A little something that came to my mind. Now edited and proof read.

John was tired. So incredibly tired. He had stopped hoping and had stopped praying to the gods he didn't even believe in. It was the end of the life he had gotten to know in such a short time and lost so unexpectedly without having any saying in it.

He had gone back only once to the flat in Baker Street to gather his stuff and leave the place remotely clean. Tears that he had not shed at the funeral because he had simply not dared to shed them in fear of falling completely apart had now formed in his eyes. But he was determined not to let them fall and to keep that last piece of his sanity. He climbed up the stairs to his bedroom where he could at least relax the slightest and could try to block out the truth.

Maybe if he just lay down on the bed for a few minutes, he would fall asleep and wake up and it would have all been just a dream. A terrible dream from which he would startle awake by the sound of Sherlock yelling for him to join him on a new adventure or the nightly shrieking of Sherlock's violin.

The next thing he remembered was waking up in the dark. He must have fallen asleep. He felt the skin on his cheek strain as he moved his face. The tears, that had finally fallen in his sleep, had dried on his skin and the tiny salt crust was now cracking. He got up with a shallow groan. He had slept on the side of his bad shoulder and he felt like his whole body was suddenly aching. After a few seconds he found his senses again and got up from the bed. He still had to gather his clothes and then he was out of this flat plastered with memories.

For the first few weeks Mrs Hudson kept complaining about the reporters that waited in front of the house and tried to sneak a look inside. They wanted to see what the flat of the greatest fraud in the modern British history looked like but Mrs Hudson refused to let them enter. One of them had actually tried to bribe her but the only thing he received was the door being slammed in his face and some swearwords mumbled behind the door. But even the reporters got tired of lurking outside of 221B Baker Street and eventually there was a new scandal that exited the British Yellow Press.

John never went back to the flat. Sometimes he felt his feet directing him towards Baker Street out of habit but he always stopped just in time to turn around trying to look like he was not just turning around on the street for no obvious reason. Sherlock would have seen through him immediately but Sherlock was not here. The thought still hurt him. But with time the urge to go back to 221B Baker Street faded. He frequently met Mrs Hudson outside of the house. She had tried to talk to him about Sherlock but he had bluntly refused to even say his friend's name out loud and had changed the subject every time Mrs Hudson had mentioned the consulting detective. She gave up after a while and tried to deal with the pain in her own way.

The months passed and the world seemed to have forgotten Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. But John could not forget. He could simply try to ignore his constant thoughts if the man who could see through everybody and still kept being an enigma. He was still working at the hospital but he didn't feel any joy in doing his job. His flat still looked the same way it had when he moved in months ago. Every time he felt like he was ready to make it his own, to make it his home he remembered the flat in Baker Street and how it was so much like Sherlock but still the only place that had felt like home in over a decade.

After a long day at work he was content to come to his own flat where the noises were rare and the lights were dim. Finally Friday had arrived. Although he liked the silence of his flat he secretly didn't like weekends very much. They gave him so much time to think.. He made himself a cup of tea and was about to sit down to watch the evening news when his phone started ringing. He thought about ignoring it but checked the caller ID just in case. It was Mrs Hudson. He could not ignore her out of courtesy and because she was probably going to keep insisting.

"Hello?"

"John, is that you?" She sounded hesitant or maybe even frightened. John wasn't sure which one but he knew who would have known.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson. Did something happen?"

"I think somebody tried to break into the flat upstairs. The neighbours called me. I am at my sister's until Wednesday so I can't check. Could you maybe pass by?"

John didn't say anything. He hadn't sat a foot in the flat for months and had intended to keep it that way but he was worried at the same time about the stuff in the flat.

"John?" Mrs Hudson asked on the other side of the line. "I know you haven't returned but I am very worried."

John sighed. He knew he couldn't say no to what she asked, he owed her that much. It was ridiculous to keep on fearing that apartment and he knew it. "Sure, Mrs Hudson, I'll pass by tonight."

She thanked him in a long swell of words but his mind was already occupied by the thought of entering the apartment again. He said his goodbye to her and hung up. Suddenly he couldn't wait any longer to enter the flat. The still hot cup of tea was kept standing on the kitchen table and would stay there for a while.

He hailed at a cab that was driving slowly along the street. Suddenly he had to remember the first case he saw Sherlock solve. The murdering cabbie had been financed by Moriarty. Already thinking that name made John angry. If it hadn't been for him Sherlock would still be here. John tried to shake of the thought and paid the cabbie. Standing in front of the entrance to 221b Baker Street made him realize where he was going. He still had the key in his pockets and slowly he opened the door. Only in the last second he realized that whoever broke in if anybody had broken in at all could still be inside the flat. Carefully he closed the door trying to make as few noises as possible. It was already darkening outside but John did not switch on the lights. He knew his way around the flat perfectly even in the dark. Carefully he began ascending the stairs avoiding those who made the loudest noises. To his surprise he found the door to the flat open.

