This is my apology for not updating.

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of its characters.

John stared at the black mug, full of tea, now ice-cold after sitting out all night.

His eyes shifted to the chair that the mug sat by—empty, as it had been for the past three years. As a matter of fact, it had been three years, to the day.
John willed himself to stand, and clean up the tea, untouched by his best friend long gone. Every day—all ten hundred ninety five days—John had made tea just how Sherlock liked it. On the first day, he'd done it out of instinct. For the first year, he continued to do it as if he expected to wake up one morning and find the mug empty, and his old flat-mate sitting in that chair, in that unusual and uncomfortable-looking position, as it had been. As it should've been.

But no. The tea went un-drunk, the chair gathered dust, and there was no flat-mate to be found in 221B.

Even now, John felt tears stinging at his eyes. He blinked them away and gave a sniffle.
He'd seen death before, but this death—Sherlock's death—affected him more than every body he'd seen fall in the war.

But that was behind him, now—all of it.

He went to work. He'd taken a job as a doctor, recently. He went out to lunch with a nurse, named Katherine. Then, he came home and watched crap telly for the rest of the day, and evening.

As per usual, as he had done every day since that morning, he put the kettle on the stovetop. As he got ready for bed, he continued to make the tea. A cup for himself and a cup for his friend.
He didn't know why he made the tea—he knew there was no chance of Sherlock returning; he had felt his pulse that day, he'd seen the body. There was no life left in the consulting detective. And yet, the childish feeling of hope still remained in the army doctor's heart.

As he drank his own, he stared blankly at the mug of tea across him.

Stared, and thought, and doubted, and finally, gave up.
When he finished his tea, he picked both the mugs up and dumped the full one out, setting both the now-empty mugs in the sink and wandering up the stairs to his bedroom. He fell into a nightmare of that morning once again.

But he was moving on.

When he woke up, he wandered back down to the kitchen to make himself coffee.

Often, during cases, Sherlock asked for a 'second opinion', and said it was 'helpful' to him. John suspected it to just be Sherlock's insatiable urge to show off; however, he still gave it his best shot.

Smiling sadly at the sudden memories, he let out a sigh.

"Well, Sherlock," He said to thin air, still feeling the sting of hope for a reply in that baritone voice but getting none, "I deduce today to be rainy, as always. And I deduce that I will go to work, and I'll come home, and watch telly for hours before having tea and going to sleep."

In short, John H. Watson, M.D., deduced it to be an average day in his life.

"Obviously."

He was wrong.

"Now, John, where's my tea?"

So I was listening to a song (Hold Me Now by Red) with my friend and I guess there was a part that made her think of Sherlock (Probably the lyrics that go "Waking up and letting go to the sound of angels; am I alive or just a ghost, haunted by my sorrows? Hope is slipping through my hands, gravity is taking hold..." etc. Also, "Hold me now, these tired wings are falling, I need you to catch me." etc.) and this came to mind. It just...happened.

I think it's good.

The song is good, too—give it a listen.
Personally I get SuperWhoLock feels from it but that's probably just me. O3o

So, if you decide to review, thank you a million times and you are a good person. :3