Chapter 3

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Thing is, Sherlock does not miss John. When he is alone or otherwise. He does not miss his jumpers, his sparkling blue eyes or his voice, kind and firm at the same time.

He does not miss his early morning tea or compliments. Lazy cuddling on the couch and sloppy first-morning kisses.

Sherlock does not miss him. Not at all.

Not his jam or his complaints or his dumb tv shows.

At night in bed he doesn't wait for John to join him.

When he goes out for a walk in the afternoons he does not miss the feeling of a warm hand grasping has own, the pure bliss of having some one next to him that is his. Where it's just the two of them and there's 'we's and 'us's and 'you and me's.

When people are calling him a freak he does not wish there was someone short and blond to punch them in the face.

And when he has nightmares of a short blond leaving, he does not wish there was someone there to hold him, tell him everything's alright and it was just a dream.

He doesn't wish the flat didn't feel so empty.

He does not miss the things John used to do or say.

He does not miss John. Period. End of conversation.

Sherlock Holmes does not miss John Watson.

And it is certainly not because John Watson does not miss Sherlock Holmes.

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