A/N: No Beta-Reader. Probably Grammar/Spelling mistakes. Contains spoilers for season two. Unsure how long this story will be. - I'm keeping this open, timeline speaking, as we don't know how long Sherlock's going to be away. Sorry about the title, was drawing a bit of a blank. Hope you enjoy it though.

There were two kinds of days for John Watson. Neither of which could be considered - at least to him - as good. Some days were bright and sunny and the world was normal but it hurt to breathe and think but he could live. On these days John went about his life in a kind of bubble with a shadow over his head. He would work and smile and fool the world, but could never fool himself.

The other days were the ones he couldn't bare. He couldn't breathe at all. He wouldn't make it to work because these were the days were it wasn't a shadow haunting him but a solid figure. He'd turn a corner and there he'd be for a few seconds on a distant street corner or in a dark doorway or in a passing cab. John would feel his heart stop and the air leave his body. The memory that would usually crawl through his mind at night would slam into him like a bus. On those days John would go in search of solace and something to dull the agony and block out the memories. He knew it was a tightrope he was walking. One his sister had already fallen off of, the one that had putting a wedge between them. But Harry hadn't had John's excuse, not that he was using it as one.

Today was one of those destructive days. He'd woken up after another dream where the two most traumatizing experiences of his life had combined to drench him in sweat and have him shooting up in his bed fighting to breath. He'd tried to push it away as he always did and get on with his day. His life. Then he'd walked out of his small rented flat. The one he'd taken because he couldn't go back to Baker Street. He'd stepped into the bright winter morning and froze. There he was, across the street. His collar pulled up against his neck, his dark hair shifting in the gentle breeze. All cheekbones and mystery as he always was, at least to the world, though never to John. His heart jumped into his throat and he stared, trying not to blink. But there was only so long someone could fight that instinct. His lids snapped closed for the briefest moment but it was enough. When they opened again he was gone. - And that set the course of John's day. He'd pulled out his phone and called in sick before heading to the nearest pub.

All in all, Since that fateful day John hadn't had many destructive ones. he'd had maybe three. That's not counting the weeks leading up to and after the funeral, when he had been at his worst. The sleepless nights, hours of drinking, the return of his tremors and limp, all of which had driven him back into therapy. He knew on destructive days he was meant to call his therapist but he also knew what would happen if he did. She'd call him into her office, make him sit there for an hour or two and expect him to talk about it. Tell her what he was feeling. Which was fine, if he could explain what he was feeling. How was he meant to when he didn't understand it? He'd lost his best friend which was hard enough but it was worst than that. So much harder than that.

For over a year Sherlock been part of his life. - No, he'd become John's life. He hadn't realised that until he was alone again. Being in a silent flat was hard to take. He'd become so used to the man's infuriating presence. It was hard to lie in bed at night knowing the dreams would come and when he woke up it would all be real. That he wouldn't be woken to the smell of sulphur or something truly disgusting. It was hard to open his fridge and only find food. That's what was so strange, for the year or so before his death he'd done nothing but complain about the experiments. Now he'd give his left arm to find a head in his fridge.

John strolled up to the bar and ordered his fifth drink before returning to the dark corner table. It was still only 11:30 and he was thankful for early opening hours. Looking around the pub he found he was only one of a few. He looked at each ragged face and his mind tried to deduce what had pulled them in at such an early hour. - Did they have a pain they wanted to erase. - Of course, John couldn't decipher anything and knowing that only pained him more.

He would have thought that after over a year in Sherlock's world, he would have learnt something, and he had, it just wasn't helping him now. He could make guesses but he knew they'd be wrong. He could almost hear Sherlock scoffing and announcing that "You see but you do not observe, John." He swallowed hard and throw back his pint in one endless gulp. Slamming the glass onto the table he decided he needed something stronger to block out the sound of Sherlock's voice. Only to have it in his ear again.

"John. You're not a casual drinker and this is a foolish pursuit. You have not eaten and you know as well as I do that alcohol on an empty stomach will lead for a quicker rate of intoxication and likely nausea. Not to mention that tomorrow you will have a hangover that would knock out an elephant. Stop now and go home. - You do not want to turn into your sister John."

John knew he should listen to Sherlock, as he always listened. - And if it had been the supposedly "fake" consulting detective, he would have, but it wasn't Sherlock. It was his own mind and he didn't care what his mind wanted. He'd listened to it for long enough and look where it had left him. - So John got up for the second time in ten minutes and ordered a triple scotch. If that didn't shut Sherlock up, nothing would.

~ Holmes Is Where The Voice Is ~

It was dark by the time John staggered out of the pub. He swayed on the side of the road and looked around him. The fresh air making his mind spin and his stomach tumble over itself. He watched the buses and cars rushing past and the sight only made him feel worse. He felt his knees go beneath him. His last thought was 'Shit. - I'm so waking up in a cell.'

"You're a terrible drunk John." Sherlock's voice announced. "I leave you alone for a few months and look what you do to yourself. - I thought you had better sense than this."

