Summary:Post TRF Pre TEH. John trying to cope with the loss of his best friend, the most human human being he has ever meet, with one drink too many he finds that coping might be impossible. How could such a man like Sherlock Holmes be gone? Impossible. He shouts his nae all over town but all he got was nothing.

Inspired by: the song Nothing by The Script, recommend listening to it when reading.

Genere: Hurt/comfort Angst

Pairing: Johnlock

First Johnlock or Sherlock fic at all, enjoy!

One month.

30 short days.

Days that felt like years, stretched into decades. With such a hallow emptiness at every turn, it was hard to keep count of how much time has actually passed. Nothing felt real, why should time feel like anything?

One month since Sherlock Holmes...since he...It has been one months, 30 endless days, 720 hours...give or take, that the worlds only consulting detective...died.

Even in his own head, it was hard for John to find the words, the clenching in his throat hasn't lessened one bit. He had quickly gotten out of 221 B Baker Street, he couldn't bare the memories floating in every corner. He didn't have the strength to return just yet, but John knew he could never go back and only said he would eventually to feel like that he could. But he could never do that.

Greg and some of the Yard all tried to help John, their previous feelings about Sherlock changed from spite to pity pretty fast after the fall. John wasn't sure what he hated more, their pitying faces or the fact now that his best friend was dead they were all on Sherlock's side, finally. He decided he would just hate it all. At least Greg was genuine, he was always a friend of the eccentric detective, in his own way.

John was hardly keeping it together, really, all the help in the world couldn't get to him. It just didn't feel real, nothing felt real when Sherlock wasn't there, just like when he came back from Afganistan. It was wrong, the air felt too heavy, too thick, like he was walking around under water. It was hard to breathe.

It's been two weeks now, 14 days, 336 hours, give or take, since John has left his temporary flat. Smaller than the one he had before meeting that impossible man. He didn't need space, he only brought his clothes and his gun with him. The closed in space was the only comfort he could find, drowning was easier in small spaces.

Greg had enough of John's idea of processing, knowing the solider wasn't going to make it if he kept that up. He managed to drag the good doctor out of the pitiful flat, promising only to take him to the local down the street. The detective inspector said a few drinks would help him forget.

After one too many, far too quickly, John knew he would never. Greg tried to keep up conversation, John was not being very helpful on his end. Bless the man for giving it a try, trying to lighten the mood with ridiculous stories and jokes.

They went unheard, John was lost in the buzz of alcohol and darkness. He kept hearing Sherlock's deep baritone every time he snunk a extra drink past Greg's attention, it would have made him laugh if it didn't hurt so much.

John wondered, as Greg prattled on about some case with a clown, if he was better off dead, better off the quitter before this crazy chapter of his life started with a man promising him adventure and danger. So many people had told him he was better off now than he ever was with Sherlock, but they had no idea. That wild man, he brought that dying solider back to life. And now?

Nothing. He had nothing.

It was three hours later before Greg finally used his detective skills, the lazy prat, John did chuckled at that one, before the man noticed the level of utterly pissed John had become. John couldn't care, he had reached the level of drunk where everything was good again and funny.

"John, I think it's time to get you home." Greg deadpanned, disappointed in himself really, this had no been the plan.

"Absolutely right, Gavin." John pushed himself off his bar stool unsteady and hid a grinned when he was corrected in that irritated flat way the inspector always used with Sherlock. "Best off to Baker Street."

Greg followed suit to his feet, not nearly as off kilter as John, helping steadying the man before he realizing what he heard. "What?"

John shook off the older man, mumbling about Sherlock would forgive him, he had enough time, he was sure of it. Greg got concerned with each slurred word as the man started heading out the pub. The solider was in rough shape as he bumped into nearly every object in his way.

"You're mate seems out of sorts there." The bartender commented as John finally got to the door after apologizing to a potted plant. Greg hurriedly dug bills out of his wallet and dropped them on the bar before running after John before the drunk idiot got ran over.

Greg found John slumped against a street post at the corner of the road, on his phone with a forlorn look upon his face. His brows furrowed, pulling his phone away to look at the screen, redialing the number. It seemed no one was going to pick up.

"John, let's get you back, yea?" Greg asked, cautiously approaching.

