A very happy birthday, my dear! Here is a small angsty piece because you like angst, as we both curl up in a trembling ball of emotion more than once during our RPs. Thank you so very much for that, and I hope you will have a splendid birthday. If I lived nearer, I would make you a TARDIS cake, but alas… xD

Virtual hugs from me, obviously. :3

Love, A.

Inspired by Always On My Mind from the Pet Shop Boys (Or Elvis Presley if you don't like upbeat.)

Always on My Mind.

…

It was dark in 221B Baker Street. The light from the street lamps shone dully on the dusty floorboards and the worn carpet. It illuminated the furniture, giving them a ghost-like appearance, gloomy and lifeless. The pale moonlight caressed the experiments on the table in the kitchen, the mish-mash evidence of two grown men living together, empty mugs and plates, crumpled papers and a violin on a chair.

The light also shone over a man, lying on a sofa that, if it could speak, would tell you stories of what it had seen during its long stay at 221B. Stories of excited cases, grumbling boredom, sensual love making. For now, though, it was silent, giving the man on it a place to hide, giving him the illusion of comfort and safety.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who never showed his emotions to anyone. He prided himself on that well-developed ability to shield them from prying eyes, always had, ever since his first pet rabbit had died. Emotions messed up his work, his deductions, his thinking. He couldn't afford to waste his time on emotions, on other people's wishes and feelings. He was good at what he did when he spared his massive brain from mindless trash like that; he was not bored, got interesting cases from all over the world.

And yet… When he looked around his flat, 221B Baker Street was empty. Of course, the floor was littered with news papers and just general rubbish, but the empty mugs were supposed to be filled with tea, the kitchen should be filled with the bubbling of the kettle, the telly should be showing crappy shows about men who weren't the fathers of the boys…

Sherlock sniffled and tossed over to his other side, unable to face the emptiness of his flat. It was cold; the fire had long died out. Oh, how angry John had been when he realised the electricity bill hadn't been paid. They had made it up properly, though, by snuggling close together on this exact sofa. How long ago had that been? A month or two, perhaps, or even longer? Possibly just a week, Sherlock frankly had no idea. He didn't bother keeping the time. He just kept thinking in circles, pondering, worrying. He never did emotions, but at night, when the flat was empty, too empty, he found he couldn't do anything but think, think of exactly that.

He had thought life after John would be easier. He had always managed perfectly well before, when John had not yet been in his life with his jumpers, his smiles and his beautiful blue eyes. Sherlock's broken heart ached when he realised he would never see that smile directed at him again, never hear that voice, that wonderful, familiar voice, heard the clear laugh of which Sherlock was the cause.

John had been angry, Sherlock had understood that much. When he had asked John if he were angry, though – just to be sure, one never knew with emotions – John had looked at him with those blue eyes of him, and had sadly shook his head. "Oh, Sherlock," he had said with a pained look on his face, "You don't ever get it, do you? It's..."

"Yes?" Sherlock had eagerly asked, eager to find the solution to this particular problem. He would sort it out; he always did, if only he had just a bit more data. He would solve it, say sorry, and get the milk for a week, and that'd be the end to that. It wasn't meant to go like it had.

"It's… it's alright, Sherlock. I see now that I expected too much of you," John had said, almost sounding surprised at his own stupidity – but never John because John wasn't an idiot like so many, John was clever, so awfully clever – when he zipped up his coat. "I'm sorry." And with that, John had left. Five long, dark days ago.

Sherlock stared at the back of the sofa and mulled over John's words, his expressions, what he had done or hadn't done, what John had always said or not said… There must be something, something that would point Sherlock in the right direction, some nuance that would make a difference.

With a soft, pained grunt caused by stiff muscles, Sherlock sat up, wiping at his face when something itched his cheek. In surprised horror, he stared at his hand, which shone wetly in the bluish light of the moon.

Tears.

Sherlock Holmes, the man who didn't do emotions, was crying. He was so alone, here in this flat, so lost. His John, his brilliant, wonderful, clever, beautiful John had left him and there was nothing Sherlock could do to get him back.

He had always said he didn't need John. He wanted him, yes, he loved him, that too, but he didn't need him like how his body, however tedious, needed sustenance, like how he needed to breathe. Needing someone was reserved for those sappy films John made him watch, not for real life. How could one feel like he was breaking when a certain man wasn't around? It wasn't rational, it wasn't scientific. It was true, though, and Sherlock had learned it the hard way.

