I walked glumly down the road from St. Bart's on the way back to 221b Baker Street. Once I reach the door I stand and stare at it for a minute. Knowing that despite my highest hopes my best friend, the only consulting detective in the world wouldn't be in there. Nor would he ever be. Not even three hours ago Sherlock Holmes fell from the top of St. Bart's hospital. I would never come home again to a science experiment splattered all over the walls, the number of bullet holes in the smiley face on the wall would remain the same; never going up in count if Sherlock happened to get bored, I wouldn't be woken up at two a.m to the sound of a violin. And no matter how hard I tried, I knew I'd always end up making two cups of tea in the mornings, and it wouldn't be until after I poured the second cup that I realized I was alone. That thought terrified me. I tried unsuccessfully to not think about the brilliant man that was once my flatmate as I pushed open the black door with the gold lettering. Mrs. Hudson looks at me sadly, somehow she already knew. Word travels fast in London. I went upstairs and settled down in my arm chair, hating how the seat across from me was empty. Mrs. Hudson brought me up some tea and a couple of biscuits. "Just this time dear, I'm not your housekeeper." She teases with a sad, remembering smile on her face. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson." I try to smile but I couldn't even lift the corner of my mouth up again before my façade broke and my face, along with my struggling smile fell. Just like Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson nodded and left to go back downstairs to her flat.
After a few hours I went to my room and began pulling out my clothes so I could pack up and leave tomorrow morning. But as I was folding them all, I decided I wanted to stay. It was the pain of Sherlock's loss that made me stay. If I moved, it'd be like I was leaving him behind and I didn't want to do that. And besides, looking at all of his things, and even some of mine and remembering all the memories we made makes me sad. I walked downstairs to tell Mrs. Hudson of my decision.
"Mrs. Hudson, I've decided I'll stay here at Baker Street." I tell her.
"Oh, that's wonderful dear, but won't it..you know, bring back memories?" She asked hesitantly.
"Yes, but I like remembering and looking at his things, it makes me sad." I say.
"What's so good about being sad?" She asked clearly confused.
"It's happy for deep people." (A/N: If you got that reference, I love you. Even if you didn't I still love you anyways. Carry on *quietly whispers:* my wayward son) I reply honestly. I bid her goodnight and go back to our-my flat.
I settle deep beneath the covers and stare at my ceiling. After about two hours I find myself still wide awake. There was no way I would be able to sleep tonight. I tossed and turned for another hour until I got up and made my way to the kitchen to make a cuppa. The caffeine definitely wouldn't help me, but maybe it would relax me enough to help me sleep. I drank my cup of tea but instead of going back to my room, I stood and stared at Sherlock's arm chair. It still had an indention in the cracked leather from where he used to sit everyday, his hands occasionally steepled under his chin as if he were praying, but I knew he was somewhere deep in his mind palace. Not a minute later I realized I was sitting in it. In Sherlock's chair. I curled up deeper into the folds of leather and inhaled the smell of Sherlock. The smell of black coffee with two sugars, assorted chemicals, rain, and other various smells of London that I couldn't quite place. It was a smell that was uniquely him. It was almost intoxicating. As soon as I took a couple long breaths of it, I was out almost immediately. Maybe because his smell tricked my mind into thinking he was actually here.
I woke up in the morning to the sunlight streaming through the flat. My back was very uncomfortable. Without remembering what happened yesterday I stretched out and called out to the empty flat. "Sherlock?" No answer. The fact that Sherlock was actually gone hit me like a load of bricks. My eyes started to water again, but I tried to push them back, not wanting any to spill over the edges. I walked over and turned on the kettle. I leaned against the counter and pulled out a couple of cups while I waited for the water to boil. A minute later the kettle whistled in a high pitched scream and I took that as my cue to pour the water over the tea bags and watched as the water in the pot turned a brownish color. As I predicted yesterday it wasn't until after I poured two cups that I realized I was alone.
I sat down in my arm chair and had to face the other way, so I wouldn't have to see his chair again. I immediately took a sip of my tea and burned the tip of my tongue on the scalding liquid. I then noticed my phone vibrating on the table but didn't bother even checking to see who it was. It rang again a few minutes later. Who could possibly be calling me right now? I didn't want anyone's sympathies, they wouldn't bring him back. I roughly picked up the phone and brought it to my ear. "What?" I asked.
"John, look I'm sorry to bother you right now, but we've got some stuff of Sherlock's here at the Yard and I thought you would like to have it." Lestrade spoke. I felt tears come into my eyes again.
"Uh yeah, sure. I'll be up in an hour." I barely force out.
"Great, see you then." Lestrade hangs up. I sigh heavily. I didn't know if I'd be able to handle seeing everyone from the Yard and taking Sherlock's belongings in the same hour. Not even in the same week. It was just too much.
