Gone. Dead. Forever.
I can't- I won't- believe it. Sherlock wasn't a fake genius, he was honest to God real and I know it. I sit and stare blankly into the white lab wall. This was where we first met. I though him a complete mad hatter, only to be proved right, but he had been good and honest and-
Stop John!
I tear my thoughts back to the present. Thinking of him now meant pain and that was something I had just been able to supress. Just. Mrs Hudson is speaking to me but I can't hear her. All I can see is Sherlock sitting at his microscope. All I can hear is him saying "Afghanistan or Iraq?" Mrs Hudson steps into my direct line of sight so I am forced to pay attention to her.
"I really don't think coming back here was the best idea John" Her concern is heart-warming and of course, she's right. I hang my head in defeat. Coming back here had been a mistake. I'm not ready yet. I will never be fully ready but I thought I could come to terms with the…situation quicker if I faced my past with him sooner. But I was wrong. I suck in a deep breath and look Mrs Hudson straight in the eyes. She has tears in her concerned eyes and gives me a small nod. She understands and so, we depart from the lab but not before I can hear his smooth voice echo in my mind
"My name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker St" A shudder goes through me as the words ring so clear in my head. I will never be able to go back to 221B Baker. There are too many memories of the times I spent with him. Too many reminders to haunt me day in, day out.
"Mrs Hudson, what will we do with 221B?" We've made it to the car and Mrs Hudson is pulling out her keys. She sighs and responds with
"Sell it I guess, we can't just leave it there to gather dust and become old and creaky. John, it's for the best and I don't expect you to go back there" I nod and slide into the car. Selling it would be for the best. However, while I can't go back there, all the while I can't seem to let it go either. That was Sherlock's home. A home he adorned with his own personal touches like the body parts in the fridge, the sound of the violin drifting through the small, skull positioned carefully on the mantle, the bullet holes through the wall and best of all the yellow smiley face spray painted on the wallpaper. I smile at the memory but it soon drops when I realize that I will never have those things again, not ever in the same way.
Mrs Hudson drops me off at my old flat, the one I had before I met Sherlock, and then I am alone again. It is like a reoccurring scenario for me. Alone. All the time alone. Even when I am standing in a crowd of people or sitting in a packed cinema seeing the latest trashy movie release just for something to do, I am alone. There is no one to comfort me. No one but Lestrade and he moved away. He seemed almost as distraught as I was when everything came crashing down. Almost. I lie down and close my eyes. Sleeping should be the worst part, being alone with only my thoughts should bring sleepless nights and slow tired days. But it's as if the world wants me to be wide awake and make sure that I see everything that could even remotely remind me of him. No, being awake is the worst part. Being reminded by everything of my memories of our time spent together. The pull of sleep finally drags me under to a peaceful sleep of inky black.