A/N: Just a short one shot I want to happen at the beginning of Season 3. It probably won't, but oh well. By short, I mean really short.
John walked up to the door of the Baker Street flats and knocked. A few moments later, Mrs. Hudson opened the door and smiled at him.
"Hello dear. I left everything upstairs as it was. Just go on up and get your things and I'll fix you a cup of tea." John nodded his head in thanks and smiled back, though it was forced. He was dreading going up there to retrieve his things, but there was nobody else to do it for him, so he walked inside and up the stairs.
The trek up the stairs was familiar, yet foreign. All the other times, he'd had Sherlock with him. He was dreading walking up there, having to sift around Sherlock's things to find his own, but he had to. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't do it for him and as she had said to him many times before, she was "not his housekeeper." He walked up the stairs to the landing and froze. The door to the flat was ajar. John couldn't help, but fear about who could be in there. Moriarty could've snuck his way in, although he was supposedly dead.
Nevertheless, John remained ever cautious as he slowly and quietly opened the door. He cast quick glances around the room, seeing if anything was out of place. His eyes locked on Sherlock's chair, usually empty. He didn't want to believe what he was seeing. It couldn't be… It's impossible. Sherlock sat at his chair reading the newspaper, as though it were an ordinary day.
John's last words were an incredulously whispered "Sherlock." As he fainted, collapsing on the ground.