I arrived at the Yard an hour later, as I said I would. I went straight up to Lestrade's division, ignoring the sympathetic glances I received from everyone there who had at one point in time come in contact with Sherlock and I. "John, hi." Lestrade greets me as I walk up to his door. I clear my throat. "Hello." I say stiffly. I looked down to Lestrade's arms. They held a rather large cardboard box taped together with packing tape. It had 'Sherlock' written in all capital letters across the side and top in bold sharpie. I gulped, thinking of what could be in that box. He gave me a sorrowful look. "Here you are, John." Lestrade says, extending the box for me to take. I stared at it a moment before I took it with stiff hands. My joints felt like they didn't want to extend to take the box, or to curl around the edges to make sure it didn't fall from my grasp. I thanked Lestrade in a hoarse voice and then turned to leave.
I stood on the street trying to hail a cab. It took almost two minutes, an eternity compared to how fast Sherlock could get one. Amazing how little everyday things like getting a cab could bring back a thousand memories. "Where to mate?" the cabbie asked.
"221b Baker Street please." I say.
"Sure thing. Hey, you're that blogger, right? The detective's friend." I nod.
"Well, I'm real sorry mate. I know how tough that must be."
"Thank you." I say although he really didn't know how hard this was on me. Sherlock made me a life out of nothing, he brought me out of a dark pit I never expected to escape. He gave me excitement, and most importantly; he gave me a best friend.
I returned to the flat and sat down in my chair to unpack the box Lestrade gave me. There was a variety of things in there. First off was two flasks Sherlock used to use for various experiments, there were a couple DVDs, but I decided I'd watch them when I finished going through this. I also found his little magnifying glass he would use to inspect the smallest of details, next was his gun, even though he hardly used it. At this point, there were only three things left. His phone and his beloved coat and scarf. He never went anywhere without those two things. I hadn't realized I was crying until I saw a couple of teardrops splash onto his wool coat. I quickly tried to wipe them away, but they were only followed by more. I flipped his phone around in the palm of my hand before I shoved it in my pocket. "If she left him, he would have kept it. I don't know why, but people do. Sentiment." I can hear Sherlock's voice saying that from the second day we met in that cab. As more tears came from my eyes I began to think that maybe Sherlock was right about another thing. Love is a chemical defect found on the loosing side. I didn't want to have to do this anymore. I didn't want to miss him. I wanted to be the strong soldier I thought I was. But I wasn't. Truth is, I am completely and utterly lost without Sherlock. I reluctantly got up and shoved the first video into the DVD player. I curled up in my chair with Sherlock's coat wrapped around me. It smelled even more like him than his chair did. It was a video of him solving a case that Lestrade couldn't crack. Sherlock had sent it to the lab by email, insisting that it was only a six, so therefore he wouldn't leave the flat. The way he explained it made the whole case seem fairly obvious, although it wasn't that obvious to me or the rest of the Yard. I sighed, then got up to put in the second video. He made it for my birthday, saying sorry that he couldn't make it to the dinner. That of course he wasn't coming, there would be people. I smiled at that. Sometimes I forgot how funny my flatmate could be, how genuinely human he could be. I realized I had taken Sherlock for granted. I had thought that he'd always be here. He'd be that constant force in my life. And he had been. Until a couple of days ago.
I must have fallen asleep like that because I woke up with a sore back, wrapped up in Sherlock's coat, and still picture of Sherlock on the television screen. I sighed and got up to put away Sherlock's coat and scarf. I decided to hang them up on the back side of my bedroom door. I had to pass Sherlock's room to get there. I looked at the closed door and if I thought hard enough, I could almost convince myself that he was just sleeping in for once, or that he was in one of his moods and he had shut himself in his room for the day.
It has been a week since Sherlock left me. A week since I've stopped talking or interacting with almost anyone except Mrs. Hudson, and even with her I hardly said a word. I heard the kettle start to screech and I went over to it to make myself a cup of tea. And once again, I made two cups. I should know better by now, but maybe I thought that if I poured Sherlock one that he would come sulking into the kitchen and drink it, not just let it sit there and get cold until the evening when I made myself another cuppa. But even in the evening I made him a cup as well.
I sat through the day in tedious boredom. The only thing on my mind was Sherlock. I had pulled out my laptop and tried to write another blog entry, but it was becoming increasingly harder as the days went by. Especially considering I didn't have any more cases to write up. I decided I'd go to his grave again. I go usually everyday now. I told Mrs. Hudson I was going out, then walked to the graveyard. I didn't take a cab anymore, I needed the time I spent walking just to think.