Slowly he entered the first room and looked around. He couldn't see immediately if anything was missing. Then he stepped around the door and looked to his right. He had the sudden urge to punch someone. Actually he only wanted to punch one single person on this world.

Sherlock was lying on the couch in the same position that he always had when he was thinking. His long legs stretched out straight. His head was leaning against the armrest. His face looked relaxed, his mouth formed the same slight curve it always had when his mind was preoccupied with something and his eyes were closed although John could see them moving under the eyelids. His hands with the long slender fingers were pressed against each other and rested against his chin. It looked like he had never been away and was just waiting for John to come back and make him tea or run some errands for him. The stillness and the peacefulness of this picture just made John want to punch him even more. He contemplated between immediately screaming at him or first being happy that he was alive and surprisingly well before he started shouting.

Sherlock did not move. John wasn't even sure that he had noticed his presence. At least he didn't acknowledge it. But on the other hand he was known for not paying any attention to his surroundings when he was thinking. John took a few steps towards the resting consulting detective and finally got a better look at him. The rest of the light that was shining through the windows gave the man a light illumination but upon closer inspection John noticed the dark shadows under Sherlock's eyes and the even more prominent cheekbones. A look at the rest of the as always impeccably dressed body showed John immediately that his friend had lost weight. He had always made Sherlock at least consume a basic nutrition but alone Sherlock had obviously forgotten how to eat properly.

John wanted to say something brilliant upon seeing the detective to remind him that he was not absolutely useless. But all he could think of was why Sherlock had done it. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his thoughts together. But all that came out was a loud shout. "How the fuck could you have thought that faking your own death was a good idea? What the hell is going on in your brilliant big brain? What were you thinking?" Sherlock did not react. He didn't even show any sign that he was aware of John's presence. If his chest hadn't moved at least a little bit John would have been convinced that it was a mean trick played on him by someone who wanted revenge on them. But Sherlock's breathing was fairly even and calm and John could tell from the respiratory pattern that Sherlock was still inside his own head.

„Okay let me try to assess this in a way that you thick-headed bastard will understand so you get into your head what I have been through. I mourned for you. And you never gave me a sign. Did you really think that I could not keep your secret? That I was that simple that I could not hide what I know? On the first case, the lady with the pink suitcase, you asked what it was like in my head. You believe it to be dumb and dull. Obviously you still think that. But what is the difference between your head and mine?" He rambled at the detective. He didn't really expect an answer. He knew that Sherlock would only talk to him if he wanted and when he was ready.

Finally John could not keep his distance anymore. He took a few steps into the detective's direction, put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "Sherlock! I need to understand you. I need to make my small mind understand what your brilliant one thought. I need to understand what happened and how you made the wonder happen, how you came back from the dead. I have to understand that you are not dead and have never been. Explain yourself to me, once more explain the thoughts that I can only grasp, please." He was pleading now and it was pathetic but he needed to hear Sherlock's deep baritone voice to make this real for him.

Sherlock stayed silent. John waited for what felt like an eternity and finally let go of Sherlock's shoulder. That movement seemed to finally make Sherlock exit his mind. Sherlock reached for John's wrist and kept John from walking out on him. Sherlock's eyes were still closed but they weren't moving anymore under their lids. With a loud noise Sherlock exhaled the air that was in his lungs and said only one word.

"John."

His voice was still the same smooth baritone that John remembered and that had visited him in his dreams over the past months far too many times.

"Sherlock."

"I can't explain it to you. I don't know if you would understand."

John was hurt. Sherlock had never hid that he thought that John was less intelligent and less brilliant than himself but he had never blandly refused to explain something to John.

"It is just," Sherlock started and then interrupted himself. He took another deep breath. "I am not sure I can describe it in a way that can make you understand. My mind works different from yours. It is a complicated structure."

Sherlock went silent again and John sat down on the floor with Sherlock's hand still locked around his wrist.

"There is always something on my mind. I am never just blind and I am never silent inside. Many times there are different voices talking about different things at the same time. I try to keep one from the other but sometimes it simply overwhelms me. I have to retreat into the deep corners of my mind where everything is silent and I can only remember the pleasant things."

John waited patiently for more information. When nothing came he asked: "Is it your mind palace you retreat to?"

Sherlock's lips slid into a small smile for the fraction of a second. "John, my mind does not only fill a palace. There is a whole city inside my head or maybe even a country. I have never travelled from one side to the other it would be too tedious. But yes, that special place is inside my mind kingdom. Every house I have ever been in has its special place, the more important ones closer to the middle and the less important ones on the periphery together with the unimportant people. There is a library with all my research and everything I have ever read that is scientific. There are a few unproven theories and some hidden archives. Next to the library there is a replication of Scotland Yard which has all our case files inside. They are cornered with our houses and surround a square in which middle is my safe place. This is where I go when I need to run and to flee. I have been there a lot lately."

He fell silent again and John asked. "What is that place?"

Sherlock sighed and finally opened his eyes. His head turned to John and his light eyes pierced into John's darker ones. "221B Baker Street."