Sherlock stumbled into the room with John on his shoulder, practically dragging the man through the doorway before he dropped him on the couch. Lestrade walked in behind him with a hard look on his face, and dropped something into Sherlock's hand before walking back out again without uttering a word.
Sherlock opened his hand and looked down into it, breathing out a small gasp as he saw the shiny metal objected nestled in his palm, Marys ring. He closed his fist tightly and looked over at John who lay emotionless on the sofa. He padded over to him and quietly kneeled down in front of the doctors face.
"John. Uhm, Lestrade.. He, he found Marys ring."
John blinked slowly, looking up at Sherlock. He then gazed down at the ring and silently picking it up, before chunking it across the room where it was lost in the mess of books by the bedroom.
Sherlocks eyes widened and he dropped to the floor, sitting cross legged as he peered into Johns face and trying to read his emotions. Though for the first time since he had known the man, he had no idea what was going through his head.
"John why did you.." He trailed off not really knowing what to say. The detective was feeling very out of place in this situation.
John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest like a child.
"Sherlock just go. You don't know what you're doing here and you have no idea how I feel. I just lost my wife and child in a fire that no one even knows the origin of. You don 't know what it feels like to love anyone or anything, maybe except for your stupid dog that died YEARS ago. The only thing you care about is drugs and whatever case you stumble upon for a few days. Its always statistics with you, you don't ever care about the people you actually help and I honestly doubt you even know what an emotion is. You don't know how to comfort or console and you barely even know how to interact with a person normally."
John sat up from the couch and glared at Sherlock with hatred hot in his eyes. "So go. I don't even know why you brought me here, this is not my home and it never again will be. You're living in a fantasy that you can solve every problem for everyone with no strings attached, except you can't just solve a broken heart."
It was this comment that made Sherlock go slack and almost fall over from the meaning in Johns words. Sherlock was so numb with thought that he barely even heard John get up ad head for the door. Sherlock was sweating and breathing hard as he turned around to see John walk towards the door. He stood up to go to John and maybe even try to convince him to stay, but stopped straight in his tracks when he heard Watson utter his last phrase before slamming the door and leaving the Holmes boy all alone.
No one will ever love you, Sherlock Holmes.
It was here that Sherlock realized he was truly meant to be alone. So, alone he was.
He was alone as he stumbled from his spot in the middle of the living room to the dresser in his room.
He was alone as he shook out God only knows how many pills onto his floor, his needle long forgotten.
He was alone as he ran for a glass of water because even lonely consulting detectives don't take pills dry.
He was alone as he came back into his room spilling water everywhere and stumbling around with tears he didn't even know he possessed streaking down his face like rain.
He was alone as he sat crisscrossed on the floor, cradling the pills in his hand and staring at the water in front of him.
He was alone as he thought back to every moment he had made John H. Watson smile, and everytime it had made a fuzzy feeling in his chest that he could never quite pinpoint the emotion of.
