Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's note is at the end of the fic.

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Something always brings me back to you.

It never takes too long.

No matter what I say or do,

I still feel you here till the moment I'm gone.

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The watch ticks as time passes, and you wait.

The rain pours outside and you can't bring yourself to shut a window. Instead you let it hit the sill, droplets bouncing off and around, creeping down the glass, mist in the air as fog crawls into your flat.

His flat.

The flat.

Mrs. Hudson will not appreciate this. It's no longer your flat anymore, to pay for damages, no matter what she says. Even though she allows you to stay there. Even though you take her offer.

It's nobody's flat.

Mrs. Hudson refuses to lease it to anybody else.

It doesn't matter. It's his flat. It will always be his flat. As long as you can hear his deep voice in your mind, swirling around your heart like his coat around his body, see his silhouette around every corner, tall, slim, alone on a rooftop— it will always be his flat.

Besides, Mycroft ensures it with his frequent checks to help make rent.

Good. He, of all people, ought to.

It's not his fault. It isn't just his fault. But you can't help hating him. Can't help despising him, just a little bit. Can't help wanting to shake him, as if to say look at what you've done. Look at what you did to him.

Look at what you did to me.

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You still see your therapist, on occasion. Only on your bad days. But your bad days grow more and more frequent, and to some degree, you can't help but wonder if maybe she's making it worse.

As long as you see her, she will continue to convince you that he's gone. That he will never come back to you.

As you listen, you believe.

As you believe, you fall.

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"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"The look."

"Look?"

"You're doing the look again."

"Well, I can't see it, can I? …That's my face."

"Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face."

"Well, we do."

"No. I don't, which is why I find the face so annoying."

You remember this conversation frequently. Every time you sit by the window, staring blankly outside. Sometimes you think you see him, on the sidewalk, looking up at you.

Making that irritating face again. As if the game is not over yet. As if there's more to it, still.

But you blink, and he's gone. And you let out a tiny, watery chuckle and turn away, eyes wet again.

And the next day, you see your therapist again.

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"The stuff that you wanted to say… but didn't say it."

"Yeah."

"Say it now."

"No. Sorry. I can't."

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I love you.

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One night you go to the bar a few blocks down. As you wander down the stairs, you remind yourself that this is useless, only a temporary fix. That you're helping nobody, and most especially, you're not helping yourself.

Still, you walk through the door, turning mechanically to lock it behind you.

You cross the street, pause, and turn, unsure, because you're smarter than this. You can still turn back. You hesitate.

But then a cab honks, the driver beckoning, and you see a tall figure through two windows and an alleyway, holding a pill up to the light, and then to his lips. And you feel the gun in your hand, and the catch of the spring in the trigger as you pull. And you feel the adrenaline as you run away as fast as you can, sprinkling innocence into your expression. And you see his face, intrigued with a speck of faint amusement, orange blanket round his shoulders. His eyes, his smirk.

You wave the cab away and continue on.

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The next day you wake to an empty room, free of all hallucinations. You gaze around, taking in the empty chair and the bare dresser.

Nothing.

Therapy again, then.

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The trips to the bar become more frequent. Many a time, Mrs. Hudson helps you up the stairs, scolding you with a sorrowful expression.

You can't even slur a response.

More often than not, you're too busy sobbing out the gut-wrenching pain that has nothing to do with alcohol.

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The hallucinations don't stop.

They grow.

You shrink under the weight of it all.

Empty, empty, empty.

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"I'm out on holiday in a few hours. You remember, right?"

You grunt in response.

"I'm leaving you alone here."

Another grunt.

"John!"

Mrs. Hudson is exasperated, and you feel guilty for a second. But her eyes are sad and forgiving as she continues softly.

You nod slowly, a lump in your throat.

"I'll be back in two days."

Another nod.

"Take care of yourself, John." She whispers this as if hoping you don't hear. "You're all that's left."

She steps through the door, off to gather her things. You go to help her, but not before gazing miserably at the door, remembering his words.

"Shame on you, John. Mrs. Hudson, leave London? England would fall."

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Everything is spinning, utterly out of control. You can barely make out colors and shapes, and you're fairly sure that you're lost after a little while.

