"Goodbye John."

And then he fell, his Belstaff coat flapping behind him like dark angel wings. John didn't see the impact, and that was probably a blessing. John relived that moment, of Sherlock's arms gracefully lifting, ready to take flight, that beautiful calm before the storm. He still felt the flash of panic that turned into numbness an instant later as his hearing whited out. It had been less than six hours ago, but it felt simultaneously a moment and a lifetime ago. John had known people who died. In the Army, he had known people closely who didn't make it home. He would have, and did, put his life on the line for theirs every single day. When someone had been seriously injured, the language changed. They talked about how things weren't ruined but there would be a new normal in your life. Just because things weren't how they were didn't mean that they couldn't still be wonderful. Was being without Sherlock like that? Would it be like losing a leg? Still able to live, although always missing a piece of you?

He was waiting now at Bart's, for the news that Sherlock had been pronounced dead. It was inevitable. He knew it was inevitable. But that tiny shred of hope flared in him that it was all pretend. "Just a magic trick," Sherlock had said, and maybe it would be a magic trick. What was taking so long though? He had been done with his own treatment hours ago. He had a mild concussion and a little bit of shock, but that was nothing. His nurse was nice. Her name was Gloria. It seemed such a typical name for a nurse. She squeezed his hand while he repeatedly asked for Sherlock, but never gave him any answers.

John stood as Lestrade entered the waiting room, his head pounding. "I'm so sorry," was all he said.

"So that's it then? He's gone?" John couldn't hide the bitterness he felt. Lestrade looked at him sadly.

"We'll have to do some statements with you down at the station, but that can wait for another day. Is there anyone I can call for you?" he asked lamely.

He remembered painfully when he met Sherlock, and he had immediately been able to deduce that there was no one. He was not going to call Harry. Mrs. Hudson? God no. He couldn't tell her that Sherlock was…gone. He simply could not bear that just yet. Hell, Greg was the closest thing he had to a friend.

"There's no one."

"Look John, I'm so sorry about all of this. But I don't think it's a great idea for you to be alone just now. Jennifer's gone, and she's got the kids, so why don't you kip at my place? I've got a spare room and everything." That was not what John wanted. Sorry wouldn't help. Sorry wasn't good enough.

"You played a part in this. You all did. You listened to Sally. You listened to her lies." He didn't shout. It was a quiet condemnation. 'I don't want help from you, or anyone else." Lestrade looked like he'd been punched. John simply walked away, leaving a speechless Greg behind.

He found himself standing outside. The clouds were beginning to gather. He looked over to his left to see a workman hosing blood of the pavement. Bile rose in his throat. Scrabbling for his phone, he found himself calling up the bedsit that he had occupied when he first returned from Afghanistan. "Your old spot is free, Dr. Watson. It's yours if you'd like." He knew two things for certain. One: he wouldn't like to be near anyone else. Two: He wouldn't survive being alone at Baker Street overnight.

Greg caught up to him before he jumped into a cab. "Call me if you need anything, please. I'm told that Mycroft is handling the arrangements." He added in.

"Fine." John answered tersely.

Most people taking out a room in the dull grey building that would be home now were transitory, so there was never much hassle. The rules were simple. Pay up front for the week; don't leave any permanent damage to the place. The bedsit was exactly as he recalled: sparse and built for the solitary. I suppose I am solitary, thought John. Exhausted, more emotionally than physically, he lay back on the bed, thinking of the arduous day that had just passed. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that it had been much longer than it was. Between running back and forth to Bart's and around town and to Baker Street, he can't comprehend. The benefit of being alone was that he could allow himself to slip into grief. He allowed it to consume him. Less than a day ago, he had a best friend. And now, he was truly, utterly alone.

John woke up to the chime of an incoming text message. A quick glance told him that he had missed several more.

From: Greg Lestrade 8:07
Funeral at 11 on Thursday. Mycroft will send a car.

From:Greg Lestrade 8:56
Did you get my last message?

From: Greg Lestrade 9:01
John?

From: Greg Lestrade 9:22
Are you okay?

From: Greg Lestrade 9:25
Answer me dammit.

John comtemplated ignoring him, but decided it would be better to get Greg off of his back.

To: Greg Lestrade 9:28
Fine.

He dialed the person he knew he could talk to right now.

"Hello? Dr. Thompson speaking."

"Ella, its John Watson."

"John! It's been months. How have you been?" He choked back the urge to respond with something like fucking horrendous.

"I..."his voice broke "I think I need some help."

