What if every time John walked into a room that Sherlock was in, he would throw something to Sherlock, whatever had to do with the case, or a pen, and Sherlock would use it, because John could tell what he wanted each time. Pen, shoe, scarf, phone, tea mug, anything.
Then, the day after Reichenbach, out of habit, John walked into the flat and instinctively picked up a pen and threw it. He only remembered that Sherlock wasn't there when he heard the pen clatter to the ground.
Three years have gone by and finally john has lost the habit of throwing things to a man that was no longer there. He's broken at least 8 mugs since Sherlock's death.
One night after a long day of meeting John walks into 221B. He imagines Sherlock's eye rolling and scoffing reactions to Anderson's idiotic theories about their latest killer, and smiles to himself. He unlock the door, enters, and throws his jacket over to the nearest chair. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock's old mobile, and for some reason he forgets everything.
He wraps his hand around the device and tosses it behind him, silently cursing himself for probably breaking one of the last pieces of Sherlock in his possession, as he waits for the inevitable clatter of plastic on wood. But there was no sound.
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Random Sherlock Oneshots
Fanfiction"I know this is a bit stupid. But..... Happy Birthday Sherlock........... I know this was a waste of time...... Why would I say happy birthday to a grave?" -John Hamish Watson