I went to Sherlock's grave in the back of the cemetery under a large tree. The gold lettering on the black marble jumped out at me, taunting me with the loss of my friend. "Hey there Sherlock. You're probably wondering why I keep coming. You probably think it's senseless. Talking to a dead person. 'It's not as if they can hear you John, stop being stupid.'" I laughed at my imitation of my best friend. "Anyways, I just wanted to come and talk to you. I miss you so much. The only time I hear your voice anymore is when my imagination conjures it up, or if I'm hallucinating again." I pause to take a deep, shuttering breath. "Sherlock, look, I'm sorry for all the times I doubted you or I was mean to you. I promise I didn't mean it, I was just mad at the moment. If I could take it all back I would without a second thought. It's getting dark now, I'd better go home before Mrs. Hudson starts to worry. I'll see you tomorrow Sherlock, goodnight." I couldn't bear to tell him goodbye, that would just make the fact that he wasn't here all that more real.
By the time I had gotten home it was nearly nine o'clock and I decided it was time for me to go to bed. I didn't usually go this early, but in the past week it's been this time or earlier. I sauntered to my room to get changed before I headed to Sherlock's room. The past couple nights I had spent sleeping in his bed instead of mine. I slept on the right side, because he usually slept on the left and I didn't want to completely erase the trace of his smell that was still there.
The next week went as normal. I woke up, made two cups of tea, watched crap telly, cried when I realized that was about the time Sherlock and I usually went out on a case, visited his grave, came home, made two more cups of tea, cried, ate an apple or something for dinner, then fell asleep in Sherlock's bed.
Then one day I decided I couldn't take this anymore. Tomorrow I'd end my life. I would end my suffering for good. It's not like anyone would be hurt, Mrs. Hudson might be, but maybe I'd do it somewhere else and leave her a note telling her I'd moved on. Just one more night in Sherlock's bed and then I could see him. I curled up under his covers and let myself go to sleep without worrying about anything. Tomorrow it would all be over.
Sometime during the night I woke up to the sound of a door creaking open and very light footsteps. The room was pitch black so I couldn't see a thing. I laid very still so I could hear better. The footsteps got closer, and closer. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. Who could be breaking in at this hour, what could they possibly want from here? Possibly something of Sherlock's or my gun or something. I didn't know. I still couldn't see. The figure belonging to the footsteps crawled up onto the bed beside me. What the hell were they doing? I wondered. The person reached over and carefully touched my face. I pulled my arm back and punched their face with as much force as I could muster. The impact made my knuckles crack upon landing. "Ow!" I heard the person let out a shriek. Wait a second, I knew that voice. But it couldn't be who I thought it was. "John, it's me. I'm home. I'm sorry." The voice said. I drew in a sharp intake of breath. "Sherlock?" I whispered hesitantly.
"I'm here, John." He said. He must have reached over a flicked on the lamp because in an instant the room was enveloped in a dull yellow. It was him. It was Sherlock. His slick black curls had grown out just slightly, there were stress lines on his face, making it obvious that the past few weeks hadn't been easy on him either. His cheek was also very red from where I punched him, with knuckle marks embedded in his cheek bone. "Sherlock!" I exclaim again and threw my arms around his neck. He wrapped his thin, but relatively strong arms around me in return. We stayed like that until I realized I was crying and my tears were soaking his shirt. "How? How did you fall off that building and not die?" I asked him. I stayed curled up in his arms and he leaned against the headboard. Sherlock explained to me the whole process of how he faked his death, it took about an hour to do so. And I learned that Molly had helped him. That must have been why she didn't show up at the funeral, I thought. By the end of it Sherlock was the one crying. I snuggled further into his arms and wrapped one of my arms tightly around him in return. "Sh, it's ok Sherlock. You're home now. You're safe." I try and comfort my detective.
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry I left and hurt you." He sobs.
"Sherlock, listen to me. Yes the time that you were away hurt, but you're back now. And I'm going to make sure you never leave me again. That's all that matters right now. You're safe. I'm safe. I'm happy." I tell him, even though seeing Sherlock cry made me want to cry as well. I hated seeing this brilliant man upset. After a few minutes, he calmed down enough to stop crying.
"Thank you John." I was about to ask what for, but he continued before I could open my mouth.
"For being my friend, for not calling me a freak, for believing in me. For staying even after I left you to think I was dead." He whispers. I didn't know what to say.
"Well, of course Sherlock. How could I not? You're the most brilliant man I have ever met and not to mention my best friend." I say honestly.
We had fallen asleep just like that and in the morning I woke up just a minute before Sherlock did. "Good morning John." He says groggily.
"Morning sleepy head." I smile and make my way to the kitchen to make tea. While it brewed I went back to my old room to get changed. When I came back out I found only one cup of tea on the counter instead of two. I look to the living room to find Sherlock had already gotten his and was once again sitting in his chair.