"I have a slot free this afternoon. I'll leave it open for you."

"I'll see you then."

John went to Baker Street. He had to. He had been wearing the same clothes for two days now, and needed to pick up some more. A shower would be better, but the bathroom was near Sherlock's room, and he just couldn't go near there. He toed off his shoes and went up into his bedroom. It felt different, like someone had been in here, although nothing seemed out of place. He pulled his old army rucksack out of the closet. He shoved clothes into the bag haphazardly, enough for a few days at least. It rounded out everything that he strictly needed, but he tucked his Browning on top, just in case. Looking down at his feet, he noticed a tiny brownish splotch against the white of the sock. Oh god. Sherlock. Sherlock's blood. Sherlock's blood on his sock. He tore them off, panting, trying hard to avoid the swell of emotions. Panic. His heart pounded in his chest. He'd had panic attacks before about Afghanistan, but this…this was worse. He needed to leave this place.

From the bottom of the stairs, he could see into the sitting room. He needed to get out, but something was pulling him in there. He walked in slowly. There was a slight hitch in his step as he went to the chair that was undeniably his, across from the chair that was undeniably Sherlock's. He sat for a long moment, looking at the dimples still left in the leather of Sherlock's chair from the last time he sat there. Now that he thought about it, it wasn't blood on his foot. It was just brown sauce from the last time he ate. He was being irrational. Sherlock wouldn't approve. His thoughts turned back to Sherlock. How many evenings had they sat here, eating takeaway. How many awful bored afternoons had they spent watching crap telly and terrorising the neighbours. How many cases had they sat here and thought through together. But never again. There were a lot of unanswered questions that he had wished he had asked Sherlock. There were so many things he wanted to say, but never had.

He missed the door opening. John didn't look until his name was said. "Dr. Watson, I hadn't anticipated you being here," Mycroft said carefully. Stoic as ever.

"It's my flat, thanks."

"You know what I was referring to, John."

"What are you doing here?"

"I needed a few things of his for the ahem burial. Mummy suggested the aubergine shirt but since you're here did you have any input? You knew him best."

John's face was ashen. "Did you see him?"

"No."

"You did this."

Mycroft carried on like he hadn't heard John. "I didn't want to. The coroner quite agreed. But I cannot have the man buried nude." Mycroft. Always the man of composure, even at a time like this. It was infuriating.

John swung to life from his reverie on the chair. Leaping up, he grabbed the nearest thing he could get his hands on, the ashtray from the Palace all those months ago, and flung it at the wall where it shattered into a million pieces. "YOU DID THIS." He roared.

"John. Please." Mycroft's eyes grew wide.

"You killed him. You as good as pushed him off that sodding roof yourself. You let JAMES FUCKING MORIARTY into his life." He shrieked. "Sherlock is gone. I lost him. I lost the best man I knew." He finished quietly and collapsed back onto the chair.

"And I lost my baby brother." He said sharply, his icy façade slipping. "Don't forget that. No matter how much you blame me, I will always blame myself more." There was an odd look on his face. It was almost like he wanted to hug John, but he did not. He looked away, running his palm through his hair. John couldn't picture Sherlock as a child. Just maybe Mycroft had been a good brother, once upon a time.

"I don't see how fucking monsters like Moriarty get to live, while good men…good men like Sher-…him get to die." Mycroft's head snapped up.

"He's dead John."

"What?"

"Moriarty. He's dead. His body was on the rooftop."

"You better not be lying to me Mycroft. If this is like Irene Adler, and he reappears…"

"I swear to you John, he is dead. And if he hadn't been, don't think for a minute that I would not have hunted to the ends of the earth the man who did this to my little brother. If you'll excuse me, I'll see myself out. I can pick up the things I need later."

He went to open the door to reveal Mrs. Hudson, hand poised to knock.

"I thought I heard a bit of shouting. Are you boys doing well? Are you two having a bit of a domestic again? I swear, you…" she trailed off. John hadn't realized but there were tears on his face. He hadn't cried in two decades, at least.

"Mrs. Hudson, why don't we discuss this downstairs? I was just on my way out. Dr. Watson will need a moment alone." Mycroft swept out, leaving John alone once more.

Several long moments passed. He picked up his phone. "Ella, it's John Watson. I won't be able to make it today. I will call to reschedule later." He hung up before she had time to answer.

John had made up his mind. He needed to get started on his new normal without Sherlock. Grabbing the rucksack from its abandoned position, he left 221B, knowing full well it may be some time before he could bring himself to return.