I woke. The sky was dark, shadows played on the wall. I could see him, when I closed my eyes. Why had I been dragged away? Just why, in general. The silence of the house was painful.

...

I stood at the door, watching her. She was overwhelmed; there was so much stuff, none of it anything to do with her. Most of it was junk, yet it meant more than anything in the world. They were HIS things. Memories, pass times, things that should have been left alone. Everything should have been normal. It wasn't. I almost left; I didn't want to go in. But I had to.

I held my breath, and entered. I didn't say anything, just turned to the desk, and began. Old papers from old cases, photos, notebooks, books, and £50, the contents of the first draw. At the bottom, half a packet of cigarettes. I bit my lip, it didn't feel right. They weren't my things, what would he want?

Mrs Hudson had been keeping quiet. Understanding I was not in the mood to talk. So she made me jump by speaking.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No thanks, I, I was just leaving." I shut the draw.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure." I hurried out the room. I couldn't stand it.

I shut the front door, facing the street. I leaned against it. How many times had he touched it, this door? How many times has he stood in this spot? A Jag crawled to the curb in front of me. No secrets this time, no lure and confusion. He stepped straight out. Mycroft Holmes. I nodded to him.

"How is it in there?" he asked.

"Terrible."

"Im so sorry john, I..."

"Don't, Mycroft, just don't." I snapped, and then I turned away and began walking.

I walked for a while, just around. Some people would look at me, starring. Some would glance quickly away. Others would gasp, whisper to themselves or others. In new stands, papers were riddled with his stories. A fraud, a scandal, a fake, a criminal, a danger. These were the scars, the scars of him. Not of Sherlock, of Moriarty. He caused them. Sherlock was real; Moriarty never put doubt in my mind. But the fact still remained, he was dead. I hated that word, that phrase. It didn't belong. I sat on the curb, thinking. Nothing made sense, or did it make too much sense? I felt eyes on me, but I could see no one. He wasn't dead, he had to be. I saw it, the blood, and the stillness. But I could sense him still, no, I missed him.

...

He watched his old friend.