Haunting

Hello?

'Cause I came here
so you'd come for me.

John had grown used to the silence, but it didn't make it any less deafening.

Every once in a while he would hear the creaking of the floorboards, or he'd see a shadow move across the wall, but he was never quick enough. Sherlock's voice would resound through the flat, and John would tremble, feeling his whole world turn upside down again.

Sherlock's ghost was gone.

He no longer felt the featherlight touches against his skin, or the warmth on the other side of the bed. He didn't hear Sherlock's footsteps. He didn't hear the soft breathing next to him in the middle of the night.

John didn't sense Sherlock's presence. Everything that Sherlock was had been fading away, evanescing into nothing but silence and dull pain.

John was beginning to forget what Sherlock's voice sounded like. He couldn't feel the goose flesh that covered his arms and neck when Sherlock was close.

He had broken down and visited Sherlock's grave again. He couldn't say anything, though. Maybe one day he would work up the courage to speak to that dark granite headstone. Maybe one day some higher being would hear his pleas.

Maybe one day... one day Sherlock might come back to him.

His best friend, his lover, his beautiful muse. Sherlock was his angel sent from heaven, but now heaven had taken him back. Heaven had rescinded its gift, and now John was so alone.

The ghost he'd felt was gone, vanished. John didn't sleep any longer. There was no comfort, no solace in his dreams, no one to help ease the burden.

The world had grown cold again, and the thing he missed the most was Sherlock's smile.

Nothing seemed to help, not work, sleep, food, or anything else. He couldn't find anything to make him feel better.

He couldn't find anything to make him feel whole again.

Mrs. Hudson barely visited anymore, as she had gotten on with her life for the most part. Sometimes she would ask to come with him to visit Sherlock's grave, and he never denied her. He never spoke much when they went on these outings and he was sullen and distant. In fact, Mrs. Hudson was a bit surprised that he hadn't broken down publicly, but she supposed that may have been a good thing.

|•|

It had been four months now, and John had lost all hope. Nothing could bring Sherlock back to him, and he wouldn't deny that the idea of joining Sherlock was tempting. He never had the guts, though.

Well--that was until today.

John's footfalls were heavy, leaden even, and he felt as if he were Atlas, holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. His mind had grown slow since Sherlock was gone, and he wasn't as clever. His cheeks were sallow, and his eyes held no light. He'd lost far too much weight, unable to eat.

His feet had carried him somewhere they hadn't been since that terrible, awful, fateful day. For a moment he saw Sherlock, standing there at the top, holding his arms out as if surrendering.

John felt tears in his eyes, and he forced himself forward. He needed Sherlock, he needed him so much, and he couldn't have him.

Soon, he was at the last flight of stairs, and the grey, metal door swung open, and he stepped out onto the rooftop.

His eyes found the stained surface where Moriarty had been that day. He felt his knees grow weak, but he forced them forward.

He stood, looking over the edge, watching the people pass beneath him, the asphalt dotted with colors and movement.

His limbs pulled him up and onto the rail.

He stood tall, taking a breath, and spreading his arms.