Wiping away the tears on my blotchy face, Molly Hooper hugged me comfortingly.

"Thank you," I managed to sputter.

"No need to thank me, John. It's my pleasure." Molly sat me down in the chair, bustling out to the kitchen to help Mrs. Hudson with the tea.

The flat looked empty. Everything that had belonged to him had been removed from the apartment and buried with him. Mycroft had insisted, though, that the skull remain in his possession. I glanced painfully at the ancient wallpaper – the bullet holes and spray paint like arrows through my heart. Tomorrow it'd be re-papered, no more memories to hold on to, no more painful thoughts rushing through my brain. I ran my clammy hands along the fabric of the armchair. My breath shook with every compression of my lungs, and inhalation spiked my pulse.

"Black, dear?" Mrs. Hudson inquired gently. I nodded, biting my knuckle to hold down the tears. My lips were dry and cracking, dehydrated. I could feel my blood flowing, my heart beating in time with his memory.

A moment later, Molly sauntered out with a tea tray in one hand and a small box in the other. She smiled softly as she pulled a chair up next to me. She set the tray down on the coffee table and handed me a cup. Her fingers danced gracefully along the ribbon of the box. The wire sparkled blissfully against the warm summer sun as it glimpsed through the window. The ribbon seemed to be born out of gossamer, catching every breath or shift in energy.

I took a sip of my coffee, curious as to what was in the box. "What's that?"

She paused, her fingers freezing mid-motion. "It's a gift,"

"For who?"

Molly looked into my eyes. "You,"

I spread my palm, eager to find out what was inside. She dropped it in my hand, taking a swig of her creamy breakfast tea. I placed my coffee in it's saucer, gently pulling each end of the bow away from the casual gray wrapping paper. Molly took a nervous bite out of her biscuit as I lifted the lid off the box.

Inside was a book. It's cover was blank. No title, no author. I opened the to the front page. It was full of sheet music, dark, inky notes drawn across each of the staff lines. Perfect melodies dancing across the page. I could almost hear them, violin songs, singing through the air as though butterflies in the wind, their beauty magnified by their creator.

I closed it softly, nodding my gratitude to Molly as I set the book in the chair next to me. She didn't have to tell me what it was, I just knew. My heart ached, but I sighed away the pain.

Mrs. Hudson followed shortly after Molly, overly delicate for fear that she would break my slowly healing heart with a tiny movement. She sat down on the couch, examining the walls and making an attempt at conversation. I clenched my stomach, suddenly feeling very ill.

"John?" Molly asked, placing a hand on my hunched back. I shook my head, standing and hobbling to the toilet. Vomit was produced by my mouth, the smell enveloping my nose and throat. I coughed, gargling water and wiping my mouth with a towel.

I walked back to the sitting room, sighing at Molly's concerned scowl. "I'm okay,"

She licked her lips, pulling me into a gentle hug. I closed my eyes and breathed in and out, my movement shaky and my stomach churning.

I suddenly felt the force of the world fall onto my chest. I had to get out, I had to do something. Sherlock wouldn't end like this – not now, not ever. He must've left something. There must be clues. He can't really be dead. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't commit suicide.

I jumped up out of my seat, ignoring the spinning in my stomach. I needed to get out, to figure this out. I ran to my room, pulling a wad of bills out of the sock drawer. I tumbled into the sitting room of the flat, yelling a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and Molly before flying down the stairs and out the door.

I hailed a taxi and flung the door open, spitting out words and rubbing the money between my fingers. I thanked him as we pulled up, hopping out and handing him ten euros. I stood momentarily in front of the shop.

I stepped casually into Walter's Hardware, ringing the bell on the front desk. A small man popped up from behind the desk. A ratty sweater consumed his top half, and large, scratched glassed were perched upon the bridge of his nose. "May I help you?" he squeaked.

I nodded. "Err, yeah, actually. I'm looking for a large shovel. For dirt?"

He nodded and grumbled, shuffling to the back of the store. He came back with a long iron trowel, as tall and wide as me. I thanked him as he rang it up on the ancient register. Handing him money, I took the shovel and left.

A warm tear crawled down my face as I walked in the direction of the cemetery. I needed to find it. I needed to bring him back. I neared the wrought iron gates, shouldering them open and stepping inside. I darted down a cobblestone pathway to 'H'. Hanson, Hermill, Hindley, all the way to Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. First and only consulting detective, his headstone read. I sighed, forcing the shovel into the dirt.

I kept hearing a voice, saying not to do it, that it was wrong. I just told myself that this is what needed to happen. I needed to find something, anything to quench the fire that was my longing hunger for Sherlock. If I could find his laptop or his scarf, that would suffice.

So I began to dig.