A/N: Warning: This fiction really doesn't have any warnings besides having the potential to be utterly depressing. Post-Reichenbach, because the episode broke me completely and I needed to do something other than curl up in the fetal position and sob. Also, I highly suggest listening to Passage de L'egalité from the Man on a Wire soundtrack. I'm working on a podfic for this so the timing is right, but this fiction pretty much fits with the tone of this music.

This fiction is un-beta'd as usual, so send me a private message if you see any mistakes and I'll fix them as soon as possible.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to respective owners. I own absolutely nothing but my own words and heartache.

He curls on his side wondering if it is possible to die from heartbreak. His body shakes with the force of sobs. Every day is another sting of reminders, another day of painful guilt because he hadn't done anything to stop it.

John Watson does not know what to do. Even after three years of loneliness, he doesn't know what to do.

So he does what he always does in these situations, on these days where everything is hopeless and black and the only thing that keeps him going is routine. He steels himself in the warmth of Sherlock's old bed, breathing slowly and evenly, drying his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. John stands slowly and, with the help of his cane, limps his way to the kitchen for tea.

He always makes two cups—one for him, one for Sherlock. John sits in his chair, always his chair because Sherlock would grumble if anyone sat in his, and watches the empty one across from him as if Sherlock will be out of his room in only a moment to join him. He watches the empty chair until his eyes sting from not blinking. When he finally remembers the tea in his hand and takes a sip it is cold. He drinks it anyway and continues to watch the chair. Empty. Always empty.

Sometimes John thinks that if he stares long enough, if he wishes hard enough that Sherlock will appear, looking as he always did when lounging at home: Wrapped in a blue dressing gown and scowling because he didn't have a case.

Sometimes John swears that he is there and Sherlock is yelling corrections at the TV, or he's conducting experiments in the kitchen, or he's playing his violin. Everything is so bright in those moments that it's impossible for it not to be true because his voice is so clear and real. But then he blinks and the world is dark, and blurry, and has no meaning once more. The Phantom is gone and John is alone again.

He sets his teacup down with shaking hands and it clatters on the wood of the little table. John rubs his face roughly with his palms and drags in a huge, broken breath, telling himself not to do this, not again.

He draws his legs up in the chair and circles his arms round his knees, rests his chin on them. He looks around the room and everything whispers Sherlock. The wallpaper he'd never repaired with a painted yellow smiley and bullet holes. The stabbed Cluedo board. The skull that sits on the mantle and stares at John expectantly as if he's asking, Where's Sherlock? And John doesn't have an answer.

His heart is heavy in his chest, an awful weight that seems to pull him to the ground until he hasn't the strength to stand and all he can do is tremble with the unbearable sadness, the awful silence and remember.

Faintly he hears the front door open, assumes it's Mrs. Hudson and John hopes that she won't come up to check on him. He doesn't want to be coddled; he doesn't want to be comforted. He wants to be left to drown in his misery as he aches for his best friend.

But the footsteps coming up the stairs are not the click of Mrs. Hudson's heels—they are heavy and careful and slow, and John prays that it isn't Greg. I don't want to see Lestrade, he thinks. I don't want to see anyone, and he buries his face into his skin.

He wants them to go away but the steps continue to creak loudly and John winces at the sound, hating it, hating every step that draws someone closer to see his pain. Someone to see just how much he misses Sherlock Holmes...

He hears the door open and knows it isn't Lestrade—he would have said something by now—but whoever is there doesn't speak. They just watch John and after a minute of feeling the uncomfortably probing stare, John speaks.

"Most people knock," and John's voice is weary, though muffled from his face being hidden in his arms. He doesn't have the strength to be angry at this stranger, or embarrassed that he's seen John at his most wounded, his most vulnerable. There is silence that stretches for so long it leaves John wondering if anyone was really there in the first place, leaves him raw with just another deception.

"I'm not most people."

John's heart catches in his throat. This voice is so painfully familiar and tears prick at his eyes because it can't be. His mind has played these cruel tricks on him before, but the hope that accompanies them still hurts.

Desperately praying that it's true, even if it is just another phantom, John slowly lifts his head.

The chair is empty, the tea sitting beside it untouched. He doesn't look in the mirror because its reflection has lied before and it would break him all over again if it lied now. He has no choice but to turn his head and see for himself.

He does so slowly, afraid to breath, afraid to see. And the sight before him leaves him empty and as numb as the day he'd seen Sherlock jump.

Because here he is, bundled in his double breasted coat, collar upturned and scarf wrapped around his neck, face so serious and clear, so vivid and more real than any trick, any image conjured in his mind that John knows this is no phantom.

This is Sherlock Holmes.

A/N: I'd like to thank Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the best, and the only Consulting Detective in the world. Also, major props go to Moffat and Gattis for creating the 21st Century version, for taking it to such wonderful heights and for completely destroying me along the way. I can't wait until Season 3.

Feedback is encouraged and greatly appreciated!