Song: Almost Lover by A Fine Frenzy

These Images

John returned to 221b Baker Street. When he opened the door, he barely remained standing. It smelled so richly of Sherlock. His violin still sat in the corner, his science equipment in boxes on their kitchen table. John's face was wet, his insides were numb, and he couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. When he closed his eyes, he saw those wonderful blue ones that he adored so much, framed by dark, lovely lashes. Those eyes that saw into John's soul.

John aimlessly ambled around the apartment, touching Sherlock's things, thinking they might bring him closer to his friend. He found himself in the bathroom, suddenly he was freezing. He tore the shower curtain open and turned the water on as hot as it would go. He stripped himself of his clothes, which felt weighed down and dirty with death. He stepped into the shower and let the warm water run over him. He felt the piping hot water working at the numbness in his body, until he finally broke. The flood gates seemed to open and John doubled over, choking on his sobs. He sunk to his knees and shook with each sob. Tears endlessly streaming down his cheeks, he clutched around his middle, willing the numbness to return, to stop the pain in his chest, which was almost too much to bear. The water continued to beat down on him as his cries got louder and louder, he was audibly moaning in pain. He leaned his head against the tiled side of the wall and gripped his knees to him.

He cried out to Sherlock, to come back, to God to bring him back, for the emptiness that he felt to take him away, to end it. In this moment, he hated himself for not telling Sherlock that he loved him. For not killing himself and Moriarty in the Pool to save Sherlock. He hadn't felt this aching longing since leaving Afghanistan. But this was so much more real, so much more acute.

He couldn't stop the images from plaguing him. Every smile, every laugh, each moment of joy, happiness, sorrow, anger, astonishment, frustration, every second of every day that he had spent with Sherlock came rushing back to him and he let it take wash over him like blood.

At one point, John's nose had started bleeding from sobbing so hard. He just let it bled, knowing medically that he wouldn't die, that the clot would come out and it would stop, but he didn't bother to stop it. He didn't care. His sobs had calmed, but the tears were still running. The water had long gone cold, but John didn't notice. He was a broken man.

Eventually, John turned the water off, dried himself, and pulled his boxers on. He passed his own room and instead went to Sherlocks. He climbed into his bed, curled up in a ball in the center and buried his head under the covers, like a child. Everything smelled like Sherlock, the pillows were cold and soft, and John didn't fight the sleep when it came to him, he knew that he was going to have to be strong, he was going to have to keep going, to wait for the return, he knew that's what Sherlock would have wanted, but right now, John had nothing left in him.

He closed his eyes and pretended that it was that night, that he was going to wake up and Sherlock was going to be wrapped around him, and all was well.

And sleep took him away.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I will be most definitely writing a follow up for this story, the reunion of Sherlock-of course! How could I not? WHO IS READY FOR SOME SERIOUS FLUFF. I'd love some song submissions, I've got a whole playlist of John and Sherlock songs, so send me a request and I'll write something up :)