Me Without You

Chapter 1

These characters are not mine, they belong to the creators of Sherlock BBC.

This story is set after Season 2, but I will not be taking Season 3 into account.

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Three years. Thirty six months. One hundred and fifty six weeks. One thousand and ninety five days. A very long time to be alone.

Sherlock slowly picked up his phone, sliding it around in his hand, testing it, learning the feel of it. It was new and he wasn't particularly fond of it. But it served its purpose.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and glanced anxiously down at the piece of paper in his hand. The scrap of paper, torn off the bottom of a nespaper, had an eleven digit number scribbled carelessly in the corner. To anybody else it might seem worthless, but to Sherlock it was his most prized possession.

Which, truth be told wasn't saying much. Since his ''death'', Sherlock had lost nearly all of his possessions to Baker Street. His books, his equipment, his violin. All of them got left behind.

Never having been able to go back to Baker Street, Sherlock had lived as a nomad since the fall. Moving from flat to flat within the U.K. He had lived in Manchester and Liverpool, Edinburgh and even in Belfast. None of these flats were very comfortable or welcoming, but his current residence was definitely in the bottom five.

Just on the outskirts of London, the closest he'd ever been, this flat was a particularly poor find.

The walls were faded grey, with peeling wallpaper and the carpet was nearly completely worn through. The whole building smelled damp and rotten. And as Sherlock knew he wouldn't be there long, he had only bothered with the necessary furniture; A bed, a table, a chair and a couch.

Taking a deep breath in, Sherlock glanced one last time at the piece of paper before dialling the number.

Pressing the phone to his ear, Sherlock waited holding his breath. He bit his lip subconsciously as he listened to it ringing. The rings seemed to echo through his head; Out of time with his rapidly increasing heartbeat.

On the fifth ring someone answered.

"Hello?"

Sherlock smiled. Not a small, shy smile. A grin that stretched across his whole face. For the first time in three years he could hear John Watson's voice.

"Hello?" John asked again, a little louder.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

"Hello ... Can you hear me? ... Who is this?"

There was silence for almost a minute before Sherlock sighed. He sighed quietly enough that John couldn't hear him.

Sherlock hung up and flung the phone across the table. It slid the length if the table and then dropped off the edge with a bang that shook the empty house.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and sighed. Tilting his head back so that he was looking at the ceiling, he muttered to himself,

'Tomorrow...maybe tomorrow...'

When the light began to fade Sherlock picked himself up and, bringing his phone with him, turned to walk towards his bedroom.

Morning came and light began to crawl under the gap in the curtain, seeping its way into Sherlock's room.

Already perched on the edge of his bed, contemplating another phone call was Sherlock.

By the time the light had fully penetrated the room, the phone was pressed to his ear. It only took two rings for John to pick up.

"Stop calling me! Whoever this is... Just stop it! It's not funny!"

The line went dead.

"John" Sherlock whispered.

Too little, way too late.

Sherlock groaned in frustration. Lying back on the bed, he covered his face in his hands and cursed quietly. Maybe if he hadn't called three times in the middle of the night, just to hear John's voice, maybe then he would have spoken to him that morning. But then again maybe he'd never have the courage.

One Monday morning, a few weeks after he'd called John, Sherlock decided to go for a walk. He hoped that getting out of the house would also help him to get out of his head.

Walking down the grubby streets of the suburb where he lived, Sherlock tried explaining to himself why it was so hard for him to speak to John. He came up with hundreds of excuses, but none of them made sense once he took emotions out of the equation.

Sherlock had to admit that the reason he couldn't talk to John was that he cared for him. He knew he'd put John through pain and he never wanted to do anything like that to him again.

Sherlock turned his collar up against the wind and pulled his scarf tighter around the lower half of his face. It was the beginning of October and there was a noticeable drop in temperature.

Sherlock walked for miles without noticing any of his surroundings. He didn't notice the streets become a little cleaner. He didn't notice the day become a little duller. He didn't notice anything. Until he noticed that black door. That black door was the first thing he really saw all day.

Sherlock did a double take. He stood still, staring, for a few seconds before realisation hit.

It wasn't that black door; Of course it wasn't. It was just a black door. The paint was fresh and clean.... There was no brass knocker... It was just a door...

Sherlock shook his head and continued walking, trying to shake away the memories. He tried not to remember. He tried to forget. But all he could think about was that damned black door. The right black door. And the memories flooded over him.

He remembered how Mycroft insisted on straightening the knocker when he came over. He remembered Mrs. Hudson rushing to the door for him after a dangerous case. He remembered and he tried not to feel it. But he remembered walking through that door with John a thousand and one times, and he felt it. He felt that pang of loneliness and grief.

Sherlock shook his head, angry that he had succumbed to something as trivial as loneliness. He marched away from the black door. He reached the end of the street, and in the alley beside a newsagents, he slumped to the ground and fumbled through his pockets looking for a lighter and cigarette.

Over an hour later, Sherlock sat, surrounded by stubs, and running out of cigarettes. He lit another and told himself it would be the last. He leaned against the wall, blowing puffs of smoke into the already grey day.

Sherlock sat in his misery for several hours, getting colder by the minute but not bothering to do anything about it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pair of feet rounding the corner and then stop abruptly so as not to run into Sherlock. He ignored them. The feet stayed rooted to the spot.

Sherlock quickly glanced sideways, and saw enough to know that this was a man in his forties, visiting his parents. Sherlock didn't bother looking past the knees.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned, his heart slowing. Slowly, he took the cigarette from between his lips, took one last drag and stubbed it out on the ground. He blew a perfect smoke ring, and then, quietly stood up to face Greg Lestrade.

"Lestrade" Sherlock said, inclining his head slightly. A small smile played on his lips. After all this time, he found it ... comforting to see a familiar face.

Lestrade stared at him, an argument clear in his eyes.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but at the same moment Lestrade had decided that he was real and pulled him into a crushing hug.

Sherlock grunted out of surprise, but then went to hug him back. It felt nice to be hugged. Sherlock hadn't had as much as a handshake in a little over a year.

Lestrade pulled away from Sherlock, beaming at him.

"Long time, no see..Greg".