John knew he was talking out load but he couldn't care, he was fed up with his mind torturing him with Sherlock's voice. "Fuck you Sherlock. - If you were that worried about me then maybe you shouldn't have jumped off a hospital roof right in front of me!" he shouted.

"I had to John. - It was the only way to keep you safe."

"Safe?" John scoffed. "Well, isn't that nice. - I'm safe, your dead and we're all miserable. - Meanwhile the worlds going to shit because your not here to save it!"

Finally silence. John sighed, shaking his head to get it to focus, he needed to get home, preferably without getting himself mugged. Not that he really cared. The earth shifted beneath him and he was somewhat aware of being helped into a cab and an address being given, but he was already falling over the edge and into the void of unconsciousness.

~ Holmes Is Where The Voice Is ~

The sunlight broke through the window and right into the core of John's brain sending a shattering pain through his head and his body. He was fully aware that he'd actually drunk himself into a stooper and was thankful. That had been the best nights sleep he'd had in months. Maybe he'd keep it up. He tried to open his eyes but the pain was just too bad, so he remain just where he was. Eyes closed to the world. He shifted a little to block out the sun that was determined to make him groan in agony. Ignoring it as best he could he flipped himself over and buried his face away. Still tired and hung-over he took no notice that he wasn't in the bed at his rented flat. He paid no mind to the smell of familiar leather that was climbing its way up his nose. He just groaned, sigh and fell back to sleep.

~ Holmes Is Where The Voice Is ~

Two hours later he was awakened by the sound of a familiar squeak and a soft wispy voice. "John? - Deary?" There was a small hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He tried to ignore it. His head pounding worse than it ever had before. But the hand would not be ignored. "John? - John are you alright?"

Finally John surrendered and turned over, his heavy lids separating to look up at the warm concerned face staring down at him. "I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. Just a heavy night. - I'll be fine."

Mrs. Hudson straightened her back, her gaze still fixed on him. John groaned as he swung his feet off the couch and dropped his lead-filled head into his hands. "Any chance of a cup of tea - or better yet, coffee? Very strong and very black."

Mrs. Hudson hesitated a few moments. "Of course dear. - Aspirin too?" she asked in her usual material way.

"You're an angel."

He heard her little feet shuffling off to fix the coffee. She'd gone down stairs which felt odd, but John was too hard up to actually think about it. He fell back against the leather couch and dropped his head back with another groan. "I'm never drinking again. I swear it."

There was silence and John felt something in his mind shift. He cracked open one eye and looked over the where his flatmate should be sitting only to find an empty chair. His heart skipped as reality hit him. His gaze traversed the room taking in his surroundings. It looked the same yet different. The usually chaotic room was filled with brown cardboard boxes. The mantelpiece and shelves were empty and the room smelt of fresh air and not much else. John shifted forward in his seat and stared at the fireplace. His heart pounding hard in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs.

"Deary, are you alright? You look terribly pale." Mrs. Hudson sighed as she set the tea-tray on the coffee table. "Here, take these." she held out the two tablets.

"You kept everything?" He remarked, swallowing hard.

"I just couldn't bring myself to get rid of any of it." Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"I thought you were going to give it too a school?" John asked, before placing the tablets on his tongue.

Mrs. Hudson just shrugged. That had been what she'd planned to do but every time she tried she'd feel terrible about doing it. So everything had just sat there in the flat gathering dust and waiting for its owner that would never come.

"How did I get here, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Don't you know dear?"

John shook his head, shamefully dropping it. "I got a little hammered last night. - Last thing I really remember was leaving the pub at ten. After that's a blank."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly. "I'd love to be of help sweetie, but I have no idea. I only came up to air the room as I do every Friday. - Keep it fresh."

"Why haven't you re-let it? I'm sure you could do with the money." John asked, slowly regain his equilibrium.

"I don't really need the money. At least not just yet."

John frowned up at her.

"Seems Sherlock had some set aside for me, in case…." the older woman's voice trailed off.

John smiled gently. "'bout time he did something for you." a little angrily.

"You know as well as I do that he did a lot for me." Mrs. Hudson replied in a stern tone.

John nodded slowly. "I know." he all but whispered. He was still angry. Angry at Moriarty. Angry at anyone who ever believed Sherlock was a fake. Angry at himself for being unable to stop his best friend from jumping. - Mostly at Sherlock for taking that step.

"It's alright dear. - I understand." She smiled sadly, resting her hand on his shoulder. "So anyway, I don't need to let the flat. - And I don't want to. I can't imagine anyone else living here. This is your home. Yours and Sherlock's."

"It stopped being our home when…" John swallowed knowing he couldn't say the words. "…a while ago."

Mrs. Hudson fell on the seat next to him. "This will always be your home." she sniffled. "Always."

John looked around at the older woman, her eyes filling with tears. Lifting his arm, he snaked it around her shoulder, pulling her close.

"I'm sorry. I'm being a silly old fool."

"Of course your not."

