John slouched back into his chair, rather breathless after what had just happened. Mycroft hadn't visited him in months. It might've been because it was Sherlock's birthday. He traced his finger across his pocket, feeling the contour of the box. Sherlock's present.

He sat in his chair for a long time, sipping on his tea. He felt his stomach growl, but ignored it. He knew he would just throw it up later. The doctor in him tried to reason with him, but failed. I don't care. Was all he thought when it came to his own needs.

He wasn't the only thing that was falling apart. The flat looked horrible. A tad better after Lestrade's as-whooping, but it still looked like a crime scene.

He had to clean the flat before he moved out. He sighed loudly.

He had to move Sherlock's belongings. He felt his stomach twist in pain. The first object he should move was definitely the chair. He should've moved it a long time ago.

He knew he wouldn't be able to do it though. A part of him felt that it was the wrong thing to do.

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Fucking fuck this part was deleted by wattpad 2 times so sorry if it's bad. I should've told you earlier, but this is a bit different from the series when it comes to John's relationship with Mary. They were together before Reichenbach, but they drifted apart after that. Sorryyy

"Hi, Sherlock." He said, a sad smile lingered on his lips. The wind was biting his face, but he barely noticed it. "God, I hate moving. I really don't want to touch your stuff, Sherlock. I'm considering moving your chair though. Everyone keeps sitting in it, even though there is a perfectly functioning couch by the door. At the same time it would be a good chance for some payback," he chuckled. "The time you moved my chair to "see the kitchen". You bastard." His expression softened. It was a term of endearment.

"You know," he said, playing nervously with the box in his hands. "I always hoped that you did it because you missed me." He said quietly, a light blush spread across his hollow cheeks.

He sighed, knowing how ridiculous it was to hope for such a thing. The damn hope. It felt like it was literally eating him up. It made him weaker.

"That you couldn't stand seeing my empty chair everyday, just like I do now." He tried at first, but he knew there was no point to hide the lump that was forming in his throat. It was making it hard to speak.

I'm so lonely without you.

He didn't dare to say the words. He didn't know why though. He was alone.

"So, it's your birthday today. I bought you something," He continued to play with the box, fiddling with it absent-mindly. "I know it's illogical to buy gifts to, um, you know. But I couldn't help myself. I had to do it."

He opened the box and held it in his hands. The cold, smooth surface calmed him. It gave him courage. "It's not as much as I'd like to give you, but it doesn't really matter, does it? You'll never see it or touch it," he chuckled, but he wasn't smiling.

"Still." He whispered, closing his eyes. Suddenly, he felt the presence of someone else. He snapped his eyes open, but his vision was blurry. Damn tears. Fucking sentiment. One traitorous tear snuck past his eyelids.

He put it back in the box and put it beside Sherlock's tombstone. A pocketwatch in silver, from before the great war. A family heirloom. It felt right to give it to Sherlock, for some reason.

He could still feel the presence of someone else. He carefully placed it under some grass so no one could spot the box.

"Hello?" He said, not turning around to look. No answer. "Whoever you are, please leave me alone. This is a private moment." He mumbled, imagining that Greg or Molly had come looking for him. Again.

He shivered, but not because of the cold. His heart beat quickened. "Go away." There was a moment of silence before he heard what used to be his favourite sound.

"John."

And there it was again. He felt an excruciating pain in his heart, like a claw twisting and turning it around in his chest. The voice was familiar, yet strange. His voice.

"Please don't do this."John said, mostly to himself. His voice was so raw with emotion he could barely whisper. All. In. My. Head.

"John I'm so sorry," The voice was also thick with emotion, a sadness that shocked John. He was afraid to turn around. "Don't." John started sobbing. Violently. "You're not real." He gasped for air. "You can't be."

John felt a cold hand on his shoulder.