Longing

It had been twenty-seven months, twenty-four days, sixteen hours, and forty-three minutes since he laid eyes on the man he had devoted his life to, the man he held in such high esteem and regard, the one creature he truly loved. When he had first disappeared, John didn’t think much of it, it had happened before, he just assumed he would be back in a few days. When he was gone for two weeks, John started to search for him, checking his normal haunts and dives, reaching out to every contact they had, even his brother. When a month had passed, John sought the assistance of the Yard and they looked for the missing genius internationally. Not a single sign of him was found. Every day for eight months, John went about his normal business, expecting at any time the man, his man would burst through the door with a fantastical story of his exploits and a full explanation of his disappearance. Once the tenth month had passed, John no longer held onto that hope. It wasn’t until a year had passed that John began to lose himself as his hope faded to sorrow and his confusion to pain.

What if the reason he was gone, was because he wanted to be rid of John? What if he was taken? Murdered? Tortured? And John wasn’t there to help him. What if he overdosed? What if he was at the bottom of the Thames? An endless barrage of questions ran through John’s mind relentlessly, questions he would never be able to answer. Once a year and a half had passed, John had closed his practice, refusing to see anyone or be seen by anyone. He no longer left the flat they once shared, he no longer cooked or even made tea. If it were not for the ever vigilant Ms. Hudson, he would never eat, he would likely be dead.

His own brother and the brother of his absent lover had come to stay with him twice over the last almost three years, but in the end, couldn’t stomach to witness the Doctor destroying himself, nor could they get through to him no matter what they said or did. The only thing John seemed to do for himself was drink and drink he did. Twenty-four hours a day, not counting the three hours a week he fell into a fitful slumber more akin to a coma than actual sleep.

In his waking hours all, he was capable of was drinking and tormenting himself with memories of the good times with the man he would have died for. His sobs could be heard at most hours of the day and night throughout the house. He had broken many things in fits of rage before falling into cries of exasperation and sadness. He seemed to always be reaching out for something, something that was never there. Something that, as far as he was concerned, would never be there again.

He was gone.

He told himself that every day, that he was gone. Eventually, he forgot if he meant his missing soul mate or himself. It made no difference, both were true. Every time his eyes closed, he saw his face, the features of his form were crystal clear as if he were standing there before him. Emblazoned in his mind, a haunting reminder of the life he should have had. The life he yearned for, the life he had made for them. Together.

That was impossible now as far as he was concerned and he accepted that fact with devastating abandon. Every now and then, his body and mind would decide it was too much, that he could no longer force himself to remain lucid and it would fall into a deep, restless slumber, a slumber like death, so similar in fact one would think he had died if it weren’t for the pain and torment in the one word he muttered every few moments in a voice that would make even the coldest of hearts shatter in grief,

“Sherlock.”