"Why don't you come home John dear." She pleaded looking up at him.

John stiffen beside her. "I - I can't."

He looked around the place. He thought of 221B as their home, just as much as Mrs. Hudson did. Which was just why he couldn't continue to live there. It was their home. His and Sherlock's. It was hard enough living his dull uneventful life without his best friend, flatmate and partner in crime, without waking up every day to the reminder of his absence.

"Don't be such an idiot John."

John closed his eyes to try and block out the voice in his head.

"Your already waking up with the reminder."

John swallowed hard. He wouldn't listen. - Even if he did have a point.

"It isn't logical to pay rent on a flat that you hate just to avoid a reminder of me, when I'm in your every thought."

Mrs. Hudson swept at her tears. "Well. I have some things to be getting on with. At least stay and finish your tea, get your sea-legs back."

"I will." John nodded leaning forward to take hold of his mug.

"And don't you go leaving without saying goodbye."

"Wouldn't dare." John smiled.

"Actually. Stay for tea. I'll make your favourite."

"That won't be necessary. - I should really get back to…"

Mrs. Hudson gave him her hardest 'mother-says' gaze and John had to fight a laugh. "I haven't seen you in ages John."

Guilt stabbed at his gut. He'd been a terrible ex-tenant. He'd cut himself off from so much of the life he'd lived with Sherlock cause it was just too hard to see Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He'd stopped make the effort. He avoided their calls as much as possible. It was hard enough seeing Stamford, and occasionally Molly when his work took him to the hospital. Molly always wanted to talk to him, saying there was something important she wanted to tell him and he would always make his excuses and get away from her.

"Alright." John finally sigh. "We'll go out, my treat."

Mrs. Hudson gave him her beaming smile. He missed that smile. She gave a quick nod then rushed off down the stairs, leaving John alone in his old empty flat.

~ Holmes Is Where The Voice Is ~

John spent the first hour sat on the couch feeling awkward, just staring at the boxes. He'd finally gotten up when he'd need to use the loo. That was all it had taken. Once he was out of the seat and walking around the flat he was at home again. A trip to the loo had led to a ramble around the empty kitchen which had led to a trip to his room. It had had the feeling you get when you've returned after a long absence. Welcoming, peaceful and just where you wanted to be. He had to fight the feeling to fling himself on the bed with a sigh of pleasure. Instead he turned tail and headed back down stairs.

John had known he missed Sherlock. He hadn't thought he'd missed the flat. He'd left his room and strolled down the stairs and into the lounge. Looking at the boxes. He didn't know why he opened the first box or why he'd started unpacking it. It just felt right to do so. He had a strange feeling that those things Mrs. Hudson had packed away as Sherlock's, somehow belonged to him too. They were what made the flat home.

He'd started with Sherlock's 'friend', then Sherlock's books. Soon the room was back to the way he'd left it all those months ago. Slowly it was returning to normal. - Well as normal as it could be without Sherlock. John walked into the kitchen and searching the box Mrs. Hudson had marked as 'Kitchen Ware' probably planning on sending it to a charity shop. Pulling out his mug, which he hadn't even realised he'd left behind, though looking down at it now he knew why. - Sherlock had given it to him for Christmas, and it had somewhat surprised him, as it showed that Sherlock did own a sense of humor. John smiled at the writing on the side. I'm Not A Genius, But I Live With One. John actually chuckled. "Prat." He turned to put the cup down and his breath caught at the sight of Sherlock mug still in the box. Lifting it out he placed it on the shelf where it belonged before turning to the cupboard where he'd expected to find tea. Only to find it empty.

He shook his head at himself.

"Of course it's empty John." Sherlock's voice smirked.

"Oh shut up." John said out loud, his own smirk pulling across his face as he headed into the front room and grabbing his jacket off the chair.

"Don't forget the milk."

John rolled his eyes at the reminder. He wasn't sure if he hated or loved that his mind had taken on Sherlock's voice. Part of him feared that he might actually be going crazy. He was still considering this as he walked to the local shop for tea, milk and some biscuits, already knowing that it was time to come home, no matter how painful it might be.

A/N: This story came to me while in bed but it has been floating around my mind for a few days and I finally decided to start it. As I said I don't know how long its going to be, or how quick the updates will be. I just need to write. I'm getting writer withdrawal and am having some real trouble coming up with a follow up to 'You'll Have To Do Better Than That.' I have started it, though whether it gets past the draft stage is still unsure. Though I do hope I can pull it off.

I'll get you another chapter of this story ASAP. - Though if there's a wait forgive me. Life may get in the way, but I will absolutely try.

As always Thanks for reading, review and (if you have or will) faving. I love getting you review as it keeps me going and focused and would love to know if I'm pulling the story off to satisfaction. I do try to reply to reviews if at all possible. :D

Season two finale still has me going crazy trying to figure out how they did it and I may be in an asylum by the time it comes back.

"Stay Calm, Cause They're Bringing Back Sherlock"

Love Ya GATERGIRL79