He was a grown man. He could take care of himself. He could cook for himself, he could clean the flat, which he could keep because he had more than enough money to pay the rent. He could make tea, he had a job, he could put everything he wanted in the fridge. He knew how much sleep he needed, when he had to eat or drink. Yes, Sherlock Holmes would be fine. He always had been fine. An army doctor wouldn't be the one to break Sherlock Corbin Holmes.

Except it had been exactly that. Without John Watson, there was nothing to live for, nothing to solve cases for, because genius needed an audience. Stuffing the fridge with body parts wasn't fun when there was no one to complain and moan about it. Sleeping was even more tedious when there wasn't a short, stocky body to press up against to get warm.

He had managed to think so for the past week, when not a single text from John arrived, and Sherlock got lonely. He had never thought he'd miss the curses and the complaining, the 'Brilliant!'s and the 'Amazing!'s from that small man in the knitted jumper as much as he did now.

Sherlock had all the time of the world to think, so thinking he did. He thought of the work, his latest case which was simply dull. He thought of Mycroft and new ways to pester him. He even managed to find a recipe on the internet to make cake out of tea, telling his brother that he could cheat on his diet again. Mycroft sent back that he had created the recipe. He also asked if everything was alright. Sherlock never replied.

He thought of new experiments that he could do, or how he could get new body parts from Molly and how he could trick Mrs. Hudson into cleaning the flat, how he could steal another of Lestrade's badges, how he could insult Anderson in a new way.

He most emphatically did not think about John Hamish Watson, with his coarse blond hair, the wrinkles around his eyes, his small hands that were so warm against Sherlock's bare back or arse or chest or sides. He didn't think about how it felt when John moved inside him, their faces scrunched up in pleasure and love and wonder as they made love under the sheets, or how they would often not even use sheets because it was too hot to be covered. He didn't think about how he felt when John's hand brushed against his when John handed him a cuppa, or how he felt when John firmly pressed a hand against the small of his back at crime scenes, when Sherlock had gone three days without food and his vision had gone blurry.

No, Sherlock Holmes would be perfectly fine without John Watson.

Except he wasn't.

Great minds couldn't be tricked, especially not by itself. More often than not, Sherlock would get out of bed because he couldn't stand the emptiness of it, couldn't endure the cold sheets on his skin where it should have been warm breath from his lover and best friend.

His lover and best friend, who would never return to him because that's what Sherlock did, driving people away.

Sherlock sniffled and stood in front of the window, violin under his chin. Music would divert his mind. He raised the bow and placed it on the strings, and did what he couldn't do with words; pour his thoughts and feelings out into the emptiness of the flat.

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson stopped ironing when the music floated down. Her old eyes were wet and red, and her heart wept with her tenant.

Two days later, Sherlock stared once more at the ceiling, his phone lying next to him on the pillow. It had all been his own fault that John had fled, ran away to find a new, better life for himself.

Sherlock Holmes may be slow on the uptake of feelings and emotions and sentiment, but in the end he often reached the right conclusion. He had driven John away, had hurt him and used him, and most of all..? Sherlock had been the most unforgiveable idiot.

He wiped at his cheeks, afraid he was crying again, but he wasn't. Turning his head, he looked at his phone. John was on speed-dial one, he was just two buttons away. He only had to press one, and call, and the phone would ring, and wherever John would be in this world, he would pick up because John always picked up when Sherlock called, just like how he always answered his texts, and how he always came running if only Sherlock asked.

Did he dare do it?

He sat up, ran a hand through his flattened hair and rubbed his chin. What if John ignored the call? What if he… if he never called back and Sherlock would always be alone?

He cleared his throat and gathered all his courage, took the phone and pressed one, and then made the connection.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. And rang again. After a bit, when Sherlock's hands were shaking and his bottom lip was bleeding from where he had bitten down too hard, John's happy voice suddenly sounded in Sherlock's ear.

"Hello, this is the voicemail of Doctor John Watson. I am currently unable to pick up the phone, but please, leave a message or telephone number, and I will call you back. Ta!"

Sherlock's breath caught in his constricted throat when he heard John's warm voice that he had missed so badly, and when he could leave the message, it was stammered and with an uneven voice.

