Title: When Silence Fell

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Rating: T-for tears

Warnings: it's really sad

Words: 525

Characters: John Watson (and Sherlock, but not really)

Summary: It's the silence that got to him, in the end…

A.N.: I will be uploading fics rarely on this account from now on. Please find me as thispagealone on livejournal or tumblr ok? I hope you'll like this small one.

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Silence. It was the silence that got to John, in the end. Not the empty chair. Not the suddenly sad-looking smiling face on the wall. Not even Mrs. Hudson's seemingly voluntary transition from landlady to housekeeper. Not even the newspapers and television, who thought Sherlock's death meant Christmas came early.

He could take all that. He could pretend his associate was asleep, or out on a case, or so bored he decided on a whim to go be a pest to his brother. His science things were all still on the kitchen table, a couple body parts in the fridge, one of his scarves had found its way to the back of a chair, the blue dressing gown was on the couch – where he tossed it before he left the flat.

During the night, before he fell asleep and saw Sherlock fly over and over and over again, he could almost imagine the other man sprawled on his bed, in the room next to his. It was all very pathetic, of course, but as long as he didn't dwell on it for too long, John could pretend 221B Baker Street was still the home of one Sherlock Holmes and his loyal blogger.

Until he stopped. And listened.

No cursing came from the kitchen. No screeching of violin strings from the sitting room. No thumping of feet jumping on furniture. No baritone voice to mock him, praise him, berate him and talk his hear off. No discussion in progress when he came in the room, that told him his flatmate – his friend – hadn't even noticed he had been out for hours. No noise from his laptop's keyboard, because there were no more stories to tell.

Nothing but silence. Until he couldn't take it any longer. Then he put all his belongings in cardboard boxes and back in his old flat – well, room really. He told Mrs. Hudson he was terribly sorry, but he couldn't take the silence anymore, and he was out. Out of 221B Baker Street, out of the only place that ever felt like home, out of the only place that could make him feel dead while his heart was still beating in his chest.

His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead.

Nothing else mattered. Not that his name was tarnished, not that Lestrade was almost in disgrace, not Mrs. Hudson's pleading with him to stay just a while more, not that even Molly – sweet, shy, strong Molly – seemed to have vanished into thin air (or maybe she couldn't bear to look into his empty eyes, who could say?).

His best friend, his soul mate, was gone. Lost. No more. No smile; no silly, swishing coat; no sharp, impossible cheekbones. No blue eyes that could see what nobody else could – what couldn't they see, those incredible, incredible eyes? No need to tell anybody that they needed to work on their manners ("Not good?" "A bit not good…").

What was John's purpose, now? Where was his planet supposed to orbit, now that the sun was gone?

"What am I supposed to do?"

For three long years, only the silence answered his question.

Until it didn't.