"I keep calling him and all I get is nothing." John mumbled, redialing again. "I know I'm pissed, but I say the words and he'll listen this time even if they're slurred. He always understands anything."

Greg was stunned, had John been calling Sherlock? He must still have his number on his phone, not even the inspector had deleted the number. A hard clench in his chest told him this night could end bad if he didn't calm John down.

With a deep sigh, John turned away from his friend to make a quiet confession of apology, misery and desperate longing on the answering machine. All John got back was nothing.

It all welled up inside him, from down deep, he had no idea it was all down inside, it bubbled up and soon it forced it's way up his throat and out his mouth. A strangled scream, a cry of torture and agony. Had he been aware of anything else beside the swimming of his head and the utter pain, he would have seen Greg jump in surprise.

The older man grabbed John by the shoulders, tight. He made the broken doctor look up at him and was saying something, get it together man, it was all just movement to John.

"Sherlock..." He mumbled, his head falling, getting a shake from Greg. "Sherlock!" He wrenched himself away, even drunk he held great strength.

Greg tried to grab at him again, but before he could even blink John tore down the street, screaming for Sherlock at the top of his lungs. To say the inspector was startled a man that intoxicated could move that fast, well that is just an understatement. The minute of just standing there stunned at all that was suddenly happening, gave John one hell of a head start before he snapped out of it and went to track his friend down before something worse happened.

John never felt more alive and free than when he was running, his lungs burning and his legs carrying him one more step toward their door. 221 B Baker Street. He just had to go there, go find Sherlock, tell him everything.

Tell him he was sorry, tell him all the things he never had, all the things Sherlock needed to know. To know that he was the most human, best human being, man, that John had ever met. How utter insane in love he was with the man, how stupid he had been to hide that, knowing Sherlock could see it. Had seen it since they went racing after that cabbie all that time ago.

John didn't notice all the building and the people blurring past him as he just kept running, shouting for Sherlock to understand, to give him another chance. He knew if he could just go to him and confess and turn it all around. Sherlock would listen this time even if it hurts.

Just around another corner, John slowing down, stumbling up to the familiar black wood door. With every drunk step, he could swear he heard that tragically beautiful violin floating down from the window.

He bumped into the door when he reached it, he told himself it was the excitement, maybe the whiskey. He ran his fingers over the gold plated numbers, it would always be their place. Their numbers, it was apart of their story. 221 B, what was more beautiful than that?

He faintly heard his name being called somewhere behind him, but he didn't care. He tried the handle and nearly screamed when it wouldn't give. John gave it a shake and a thump.

"Sherlock! Sherlock please! Just open up, I'm sorry I'm sorry, I'll fix it all. We can make this better." John leaned against the door, tears streaming down his face, he supposed that had started long before he got here. He fumbled with his pockets and found his key, with shaking hands he finally unlocked the door. He was going to go inside at last but a strong hand clasped his shoulder.

"John! Good God man!" Greg exclaimed, clearly winded trying to keep up with the ex-solider, gripping tighter with a hard look in his eyes. "Look, John...he's...He's not there." He tried to reason with him, this broken man, it was hard to even watch this happen.

John shoved the older man off him, nearly off all the steps up to the door. He flung the door open, nearly hitting the startled that woke with all the banging John had been doing.

"Goodness! John! What's going on?" She gasped, clutching her dressing gown tighter, looking positively frightened.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, he knew the man would come to his senses if they were face to face. "Sherlock!" He took the steps two at a time. He knew if Sherlock saw how much he was hurting, he would take him back for sure!

Greg called up after him, trying to calm him down and get him to stop. Nothing was going stop John now.

Every drunk step lead him to their door, just this last thing keeping them apart, he was going turn this all around, it was going to work. Still in love and just have to open this door and...

Nothing.

There was nothing. John stopped dead, slumping against the door frame. The flat was dark, it was covered in dust that hung in the air on the few shafts of moon light coming through the closed curtains. Empty.

"Sherlock...?" John choked on the name. He wanted words, to hear that deep baritone, have it ask him what he was doing, irritated and bored, anything. All he got was nothing.

"John..." The solider twitched, that is not the voice he wanted, not what he needed to hear, he looked back, looking at the worried look on Greg's face brought it all crashing down on him. "I'm sorry..."

