He pulled up his collar to protect himself from the bitingly cold wind. From where he was standing he could see the hunched over, dismal figure of John Watson looking down at the gravestone in melancholy. Hands buried deeply in his pocket, head hung low, John looked worse than he had ever seen him; having lost at least ten pounds in the last few months he seemed frail and vulnerable and for a second Sherlock feared that the strong wind might blow him over.
He watched as John lightly touched the edge of the gravestone and left. Even from a distance, Sherlock could make out the pain written so plainly across John's features. His face had a dark, brooding quality to it these days, so unlike his usual good-natured and cheerful expression.
Keeping his face blank, Sherlock stood there watching John's figure disappear in the distance and once more felt the full extent of his actions. Of all the things he'd done in his life, of all the mistakes he'd made, hurting John seemed to be the worst. Because for once in his life, Sherlock actually cared.
A few brisk paces brought him to the exact spot John had stood just moments before, Sherlock could still feel his presence, the scent of his cologne still lingered faintly in the air. Sherlock closed his eyes and for a moment and for just one second John was right there next to him, smiling sheepishly the way he always did.
Opening his eyes but still careful to keep his mien cold and untouched although there was nobody to see him, Sherlock turned on his heel and walked away in the opposite direction John had, out back exit of the cemetery.
Walking at a brisk pace he made his way through small, barely used roads and alleys to his new residence in the upper story of a hair salon whose only use was to launder money for the owner's drug commerce judging by its opening hours, clientele and general appearance. Sherlock was fine with that. The man minded his own business, never asked any questions and didn't complain as long as Sherlock paid his rent in due time.
He entered his apartment over the external spiral staircase leading up to a small rusty door that was flaking blue paint.
His new home barely deserved the name; bleak grey concrete walls, one room containing a crammed-in kitchen (which was really just a mini-fridge, a microwave and a counter), a moldy mattress on the floor and a shabby, old sofa that squeaked noisily whenever someone sat down on it, and a floor covered by an ugly, yellowish rug. There was also a bathroom, barely big enough to turn around in it. The water from the tab was foul-smelling at the best of times and brown goo at the worst.
Sherlock didn't mind. It was not nearly as nice as the apartment he had shared with John but then he had never really cared much about his surroundings. The room was a mess; clothes, books, newspapers, basically all his possessions lay scattered on the floor. He hadn't had the opportunity to pack a lot of his things in before his staged suicide, besides, if he had brought too much of his stuff, John would have noticed something was up. John…
Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him as he was used to doing, impatiently yanked off his coat and threw himself on the sofa, hands folded under his chin. He could not bear this any longer. Watching John suffer, day after day. Watching him getting worse by the hour. But there was nothing he could do. For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes had to stand by and watch as things took their course. Oh, how he loathed it.
The worst part was the boredom. Sherlock was no stranger to solitude and isolation but being forced to keep his head down and do nothing all day was really starting to get under his skin. And then there was this…feeling of sorts that had been irking Sherlock and which he could not quite describe.
The former consulting detective decided not to think about it anymore. His sentiment, or what little of it he possessed, was one of the few things he actually did not enjoy analyzing.