Must have headed the wrong way up the street.

You can practically hear the alcohol sloshing around in your stomach, inhibiting your senses and sharpening them at the same time. It's funny. The world has never looked so funny before.

Perhaps that's because you're about to fall over sideways.

Are falling sideways.

No, literally.

But somebody catches you, bony arms strong as they haul you upright. His face is shrouded in darkness, facing you away from the light, but you'd recognize him anywhere. You choke, eyes widening.

"Sher…"

"No, shh." He says, and you feel like laughing giddily and sobbing hysterically at his voice, deep, reassuring, carefree and filled with emotion.

Your hallucinations have never been this tangible. You can feel the mild pain of his fingers digging into your skin, the weight under you as he leans you against him and begins to walk. His coat is warm under your head, and you turn your face in to his shoulder and inhale deeply.

He looks at you questioningly but continues, lips turning up by the barest degree.

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He's never surprised. The alcohol, maybe, caused the difference.

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Before you know it, you're at Baker Street. He takes a key and unlocks the door, helping you through and up the stairs before helping you lie in bed. He stares, then, and you stare back.

He'll be gone in a few hours, like he always is, but for these few moments, you feel unendingly happy.

It's all worth it in the end.

"John." He acknowledges you with an incline of the head, and you slur out a response.

"You're back," you whisper, and his eyes narrow slightly in confusion.

"You're not surprised." He deposits his coat on the chair next to your bed, head still tilted, studying you.

"Why should I be? This is a daily occurrence. You usually wait till I'm already home, though. Why the change?"

His eyes dim slightly, and he clears his throat, coming around and taking a seat on the edge of your bed. "You needed me."

You laugh humorlessly. "I always need you." Your eyes water slightly as your stomach twists suddenly, and he touches your cheek lightly.

"Soon you won't."

"I always will."

"You—"

"Sherlock." He ignores you.

"I promise. Soon. Soon it'll be okay again."

And he makes the face. Bless him. Damn him.

You believe him.

Because the alcohol has firmly settled into your system now, as it always does. And he's so close today. You could reach out and touch him like he is touching you, touching your cheek as you touch his. You reach without even realizing, tracing his lips with your fingers, marveling at his breath against their tips.

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"Say it now."

"No. Sorry. I can't."

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"I love you, dammit. I love you."

His eyes widen, brilliant blue as brilliant as ever and you positively drown in them as you continue whispering.

"I love you."

I love you.

I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

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Before you know it, you're pressed against him, lips moving against his in a heavy dance of heart and soul. Your closed eyes barely stop the tears trying to escape, because as beautiful as this moment is, as it always is, it always ends.

He responds until you pull away to breathe and watch him. He wrenches the heart out of you on these nights. And again in the mornings, when you realize it was all a dream and promise yourself, head pounding, that you will never drink another drop. But night comes again, and the loneliness, that unbearable loneliness tears at your mind and lungs and gut. And the dizzy dance continues, leaving you spinning wretchedly out of control.

For now, though, you recline in his arms, reveling in his hands stroking your back as you cry and shout and call out and hallucinate.

And as you drift off to sleep, his blue eyes are all you can see. Blue and ivory and black.

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Inevitably, you wake the next morning to an empty room. Windows open, shades down, blanket half curled around you like a promise that never met its end.

The headache is worse today, but you don't bother promising anything to yourself. You will drink again tonight, and the next night. And you'll continue this downward spiral of alcohol and therapists and hallucinations and unheard I love you's.

And you peer out your window, and he is there again, peering right back at you, a half-smile on his face, hand raised in partial greeting.

And he's making the face again.

That damn face.

And as always, you blink and look again and there is nobody there. Just a crowd of people bustling on in their lives, hurrying to get to that place or meet that person or buy that thing.

All so mundane.

And as you crawl back into bed waiting for darkness to tint the clouds, you stare around the room, shivering uncontrollably.

And as you cast your wide-eyed gaze around the room, you spy a chair next to your bed.

And still draped across it, like a solid reassurance, is his coat.

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The watch ticks as time passes, and you wait.

You will always wait.

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I love you.

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A/N: Post-Reichenbach, of course. An empty ocean for my creys .

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