A person never knows they can miss someone until they're gone. And John certainly did. Missed someone.

Sherlock.

John had never considered it, the possibility of Sherlock gone from his life, the possibility of him being… dead. Before that day when John had looked into the future, all he'd seen was Sherlock. There'd been others of course, friends and family, but Sherlock was always the constant. Always there, always with him. Always without fail at John's side and getting himself into a mess of trouble that left John both cursing and marveling at the infuriating man.

And that was before John's relationship with Sherlock had become more. More than friends, but not lovers, not in the classical sense, never that because Sherlock wasn't wired that way, and John could really have cared less. The world had apparently realized it before them, assuming they were having sex from the beginning despite the lack of evidence because it seemed that two bachelors living together and spending so much time together invited rumors. It was really rather fitting. But John could only laugh at the assumptions now as the world seemed to think that more went on in their bed than sleep. If they only knew.

From John's experience, getting close to someone, having a relationship with the intimacy and contact he desired, meant having sex. He'd learned the hard way that telling someone that he wasn't interested in having sex with them, that he just wanted to hold them, didn't go over the well. The rumors that followed, that he was impotent and frigid or, even worse, a freak, had sealed the deal, and John had decided then and there that it wasn't worth it. Three Continents Watson—he might have over compensated a bit much.

However, things weren't that simple. He couldn't flip a switch and make himself want it. His body could go through the motions, but there was a disconnect, something missing. He knew that was part of why his relationships never lasted long, the women always sensing that something was off, that something was absent. Maybe John was a masochist, but he couldn't stop, always hoping that someday, somehow, he'd find someone that understood without him having to tell.

And John had.

Waking up wrapped around someone wasn't all that odd for John. In fact, it was something John quite liked. After long moments of lying in comfortable warmth, his face buried into the short hair at the base of the neck in front of him, something had tickled at the back of John's mind that something wasn't quite right here.

"Stop it," a sleepy voice rumbled in front of him.

John's eyes had snapped open, finally awake enough to remember that he wasn't currently in a relationship, that there shouldn't be anyone in his bed, his head moving back far enough to take in the sight of the back of a dark, wavy-haired head, the curve of a pajama covered shouldered, the position of his own arm wrapped around the person.

Sherlock.

Sherlock was in his bed. A part of John had panicked, looking for the why, but the larger part of him had been strangely ecstatic with the development, more than happy to just lie there and bask in the closeness without the expectation of more.

From what John knew, Sherlock cared very little for sex. John had never witnessed any interest, never walking in on him at an undue moment. If only John was so lucky himself. He'd given up counting the times Sherlock had walked in on him, to the point where John didn't even bother to lock the door anymore when he took care of business in the shower because Sherlock was invariably there, lock be dammed.

The first time it had happened, John had been mortified and angry, and slightly creeped out. But after a point, it became just another one of Sherlock's peculiarities, not all that different than the head in the fridge and the eyeballs in the microwave or Sherlock's lack of tact and knack for saying the inappropriate. And it wasn't like John wasn't used to it from his time in the army. People either lost their modesty, or they didn't wank.

And finally John just let himself stop thinking and relaxed, not seeing the small smile that tugged at the corners of Sherlock's lips, not a smirk, or a condescending grin, but true happiness.

It shouldn't have surprised John that Sherlock had known, that he'd figured it out, that he knew John would be open to his advances. What did shock John was that Sherlock would be interested in such a thing, but it was John who knew just how very human Sherlock was despite how hard Sherlock tried to convince others of the opposite.

Things changed after that, they couldn't not, but it was the small things, little looks and touches that John savored. They still had their rows of course, but even those were different.

It was strange at first, the fact it was Sherlock, John's best friend, his best everything, but more than that was the lack of pressure for sex, the sharing a bed, being so close without the normal next step. There were days that John masturbated because it felt good and helped him relax, and Sherlock would observe; John could practically see the mental notes he took. In some odd way John liked it, that Sherlock liked to watch but had no desire to join in.

There were kisses, yes, casual brushes of one's lips across the others—the first time John had done it to shut Sherlock up, he wasn't sure which of them was more surprised, but it had worked, and John used it to his advantage—and the occasional full out snog—it was Sherlock who initiated the first, reassuring himself that John hadn't been hurt, that the gunman had missed.

But it never went beyond that. And it was amazing. The best days of John's life. It was like a dream.

But all dreams must end.

And end it did. John knew—no one would ever convince him otherwise—that Sherlock had been the real thing, that he hadn't been a fraud. And worst of all there was nothing he could do, no way to prove it. Screaming it to the high heavens would make no difference, not with both Moriarty and Sherlock dead. John had said the media would turn on him, and he'd been right. It was one of the few times, John wished he hadn't been.

Each morning John would wake up curled around a pillow that smelled less and less like Sherlock with every passing day, fearing the day it would fade completely, and he'd be hit again by the realization that Sherlock was really gone.

Knowing Sherlock as he did, John still couldn't believe it. Suicide. It wasn't in Sherlock. Sherlock had been selfish, but not like that, never like that. He hadn't cared what others said about him, their opinions less than meaningless. John never would have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. He'd gone over the memory so many times, trying to work it out, to find the trick, but John never managed it. He'd pray for one more miracle, for Sherlock not to be dead.

Moriarty. It all came back to him, the game he played with Sherlock, and John would never give up hope that this was just another move.

Knight takes pawn, but the board was still full.

John had survived a life before Sherlock, none the worse for the wear, but a life after Sherlock, John struggled to comprehend. Days passed in a blur, weeks turning into months, and the pain slowly lessened. John didn't think it would ever go away completely, but he knew he would survive this, having survived war after all, but it didn't make it any easier, the lack of Sherlock in his life.

Sherlock Holmes: the best thing that ever happened to John, and he would never forget him.