Due to my insane but beautiful writer/artist type daughter, Riddlespawn, I've become obsessed with Sherlock, especially the pairing of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes (how can you not?)! For those of you who have read my profile, you'll know that his one has been something my muse (aka DocWatson) had been pushing me to write. For now, it is a one shot, but it will become a two-shot(?) as soon as DocWatson lets me finish Sherlock's POV...hmmm, reminds me of a favorite song of mine...but enough of my randomness...Just a reminder that this is slashy and eventually a bit smutty...just sayin'! On with the show!

Doctor John Watson stood in front of the door to 221 for seconds…minutes…hours? He knew he needed to go in. He needed to see the place that Sherlock had been last… the place he had been happy last. John stood there, forcing himself to man up and open the damn door.

He hadn't been back in days...weeks…months? He didn't even know why he was standing there now. But now that he was there, he refused to turn tail and run away. John reached for the door and turned the knob. He hoped Mrs. Hudson was not at home. He was still not ready to talk to her…not really ready to talk to anyone…hadn't talked to anyone except himself since…since the fall.

The darkness of the hallway blinded him for a moment. Or maybe it was the figure he imagined at the top of the stair? He blinked two times…three…four? On the last blink, he held his eyes closed, determined to not lose what little sanity he had left here in what had been their flat.

Their flat. When had it become their flat? He had only called it Sherlock's flat for the longest time because it had been so obviously, so wholly Sherlock's, not his, even when he'd moved his few things in. But somewhere in the year and a half they'd roomed together, it had become their flat. John couldn't remember when exactly that had happened. He opened his eyes and the apparition was gone from the top of the steps.

He determinedly set his foot on the bottom step and started up. The flight seemed so much longer than he remembered. By the time he reached the top and the door to B, his leg was bothering him. It had started bothering him on a regular basis, but the doctor in him knew it was still psychosomatic and he would be fine if he could remind himself of it. He shook his head.

"Just stop it, Watson," he growled to himself, "you will not use this as an excuse to start limping again. Sh-sher-sherlock would have your dignity for that."

He reached for the knob to 221B and was surprised to see the door slightly ajar. Maybe Mrs. Hudson was in? Perhaps she was cleaning. He stepped inside and called out quietly. He didn't want to disturb her if she was downstairs.

"Hello? Mrs. Hudson? Are you here?"

No answer. Mrs. Hudson had probably gone in to clean sometime in the past few days…weeks…months…and forgot to properly close the door. He still couldn't figure exactly how long it had been since he'd been back. Time had seemed to get away from him since…since the fall.

He felt the tears gather in his eyes again. He'd shoved them back so many times. But here, in this room that he'd seen so many wonderful things, learned so much about himself and his flat mate, he felt safe letting them go. He let the tears fall as he wandered around the room. His fingers traced the back of Sherlock's chair…the fireplace mantle where the skull had been…the kitchen table, still piled high with glass tubes and beakers with elements of dried experiments still left in the bottom. He stopped and stared at the table. He hadn't been here in quite a while, he realized. It had been at least weeks…possibly even months.

He turned to step toward his old room and saw the coat on the hook in the corner. His breath stopped. It wasn't the one Sherlock had been wearing that morning…or was it? He reached out to touch it, to make sure it wasn't just another figment of his imagination. It was real…oh, so real. And it was the one he knew, the one he could have sworn Sherlock had been wearing the day he…fell. He grabbed it like a lifeline and buried his face in the wool. It had been cleaned, but it still held remnants of Sherlock's unique smell.

His breath hitched at that thought. How did he know Sherlock had a unique smell? When had he become aware of that?

Holding on to the coat, he continued into what had been Sherlock's room instead of his own. Here, the scent of the man was still evident…the pervasive smell of tobacco that never left even when he was not smoking; the smell of the rosin used on his violin bow; the smell of toothpaste and cologne and something else…something uniquely and totally Sherlock and no one else. John closed his eyes again as he realized the tears were streaming down his face once again.

It seemed natural for him to crawl into Sherlock's bed and surround himself with the scents of Sherlock with the sheets and blankets. He balled the coat up in his arms and hugged it tight, as if holding it close could bring back the shape that should fill it. The tears flowed into sobs. The sobs that should have wracked his body weeks…no, months ago now, destroyed him, making him a puddle of grief and despair.

He missed him. John knew that. He'd known the moment Sherlock had…fallen, but even his grief-stricken brain could see that it wasn't just missing his best friend as he'd told his therapist. That gave him pause. If it wasn't his best friend, who was he? The epiphany hit John like a car hitting a brick wall. He knew. And he sobbed even harder.

He had sworn to every human being that would (or wouldn't) listen that he was most emphatically, unequivocally not, not, NOT gay. His best friend was gay, but he was not. However, gay or not, he had fallen in love with Sherlock. It wasn't just the love of one man for his best friend. It wasn't the craving of companionship. It had become something that allowed John to breathe each morning…something that was his life essence. His plea to Sherlock's gravestone should have clued him in. And the loss of that essence since Sherlock's…fall is what had reduced him to this ball of mush.

His sobs started anew, tearing him apart physically, emotionally, mentally, even spiritually. He beat himself up for not knowing…not seeing sooner…when something could have actually been said about it…done about it. He cried for the loss of the only thing he could have had, should have had…the one thing that would have made him happy. With the knowledge that he had lost something he never had and now could never get back again, John Watson fell into a restless sleep, still clutching the wool coat of the only man he would ever love.