Following the sociopath (Sher/Johnlock one-shots)

Two cups of tea

I walked glumly down the road from St. Bart's on the way back to 221b Baker Street. Once I reach the door I stand and stare at it for a minute. Knowing that despite my highest hopes my best friend, the only consulting detective in the world wouldn't be in there. Nor would he ever be. Not even three hours ago Sherlock Holmes fell from the top of St. Bart's hospital. I would never come home again to a science experiment splattered all over the walls, the number of bullet holes in the smiley face on the wall would remain the same; never going up in count if Sherlock happened to get bored, I wouldn't be woken up at two a.m to the sound of a violin. And no matter how hard I tried, I knew I'd always end up making two cups of tea in the mornings, and it wouldn't be until after I poured the second cup that I realized I was alone. That thought terrified me. I tried unsuccessfully to not think about the brilliant man that was once my flatmate as I pushed open the black door with the gold lettering. Mrs. Hudson looks at me sadly, somehow she already knew. Word travels fast in London. I went upstairs and settled down in my arm chair, hating how the seat across from me was empty. Mrs. Hudson brought me up some tea and a couple of biscuits. "Just this time dear, I'm not your housekeeper." She teases with a sad, remembering smile on her face. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson." I try to smile but I couldn't even lift the corner of my mouth up again before my façade broke and my face, along with my struggling smile fell. Just like Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson nodded and left to go back downstairs to her flat.

After a few hours I went to my room and began pulling out my clothes so I could pack up and leave tomorrow morning. But as I was folding them all, I decided I wanted to stay. It was the pain of Sherlock's loss that made me stay. If I moved, it'd be like I was leaving him behind and I didn't want to do that. And besides, looking at all of his things, and even some of mine and remembering all the memories we made makes me sad. I walked downstairs to tell Mrs. Hudson of my decision.

"Mrs. Hudson, I've decided I'll stay here at Baker Street." I tell her.

"Oh, that's wonderful dear, but won't it..you know, bring back memories?" She asked hesitantly.

"Yes, but I like remembering and looking at his things, it makes me sad." I say.

"What's so good about being sad?" She asked clearly confused.

"It's happy for deep people." (A/N: If you got that reference, I love you. Even if you didn't I still love you anyways. Carry on *quietly whispers:* my wayward son) I reply honestly. I bid her goodnight and go back to our-my flat.

I settle deep beneath the covers and stare at my ceiling. After about two hours I find myself still wide awake. There was no way I would be able to sleep tonight. I tossed and turned for another hour until I got up and made my way to the kitchen to make a cuppa. The caffeine definitely wouldn't help me, but maybe it would relax me enough to help me sleep. I drank my cup of tea but instead of going back to my room, I stood and stared at Sherlock's arm chair. It still had an indention in the cracked leather from where he used to sit everyday, his hands occasionally steepled under his chin as if he were praying, but I knew he was somewhere deep in his mind palace. Not a minute later I realized I was sitting in it. In Sherlock's chair. I curled up deeper into the folds of leather and inhaled the smell of Sherlock. The smell of black coffee with two sugars, assorted chemicals, rain, and other various smells of London that I couldn't quite place. It was a smell that was uniquely him. It was almost intoxicating. As soon as I took a couple long breaths of it, I was out almost immediately. Maybe because his smell tricked my mind into thinking he was actually here.

I woke up in the morning to the sunlight streaming through the flat. My back was very uncomfortable. Without remembering what happened yesterday I stretched out and called out to the empty flat. "Sherlock?" No answer. The fact that Sherlock was actually gone hit me like a load of bricks. My eyes started to water again, but I tried to push them back, not wanting any to spill over the edges. I walked over and turned on the kettle. I leaned against the counter and pulled out a couple of cups while I waited for the water to boil. A minute later the kettle whistled in a high pitched scream and I took that as my cue to pour the water over the tea bags and watched as the water in the pot turned a brownish color. As I predicted yesterday it wasn't until after I poured two cups that I realized I was alone.