John pulled his clothes out of his cupboard, stuffing them into his suitcase, trying to keep his gaze from wandering over them and reliving memories. He'd done enough of that this week.
The thought stopped them in his tracks. This week. It had been a week since Sherlock died, jumping off the roof of St Barts, long black coat fanning out behind him like he would fly with it - except he didn't. He fell, off the roof and onto the road, and now he was dead.
John stiffened unconsciously, fighting back the memories and concentrating very deliberately on his task. Clothes out of the drawers and into his bag, pull them out, stuff them in, pull them out, stuff them in... His hand brushed against something hard and heavy. Just from the feel, John already knew what it would be, and drawing it out only proved it. His gun, tucked away in his underwear drawer, safe from 'drugs busts' and, supposedly, Sherlock, but that was never true, he was far too clever for that.
John sat on the bed, turning the gun over in his hands, heart tugging painfully at the memories. So many memories, good and bad, but mostly good, had been tied to this flat. Now Sherlock was dead, and took all of that with him. Sherlock was dead. Finally, John let the thought sink in. Dead, and would never again live in Baker Street. Dead, and wouldn't come swanning up the stairs, declaring "We have a case, John! Finally something not boring!" Dead, dead, "dead, dead!"
Barely noticing what he was doing, he stood up from the bed, shooting at the wall. "Dead!"Bang! "Dead!"Bang! "Dead!"Bang!"Dead!"Bang!"Dead!"Bang!"Dead!"Bang!
The gun clicked, bullets spent. John stood there a moment longer, breathing heavily, eyes still fixed on the wall, now adorned with bullet holes. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and nothing was ever going to bring him back.