It's been 2 weeks since... The incident. 2 drawn out, absolutely dreadful, hideous weeks, to be blunt. John sat in Mrs. Hudson's flat; the exact spot he had been in for the past four hours, staring at the ornate wall across from him. Fortunately for his well being, her wall had a different florid pattern than the one of his- and the late Sherlock's- own flat. Mrs. Hudson called to him for the 3rd time, her voice ringing in a high octave from her kitchen. John responded by sinking deeper into the cosy couch. Sighing, she made her way into the living room where he was.

"I've made tea, John." He didn't avert his eyes at all. "I've made tea." She repeated, louder. He barely made a grunting-like noise in response. She sighed and set the platter in front of him. "One scoop of sugar, or two?" She asked, though she was already putting sugar in a cup, knowing he wouldn't answer anyway. She highly doubted he'd even take a sip, but she felt the need to be hospitable. She paused, looking at him sympathetically, then walked over and carried on with fixing her a cup in the other room. Miraculously, she heard the clanging of a cup being moved in the living room. "At least he's not dead..." She muttered, taking a sip of her own cup. In an attempt to make conversation, she called to the lump on the couch in the other room. "So, have you made any progress with cleaning out your flat?"

"No." She was astonished to hear a voice coming from him, so sure he'd been dumbed by shock.

"Oh." She sighed. "Are you planning on making any progress in the next week?

No response.

"Well... Would you want me to get you help? So you don't have to..." She trailed off, knowing John knew what she meant.

"You'd be a saint." He whispered, picking up his cup to his mouth again. Mrs. Hudson nodded, then rushed off to find someone fit for the job. John sat there in silence, one lone thing on his mind. The same thing that's been on his mind for the past two weeks.

Sherlock.

He literally threw the cup back down on the table, and sighed. He would cry, but all the tears have been emptied out of him. Angry and depressed, he rested his head on the top part of the sofa behind him. Suddenly, an obnoxious vibration came from his pocket. He jumped, the noise scaring him half to death. His shaky hands reached into his pocket, then exposed his phone. John was puzzled, wondering who'd contact him this early, and why now; no one has phoned him for at least the two weeks. He squinted, and saw what the phone read:

Outside, now.

MH

It took him a moment, but John realized who it was: Mycroft Holmes. It buzzed again:

And make sure you look decent.

MH

"Finally, you phone me..." Sighing, John got up. Whatever it was, it must've been important; Mycroft doesn't text. He probably was being respectful of the mourning man, not wanting to scare or disturb him too much. Of course, like his late brother, he was a smart man. He has seen these types of people before, depressed and such. He'd know that John would be silent somewhere; which he was right. John, sluggish although trying to move swiftly, grabbed his coat and shoved his phone in the pocket. He walked over to a window, positioning himself to see his reflection, and flattened down his hair the best he could. He was interrupted by his phone buzzing a third time.

HURRY UP.

MH

"Oh shut up, I'm hurrying." He muttered to himself, quietly. John then rushed out the door, nearly tripping over the forgotten step by the door. He was welcomed outside by a fancy limo-like cab, and an attractive woman whom held the door open for him. He climbed in; not that he wanted to, but because he had nothing better to do. Once in the car, he just sat there. His arm was propping his head up, and he just watched the scenery race by outside his window.

Before he knew it, he arrived at a tall and ominous, but familiar, building.

John, using all his energy and whatever will power he had left, tumbled out of the car and up the stairs. He slumped through the seemingly never ending hallways, honestly not caring how bad or depressed he looked. He was greeted by Mycroft himself at the end of the hall, who wasn't pleased to see John's poor appearance.

"I told you to look decent." He huffed, annoyed. John rolled his eyes. "Trust me," Mycroft spoke as he started walking, "This trip is worth it." John trotted behind faster, his words perking his interest. He cleared his throat.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Mycroft didn't answer; just smirked. This made John even more curious.

"You'll see. Be patient." John scoffed; patience wasn't one of his greatest virtues. After what seemed like forever from anticipation to poor John, the two men finally stood in front of a big grey door. Mycroft inserted a key card through a slide slot and it flashed. A click was heard, signifying the door unlocking, and they entered. John gaped and looked around in curiosity. They were in gigantic room with little rooms within. John only remembered being in this room once or twice, but couldn't for the life of him remember what it was used for. He wondered why they were here now, what was so important, why it was securely locked. Chills came through him as he remembered Bakersville, and the eerie locks they put on everything there. It also reminded him of Sherlock, and so he shakes the memory off. Mycroft leads him to a far hidden lab room. He unlocks the door and steps in, John following close behind.

