Afraid

Chapter 2

Sherlock is working. He's always working, always has been since John left. He found a job- well, sorta- at Scotland Yard. He helps them on interesting cases. Detective Inspector Lestrade doesn't know about John, but at times- when Sherlocks being really brash- he'll give him a look that almost looks like pity. Like he knows.

Sherlock hates that look.

He's only happened to bump into John once, and when he did John smelt of lavender and lilac. Sherlock left in a rush.

Work is the perfect antidote. It keeps his mind off of everything, off of John.

It's not until Sherlocks laying in his bed, alone, when he craves the warm body next to him. When he allows himself to think about his best friend.

Is he in bed with his new lover now? Cuddled up next to her, sleeping, dreaming of them together? Is he thinking of me?

He knows the answer to the last one, but gives himself several seconds to think of the possibility.

He curls into a ball. He does not cry because he does not miss John.

Why would he? John obviously doesn't miss him.

* * *

A week into his work with the Met and he walks into his apartment to witness a drugs bust.

He knows he has a record. Apparently Lestrade does too.

"I'm clean, Lestrade." He snaps. "I have been for a few years now, you know that. There's no need for any of this-" his voice does down in his throat as something catches his eye from the floor.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade calls. He ignores him, just hesitantly walks over to the piece of paper and picks it up.

It a bit dusty, seemingly wiped off a bit before cast to the side as unimportant as they raid his flat.

It's a photograph. Him and John on their trip to the states a few years ago.

They were at a lake- were supposed to be getting lunch, but this seemed funner- both in their pants and wet. Sherlocks hair is sticking to the side of his face and Johns is spiking straight up. Sherlock's staring at the camera with a small, content smile on his face, arm slung around Johns shoulders. John's supporting a huge grin, looking up at Sherlock with nothing but love in his eyes and holding the hand around his shoulders, his other arm wrapping around Sherlocks waist.

Sherlock stares at the photo, he can hear Lestrade calling his name somewhere in the distance, but he's lost. He remembers that day, the lake, having lunch on the beach and then swimming some more before putting their camera on a low tree branch in order to take the picture. And a bunch of selfies. It was so much fun. He had wanted the day to keep going, just keep going, but it didn't. And here they are now.

Sherlock stands straighter, gives the photo another look over, and rips it in half.

He turns to Lestrade. "Get out."

The detective does not hesitate before ushering everyone out the door.