John slid down the frame, he couldn't be gone, it was just a trick. Just a cheap magic trick. He barely registered when Greg knelt down and held him, he was not surprised to find himself sobbing uncontrollably.

John had to realize that no one was waiting for him here, the rush he got with Sherlock, the love that was so intoxicating was gone. He was coming down and shaking as he kept hearing nothing, it was all gone.

Greg looked back at waiting at the bottom of the stairs. "Sorry...I'm going to take him back...come on John." He whispered, helping the doctor to his feet, carefully leading him down the stairs. "It's going to be okay." But he wasn't sure he believed his own words.

John walked like an empty vessel being guided by the inspector, it was easy enough to get back to the street but it only worried the older man more. He made eye contact at the near by CCTV camera he saw, hoping they got a good view of what this was doing to John. Greg wish he could blame the elder Holmes, but he too had lost a brother hadn't he? With a deep sigh, Greg hailed a cab to get John back to his flat and into bed. This was an awful night and only made things worse.

-

"Well, brother mine, what do you think of that?" There was such a condescending tone in the elder Holmes' voice, but nothing at this very moment could get the younger to tear his eyes or thoughts from the screen.

Long slender fingers were pressed to perfect cupid bow lips that were drawn tight. How could this have happened? This was not meant to happen, this was not foreseen or prepared for, none of this was making any logical sense. Why? Why had that been the reaction? John Watson was above this...wasn't he?

Sherlock leaned back in his chair after viewing the footage days later after John's incident, the detective was just about to finally leave London to start on the more further reaches of Moriarty's web. But now this, what was he meant to do with this?

"You are meant to carry on with the mission." Mycroft interrupted his thoughts, annoying prat. "John Watson will be in danger if you stop now, if you reenter his life before finishing, his life might not continue into the new year."

Sherlock hated it, but his brother was right, he couldn't just drop the mission, with Moriarty's men still out there, if they were to even get a whiff that he was still alive, the first thing they would do was kill John in the most unpleasant ways.

Still.

Still the way John was shouting his name all over town, it stirred the most painful things in his chest that he was not accustomed to and would never be able to delete the sound. The beginning of the footage though, had him thinking.

"The phone...the phone he called...?" He left Mycroft to fill in the blanks of the question.

With a light sigh, as if it was so troublesome, the elder Holmes produced the phone that Sherlock had thrown aside right before the fall. He carefully placed it in his brother's open hand, giving him a look before releasing it. "We have work to do."

"I understand." Sherlock said, hardly paying attention to him any longer as he opened the phone, tensing as he saw this was not the only missed phone call from John since he 'died'. A lump grew in his throat as he looked through the many voice mails, the text messages and so many missed calls from the past three weeks. He barely focused on the notion that John only waited four days after he thought his friend dead to start this habit.

"Sherlock, it's time."

It was time, it was time to leave. His fingers wrapped tightly around the phone, shutting it off for later. It was time to close his heart one more time, all for John Waston, the army doctor, the man that save Sherlock's life in so many ways. It was time to repay that debt in some way, even if it might not be the right way, not the best way.

"Just..." Mycroft paused from turning to get ready for his brother's departure. "Just make sure he'll be alright...for me?" He hated to ask his brother for anything, to put anything in another persons hands, but he had no choice. He looked up at his brother and hoped he didn't look half as vulnerable and pathetic as he felt.

"I will do my best..." Mycroft said slowly, understanding perfectly and not commenting on it, sparing Sherlock at the moment, there will be a better time than right after the only man that had his brother feeling anything breaking right in front of him. "Come brother dear. Into battle."

Sherlock nodded, standing and taking one last glance at the screen, at John, it was time to push that all aside. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly he focused himself. "Let's go."

He followed after his brother, trying not to drag his feet, to actually feel like he was not bothered. Like he wasn't terrified about what was to come very soon, the journey he would take, not knowing when or if he would come back. The memory of John telling him he was brilliant, amazing, that first time, it willed him forward. He would make it back, he would come back home to his solider and pray that he might be forgiven. Yet he knew he did not ever deserved that.

Sherlock glanced back once more before leaving the room, just to look at John's face once more. Just one more time, even if it looked broken, he needed just one look. He looked at the screens he had been watching but all he saw was nothing.