"J-John? It's me, erm, Sherlock that is, but you've probably have guessed as much." Awkwardly, Sherlock cleared his throat, wiping some imaginary lint off his blue dressing gown. "I, erm… Well, what I basically am calling for, is, erm… I miss you. I know I messed it all up, John, and I'm sorry. I love you, and I… you are always on my mind, John. Always." His voice was hoarse when he coughed nervously again, "Even when I don't show it, or when I don't hold you when you need it, when you are so lonely at night after a rough day and I thought experiments were more important, and I know I never treat you as good as I should, taking you for granted and all that, but, erm… Can you give me one more chance, John? One more chance to keep you satisfied with me, and us, and well... you know? Please come home, John." He fell silent, just breathing shallowly. "I'm sorry," he added after a bit, voice tight, and then he hung up, his hands shaking and with a headache pushing against his eyes.

There, that was all that he could do. That, and wait for John to come back. John always came back, and they would shout and argue and kiss and have sex and it would be better.

The day passed by, and not a single call from John came. No familiar footsteps on the stairs, no boiling kettle, no complaining about the lungs that Sherlock kept in the fridge, no chiding him for using all the milk or the jam. Just silence. Cold, empty, stony silence, as if all sounds had been swallowed by the earth, leaving it to disintegrate six feet down under fresh, black soil.

John had been gone for seven days, and Sherlock was miserable. He had stubble on his cheeks and chin, his eyes were dull and his hair was greasy. It was quiet in the flat – not in Sherlock's head because how could it be quiet when John wasn't there? – and Sherlock just lay on the sofa, staring at the high-backed arm chair with the small plaid draped over the back, the one where John always used to sit with his laptop, pecking at the keys as he was writing another story with appalling grammar about their 'adventures'.

It was this quietness that drove Mrs. Hudson up the stairs, checking up her tenant after a week of nothing, no gunshots, no explosions, no footsteps, nothing. Filled with dread, the old lady with the bad hip opened the door and saw the detective lying on the sofa, curled up and pressed against the back of the couch, enough room for a certain body next to him, a place waited to be filled because John always came back. A place that would never be occupied again, ever.

John had explained it to her once, how Sherlock's brain worked. It was after Mrs. Hudson had said to John that she never understood how it was possible that Sherlock forgot that he couldn't wash his shirts on 60 in the washer, but that he could distinguish 200 types of Tobacco ash.

Apparently, the human brain was a small attic room – Mrs. Hudson wasn't very much into computers, so John had given up on the hard-disc metaphor – and people could put things in there, and delete them, too.

Mrs. Hudson was a clever old lady, in her own way. And when she saw Sherlock Holmes lying on the couch, she knew exactly what had happened. The pain, the loss of John Hamish Watson had been too much for him to bear; it was too hard for him to face a life without him, so Sherlock's brain, the massive brain John had fallen in love with, had decided to delete that fatal day three months ago.

It hadn't been Sherlock's fault; no one thought so, but of course the man blamed himself as he sat there in the middle of the street, John's lifeless body in his arms. They had had an argument the day before, and hadn't yet properly made up, and yet John accompanied Sherlock to the case. Sherlock, stubborn as always, distracted a little with proving to John how he was always right, had missed the tell-tale signs, and it left John bleeding, shot once more. Shot one last time.

If Mrs. Hudson had to believe the handsome police inspector, Sherlock had refused to give up his lover's, best friend's, only friend's body, had cried, kicked, pleaded for John to wake up until the paramedics had to sedate him.

Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock had to move on. She knew the man couldn't keep denying it, that Sherlock would soon realise there was only one possible solution to this... final problem. Because it was final, as it had ended the Sherlock Holmes as John had come to love him.

Mrs. Hudson left, giving the brilliant man room to mourn, to grieve, in his own way. She would tell him the horrible truth later. He would yell at her, scream, even, most likely cry and send her away. She would leave, and as she walked down the stairs, she would hear the door slam shut behind her, hear the thud of a body hitting the ground, followed by muffled sobs and pleas into a phone, leaving a voicemail that would never be listened to.

"I love you, and I… you are always on my mind, John. Always. Even when I don't show it, or when I don't hold you when you need it, when you are so lonely at night after a rough day and I thought experiments were more important, and I know I never treat you as good as I should, taking you for granted and all that, but, erm… Can you give me one more chance, John? One more chance to keep you satisfied with me, and us, and well... you know? Please come home, John."

The End.