards the noise. He stopped when he saw the dark figure sitting calmly on the bed. The man had curly hair, a very blue scarf, and a black woolen trench coat. His grey eyes bore right through John's soul, and his beautifully high cheekbones stood out against his ivory skin. "Sherlock," John breathed, and that is when he lost it. John Watson, the soldier, the

"Sometimes, I talk to him. I see him in mirrors or in fog, but when I turn around he isn't there. I'm finally losing it, Greg," John murmured into his tea. Greg sighed and placed his own tea on his desk. "Maybe you should see someone, John. You're ill." John shook his head sadly. "I'm not ill, I just miss him." "It's been 3 years." "2 years, 11 months, and 26 days." "What?" "Nothing." Both men just sat there in silence for a while, Greg sipping his tea, John starring at his as if it held all the secrets of the world. "I'll have Stevens drive you home. Get some rest; you need it," Greg pulled John out of his chair and sort of pushed him

John Hamish Watson was sitting in his favorite chair. Sherlock's chair. He had a cup of tea at his side and the telly was muttering some nonsense, but John wasn't paying attention to any of it. He was staring at a skull over the mantel. He couldn't bring himself to throw it away, no matter how creepy it was. John couldn't bear to throw away any of Sherlock's things. It had been 2 years, 11 months, and 26 days since Sherlock had jumped off the roof, 2 years, 11 months, and 26 days since John had died inside. He had not shed a tear, neither had he cried, nor moaned. It was as if the man had simply turned to stone and crumbled. John didn't leave