John cringes as he walks in, his heart aching, his head throbbing. The room was filled with pictures of Sherlock; not him in general- his death pictures. John was so tempted to turn around and walk straight out, but he held his ground. He didn't really know why he did, other than he knew it was of extreme importance, as Mycroft so convinced him. But now he wasn't so sure he could handle it.

"Wh..." He barely could get a word out. "Wha.. What... is this?" Mycroft pressed his lips together and folded his hands behind him, seemingly ready to bare big news.

"I'm sorry I had to bring you here," He began, taking in John's rough appearance; dark circles under his eyes, obviously hasn't slept right for days. Dirty, wrinkled clothing, at least three days old. Hair a greasy mess. Mycroft takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "But... It's the best evidence I can give you." John gave a puzzled look. "Before I inform you of the actual reasoning to why you're here, I want you to try and figure it out yourself." John's eyes widened in shock and confusement. He then started walking around the room, attentively but cautiously. He tried to focus on the logic and information behind the pictures, rather than the actual point of them: dead Sherlock. He finally understood what his late flatmate meant; become attached to the victim, and you're focus is completely shifted. You can't think clearly. Emotion and sentiment fog logic. Having a hard time, he turns to Mycroft.

"I can't." He insisted. Mycroft shook his head.

"Yes, you can, John. Focus."

"But Mycro-"

"Focus." Sighing, John turned back around. He walked to his left, and shifted his attention to a group of photos hanging on a wall. On a couple duplicates, red marker circled certain areas. On one, Sherlock's coat sleeve of his right arm. On another, his head. On yet another, part of the background was circled. Puzzled, John leaned closer to focus in on the area of attention. He saw a group of three in an alley, seemingly waiting for something. He turned around to Mycroft, and gave him a look. A look that said, I think I know. Mycroft smiled, and John followed suit, knowing he'd been correct.

"Yes John... Sherlock isn't actually dead." -

A flurry of different emotions crashed hard and sudden at John. He didn't know whether to be furious or elated, whether to faint or punch a wall. He instead just stood there in shock, emotionless. A conflicted Mycroft stood across from the man, not really sure what he was going through; he was a Holmes kid, after all, and didn't believe in sentiment. It was also quite hard to see what John was going through when he showed no or very little emotion outwardly. After a couple minutes, John finally moved; he pulled out the nearest lab chair, and sat down forcefully. He put his head in his hands. He had about a half-a-million questions, but he could only spit out one word.

"W.. Why?" Mycroft continued standing, and sighed. He shook his head.

"I... Have no clue, Dr. Watson. That's what we're trying to figure out. I was hoping you could help us... Since you probably know Sherlock the most, besides me, his own brother." He paused. "But even then, I'm not sure if there's competition. You were his best friend, after all. Lived and dealt with him for two years straight. He hardly has conversations with me. Mentions you frequently, though." John was astonished. Sherlock, know him better than his own brother? He couldn't help but smile a little.

"Alright. I'm in." As soon as he spoke these words, he felt a pang of remorse. Dealing with Sherlock's death everyday? But, after all, he already did deal with it everyday. The difference will be that this work will be positive, more or less. There won't be any chucking things at a wall, at the ground, or at Mrs. Hudson. There wouldn't be, in this process, days were he couldn't walk, stand up, or days when he needed his cane again. No more aches, no more extreme fatigue from crying. Perhaps this project will bring relief and alleviation. His regret let up, and he was completely resolute and sound in his immediate judgement. Mycroft, for the first time ever that John had ever seen, smiled. It was only for a split second, and John thought it might've imagined it, but even the thought of it was fascinating. Mycroft nodded once to John.

"Let's begin." He led John out of the room into a new one. This room was bigger, and included various paperwork on varied tables and counters. Mycroft walked over and pulled out a chair next to a counter, sitting in one himself. John followed suit. Mycroft handed a nicely filled folder to John, who opened it and gasped. He had to grip the counter to keep from passing out.

Part one end.