*Art privately commissioned from arashicat* 8:05 PM 221B Baker Street, Westminster London 

*Art privately commissioned from arashicat* 8:05 PM 221B Baker Street, Westminster London  - Waiting at 221B -  It’s been a year and three months. The emptiness around him was overwhelming. It bore down on him, suffocating him and making each breath harder than the last. His heart clenched, the ache getting worse with each passing moment. The pain was nothing like the hurt that tore through his heart the day he watched his best friend die. That had felt like his heart was ripped out from inside him.  The pain he felt now was simply the aftermath, a dull throbbing of a now old wound. A wound that acted up on bad days. On good days, he could almost forget the pain was there. Almost. But not quite. There is always a part of John that remembers what had happened all those months ago, when his other half had gone to a place where he could not follow. It was an itch right where his heart was and no matter how much he clutched and groped at the spot, he could never get rid of the sensation. He had tried many things, alcohol being on the top of the list but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough. When one looked at the heart of John Watson, one could say it was a perfectly healthy heart for a man of John’s age but there was a pain that goes deeper than any medical scan could hope to see. Rooted into its very core was a disease that no medicine can cure. The loss of a loved one damaged the heart in such a way. Some say only time could heal such wounds. But in John Watson’s case time simply ravaged his already broken heart. The defenses he put around himself were slowly ebbing away with each passing day, very much how memories of old times were slipping away from his grasp. John couldn’t remember his best friend’s face as clearly as he did before. John couldn’t recall his voice as easily as he did before. John was slowly falling into a darkness he could never escape, and his own sanity was slipping along with it. It’s been a year and three months since Sherlock died. John held his phone tightly in his hand. Sherlock’s name was displayed there along with numerous unanswered text messages John had sent him. Hundreds and thousands of text messages with various heartfelt words that all really meant one thing. I love you. They were three words which held both power and pain. Every time John sent Sherlock a text message there would be a small sliver of hope that was sparked inside him. It was a hope that Sherlock would finally answer him. The text messages made it easier to pretend that Sherlock was still with him. But it was a strenuous cycle. John would text, translating his pain into words that he never had a chance to say to the consulting detective back when he was alive. John would send it, hoping against hope that Sherlock would be able to read his thoughts and sentiments. Hoping, despite Sherlock claiming that sentiments were dull and boring, that the other would accept them, would accept John. Then John would wait. John reasoned that he had been waiting for Sherlock to come along his whole life, perhaps waiting a bit more wasn’t all that bad. As time passed, John would realize that a reply would never come.  Anxiety would set in and reality would come crashing down. And then the cycle would repeat again. It was stupid and foolish, but what man would be rational when he was in love? It’s been a year and three months since Sherlock was taken from him. The moonlight shone through the window panes casting shadows around the empty flat. Once, John had hoped that the consulting detective would emerge from the shadows and declare that all of it had been a clever rouse. It was another one of John’s foolish dreams. John’s eyes fell upon Sherlock’s phone on the table. The screen was cracked from when Sherlock had thrown it aside before he jumped. It had contained Sherlock’s last note. It was a recording of all that transpired on top of St. Bart’s. With the discovery of the note, it became more apparent that Sherlock wasn’t coming back. The truth had come to light. John had been the reason for Sherlock’s death. A different kind of pain had descended upon John during this realization: overwhelming guilt and shame. John constantly blamed himself for the death of the man he loved, until one day he could no longer bear the pain. John tried to kill himself, so that he could finally see Sherlock Holmes. But it was never meant to be. He failed in his suicide attempt. It had been months since then. He never tried to kill himself again, saying that death was an easy escape and he did not deserve such things. He believed his atonement for his sins was to live each day bearing the burden that he had been the one who killed Sherlock Holmes. John had conditioned himself into believing one simple fact: Sherlock Holmes was dead and he was never coming back. It’s been a year and three months since John Watson was left all alone. Again. John had grown