(A/N) Sorry for not updating sooner! This isn't either of the competition entries, just a crappy short thing to say sorry for leaving it so long! Not my drawing, btw. Aaaaaaaaand I made new covers! Totally not procrastinating writing my Competition Entry Ideas because I'm terrified... No, what are you on about?
Bored.
Sherlock groaned and threw his head back, he felt as though it was a competition to see which would kill itself first, his mind or his brain cells. Why was everyone so boring?! It wasn't fair, it wasn't right.
John was normally here, John wasn't boring. John never was boring. Sherlock could never say honestly that John was anything short of intriguing, nothing less than a drug, one that Sherlock had taken a small dose of, and was now hopelessly addicted, thoughts flew through his mind that he never had thought of before, simple gestures from the doctor starting an imaginary play-act in Sherlock's head.
John would be eating something sweet, a biscuit, perhaps, and physically, Sherlock would take no heed, he would ignore the way John's tongue ran over his lips to wipe off the traces of crumbs.
In his mind, in his private palace, he had a whole wing dedicated to John, the East one, where the sun lit it up, reminiscent of the glow John always seemed to emit, and in this east wing, Sherlock would take his little fantasy scripts and store them to use when John was away.
Back to the kitchen, where John was eating the biscuit. Sherlock would close his eyes, and take the room, take the moment and place it in the East Wing. In his head, in this new room, this stolen moment, Sherlock would walk over to John, and lean over him, eyes soft, no longer deducing: no longer looking- only gazing fondly at his blogger. But said blogger would partially ignore the consulting detective, the only sign of acknowledgment would be the corner of his soft, warm lips raising in a smirk, his pink tongue once again running over previously mentioned lips. Sherlock would press his lips gently to the corner of John's smirk, causing his cheeks to flush underneath the tall man's lips as they danced over his cheek, pressed against his nose, around his lips, on his chin, but never quite kissing him, not properly. Sherlock would take up the crumbs with his soft kisses that left John feel as though he was flying, his blush darkening from a rose pink to a scarlet. Sherlock would keep kissing him, his mind racing with thoughts, all of which concerned the man who was now paying very close attention to the man that he had previously ignored. After several minutes of Sherlock gently kissing the crumbs off from around John's mouth, John would grab him by the collar and kissing him slowly, Sherlock's lips immediately responding...
But that was all in his head.
And he was running out of material, because John was gone.
Sherlock was alone, so empty and bored. No new scene starters, not since Mary. Not since The Fall. Not since John gave up everything for someone he loved, that some on no longer being Sherlock. Had Sherlock not gotten used to the void, he would've enjoyed nothing more than to fetch John's gun and shoot at something, or at himself, just to have something to do, but John had taken that with him. The last time Sherlock had seen John was at the wedding...
"And do you, Mary Morstan, take John Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband?" The priest's voice echoed hollowly around the room, Sherlock assumed that to others the silence was for a moment of bliss, a moment to appreciate this momentous occasion. But for Sherlock, it was a chance to say the words himself, to mouth along to Mary's words, the words he had hoped to one day be saying while in her position.
"I do."
In the Eastern Wing of the Mind Palace, the only warm area of the whole, deserted, stone building, in the ideal little world of John that Sherlock had built, John had turned. He had seen Sherlock say the words, and had looked confused, as though wondering how he had gotten up to the altar with this woman, wondering what Sherlock was doing down in the pews instead of up here with him.
But in reality, Sherlock had looked on coldly. Applauded with the rest. Done his duties as the Best Man. Then, left. Left to be alone.
No more John.
No more sun in 221B.
No more cases.
No more blog.
No more script writing.
(A/N) this was mainly for AreYouMyMummy221B , and to tell you that UNTIL MY COMPETITION SHORTS ARE DONE I WILL NOT UPDATE MUCH OF ANYTHING. MY STORIES MIGHT NOT EVEN REACH THE STANDARD IVE SET FOR MYSELF AND SO MAY OR MAY NOT BE IN ON TIME AND I WILL FAIL AT EVERYTHING. SO EXCUSE THE SHIT WRITING AND PUT OT DOWN TO NERVES
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