Thanks for all the wonderful comments, threats, tears and bills for counselling. For those just finding these for the first time, this is a May-long multi-part fic, so there are a whole 10 days of micro-fics to read as well as this! All the other parts can be found here!
Some of you might have noticed the pattern that we're alternating between John and Sherlock. Some of you might also have noticed that they're not travelling in the same direction time-wise. All will be revealed, I hope, at some point before May 31st.
Anyway, enjoy some more angst and unhappiness. And happy Saturday!
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As the door banged shut, announcing Lestrade's departure, Sherlock considered the conversation they had started the evening with. Surely, his closest friend couldn't fail to spot what all the other people in his life knew full well to be the case. It wasn't as if he was keeping it a secret.
For two years, he's lived in the house left to him by his oldest friend all by himself. There is no noise coming from downstairs anymore, no interruptions of tea and chatter. He goes to bed in the oppressive silence and wakes up to the same. And it's killing him.
Then there are the memories—ghosts of a past self, of laughter and life and fun, of mysteries and excitement. It isn't like that now. John rarely helps with cases anymore. Celebratory takeaway and crap TV are long gone. It's good when John and Rose visit, but they always leave again. The silence swallowing him.
Sherlock isn't a loner. Ever since his time away, working to single-handedly bring down Moriarty, he's needed company. He might not talk for days on end, but he needs life around him so that he can feel tethered to reality, to know that his sacrifice was worth it, that everyone was saved.
To know he's home and safe.
But home is no longer 221b.
For @calaisreno's May Prompt Challenge.
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
pixelskylines
stormborns
gummygunk
titsay
areudirty
