AFTER
Sherlock never could have stopped what had happened, but he blamed himself entirely. Nobody else did, but then again, nobody else knew the story.
John Watson was shot and killed in his apartment last Thursday, by an enemy he had made at war. At least, that's what the papers said. Only Sherlock knew the truth.
The life had been sucked out of him and he sat for hours staring into the emptiness of their apartment. Mrs. Hudson came up to check on him every once in a while, but he pretended not to see her. He couldn't stand for anyone to see the tears that silently streamed down his tired face. It seemed as if Sherlock was a ghost, he wasn't present. Just like John Watson.
His thoughts drifted back to the times he and John spent together before the "incident". He saw Johns smile and heard his laugh. Sherlock became angry and his breath rugged. He saw the look on Johns face as his eyes closed for the last time. And he heard in his ear the three words he would never hear again.
The darkness of Sherlocks room was interrupted by the screen of his phone. He wiped his eyes and struggled to read the text through his red and burning eyes.
Are you doing okay? If you need to talk, you can always call.
-Molly
Sherlock sighed and threw the phone at his pillow. He collapsed onto his bed and stated at the ceiling, letting himself slip into sleep in the unfamiliar silence of the apartment.
