It was a Sunday morning, and the sky was fanned with vibrant hues of orange and red. Slivers of light struck the floor and ricocheted to settle on the opposite wall. John lay awake, his eyes fixed on a place just above the mantle. He had slept in the living room that night, curled up on the couch with his head resting uncomfortably on a small Union Jack pillow. Mrs. Hudson knocked gently on the door. When John didn't answer, she let herself in and started to bustle about in the kitchen. Soon enough the shrill sound of the kettle permeated through the apartment.
"Come on, John, dear." Mrs. Hudson set a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table and tried to rouse him. John looked straight ahead, his eyes glazed over.
"It'll do no use," Mrs. Hudson tried to reason, "Waiting for Sherlock to come home. He's not coming back, dear, it's been months."
"Don't-" John's voice broke from disuse, "Just don't."
She stroked John's hair gently before exiting the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
A siren shrieked in the street outside the apartment, disturbing John's silent Shiva. He groaned and sat up grudgingly. A winding trail of steam rose from the teacup, spiraling gently until it dissipated. John downed the tea with one swig, severely scalding the inside of his mouth. Grimacing, he got to his feet and stood, swaying slightly until the vertigo subsided. The apartment was a mess. Clothes, books and bits of half-eaten food were strewn across the kitchen table, along with Sherlock's spare robe and scarf, which were slung across the back of a chair.
Sighing, John seated himself at the table and picked up the paper that Mrs. Hudson had brought up. The date at the top read November 17, 2011.
John flicked through the paper, briefly scanning the Police column. Just then, Sherlock's coat pocket began to vibrate. Cautiously, John fished a buzzing phone out of the pocket and stared at the small screen.
New Text: +44 20 8224 7042
John did not recognize the number, but curiosity got the better of him. Flipping the phone open, he read the text. Mouth hanging open, he read it again, and then one more time just to be sure he wasn't hallucinating.
There, on the cellphone's minuscule screen, were the words:
Paddington Station-6:30pm
-SH