up alone, but he never realized just how utterly alone he was until he stumbled upon Sherlock Holmes. He realized there was an emptiness there he never knew existed. What surprised John more was the fact Sherlock Holmes, was somehow filling the void. Both of them settled into a routine that was all their own. But then all too suddenly all of that yanked away and the world that john had fallen in love with was shattered in one fell swoop. His mending heart was left broken than ever before, with the sudden loss of Sherlock. He tried to keep at the only routine he knew how. He continued to text Sherlock, telling him about his days are talking about his thoughts. He regularly visited Sherlock’s grave, bringing with him white roses. He continued to make tea for the both of them, yet each and every time Sherlock’s cup remained undrunk.  John would always watch the teacup until wisps of hot air were no longer visible, signaling the tea had gone cold. He would end up throwing the new tea and making anew batch for both himself and Sherlock. John had wasted so many cups of tea in all those months but that didn’t really matter. John looked around the flat, the emptiness apparent despite the room being cluttered with his flatmate’s possessions. For all those months, Sherlock’s things remained untouched, gathering more dust with each passing day. Each object represented a certain memory and a certain happy time that John wasn’t willing to let go yet. Boxes had already been brought up by Mrs. Hudson. They were in the corner by the door right where she had left them hours ago. John couldn’t bare looking at them but he knew it was something that needed to be done. He’s been waiting a year and three months and it’s time for John Watson to move on. “I’ve been waiting for too long.” John mused more to himself than to anyone. He couldn’t remember the countless of times he had addressed the shadows that surrounded him. “One more miracle… Please? Sherlock?” He heard his voice break. It was a desperate plea. One he had been constantly repeating for the past months. John was never one to believe in miracles but he started believing because of Sherlock Holmes. Now his belief seemed to waver as his resolve to fight the truth became less and less with each month that had come and gone. A man can only handle so much before becoming so broken beyond repair and John Watson was well on his way there.  Call it self preservation, call it giving up but for John Watson it was simply knowing his limits. On his last visit to Sherlock’s grave he had made a promise. A promise that he would live and find the happiness that Sherlock believed he deserved. He couldn’t do that with this intense weight on his shoulder which held him back from truly living. He knew he would continue to love Sherlock Holmes, he knew Sherlock Holmes would always have a place in his heart but there was one thing that John could no longer do, and that was to wait. Most would probably have this ideal romantic scenario in their heads wherein John Watson would continue waiting for Sherlock Holmes, mourning the loss of his best friend. For years, John would stay in the flat and devote himself to no one but the thought of Sherlock and the possibility of him coming back. But the real world didn’t work that way. Fantasies, were fantasies for a reason and John Watson knew he had a life and reality to live. Sherlock wanted him to be happy and the first step to attaining that was learning to live a life without the consulting detective. He got up, the chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor, and reached for the dark blue scarf draped on Sherlock’s chair. He placed it against his chest and buried himself in it, wanting his lungs to be filled with the last of Sherlock’s scent. It was faint, but still very much there. It was a lingering presence, much like everything else the consulting detective had left here in the flat. “John” a soft voice came from the open door. He looked up to see the woman who would perhaps give him the happiness he had been searching for all this time. She was holding one of the boxes Mrs. Hudson had brought up. She held it out to him, inviting him to do what he needed to do. He gazed upon her face, there was no pity. What he found there was understanding and acceptance for who John Watson was and what Sherlock Holmes had meant to him. That gave him enough strength to take those few steps toward her and place the scarf inside the box. It felt uncannily like burying his best friend again but he knew by putting the scarf away, the rest would be easier to pack. He looked at the flat again, taking in all of Sherlock’s belongings his eyes lingering on some more than others as it jogged a particular memory. It was going to be a long night, but the days to follow would be longer and harder to endure. “Goodbye Sherlock.” He said to the shadows that surrounded him. Unsurprisingly enough, no answer came. -- source link

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