It's been a year since Sherlock jumped off the rooftop. It's been a year since John Watson had started his endless pain, grief and sorrow. It's been a year since John lost his best friend.
DI Lestrade walked up to John's flat, a couple roads down from Baker street. John hadn't been able to go back there. He couldn't stand being around anything that reminded him of Sherlock, or else he'd enter a state of depression once again. Lestrade had been the only thing keeping John grounded the last year, talking to him, making sure he ate and slept. John was grateful that he still had a friend, but he wasn't Sherlock.
No one could ever replace Sherlock. No one could ever be so smart, deductive, arrogant, sneaky or, surprisingly, the best friend in the whole world. Lestrade had returned to work a month ago, but still kept a watch on John, peeking in once in a while. Lestrade knocked and John answered with a weak whimper from inside, telling Lestrade it was open.
The flat was a disaster. John had anger problems, but it hadn't been so bad last time. John was losing ground again. Lestrade found John curled up in a ball in the corner of the dark welcome room, dimly lit from the flickering telly.
"John? Are you alright?" Lestrade asked gently. John gave a halfhearted grunt. "John, listen, you have to try to move on, you can't spend the rest of your life like this."
"Why not?" John whimpered and buried his face in his hands.
"John, today you're going to come with me to Baker Street. We're going to see Mrs. Hudson. She is very lonely and quite sad that you left without warning or anything."
"I…. I can't…" John cried.
"It's okay to cry, to let it out. You need to talk to Mrs. Hudson and you need to go in your old flat, to say goodbye, to let go." Lestrade coaxed John. John stayed still.
John looked so much older than he had a year ago. Had put on a few pounds and his face was prickly with unshaven stubble. His soft brown eyes were raw from crying and Lestrade noticed a few more wrinkles.
Starting to get agitated, Lestrade raised his voice a little "Oh come on John, move on, grow up, find yourself a partner, live life outside of this lonely rat's den!"
John would've felt offended if he weren't so surprised by Greg sudden outburst.
"I'll be back in 15 minutes, clean up and be ready," Lestrade said gruffly and stalked out of the flat and closed the door behind him. John heard the rumble of the engine growing fainter as the car rolled down the street and out of sight.
John sighed and figured it wouldn't do much to disobey and that, yes, he needed to get a grip on himself, forget about Sherlock, Sherlock is gone and will never come back. A tear rolled down his cheek but he continued to persuade himself to stand up and robotically walk up the stairs to his bedroom. He changed into a fresh shirt, jumper and pants that were actually clean instead of strewn about the flat.
Walking into the bathroom. Shaving. Washing his face, wincing at the slight pain of friction against his sensitive skin around his eyes, still raw from crying. Looking and feeling a bit better, and cleaner, John walked down the stairs and made a cup of tea.
Remembering that Mrs. Hudson always offered tea, and John didn't want to be rude and refuse, so he dumped it down the sink and prepared himself for what he thought might be the second hardest thing since the jump, the first being the funeral and the speech he had to prepare for it. John breathed deeply. No thinking of that. That is the past, the past, I'm moving on now, yet he knew he would never forget the emotional scars and nightmares endured.
Dr. Watson composed himself as he walked to the door, out the door and into Lestrade's waiting car. The two men sat in silence as they drove to Baker Street. Memories of Sherlock and all the cases they (or rather Sherlock, John had stood there fascinated jotting notes) deduced. John internally slapped himself. No. This is to let go.
John trembled as he walked up to the door, accompanied by Greg, and took hold of the knocker. He stood there for a moment, and Lestrade put a comforting hand on Johns shoulder. John inhaled and knocked. One, two, three times.
Mrs. Hudson, a 60 year old landlady looked well for her age. Despite her sunken eyes and the loneliness she had to deal with she looked rather normal. Upon peeking out the door and seeing who it was, she threw open the door and wrapped John in a tight embrace.
"John, oh John why haven't you called, said anything, oh I was so worried, so lonely," She cried into John's shoulder. He felt tears coming but suppressed them, for now. He managed to mumble "I'm sorry," while wrapping his arms around her fragile small body.
"Oh do come in, I'll make you a cuppa."
John smiled to himself and slowly, one step at a time made his way into Mrs. Hudsons kitchen and sat down, Lestrade patiently walking alongside him. Mrs. Hudson set a cup of tea in front of John and sat down herself.
"So, John, what have you been up to?" Mrs. Hudson inquired.
John stifled a "Not much, you" and let Mrs. Hudson take the attention. John listened intentively while trying to block the memories threatening to take him down. The time Sherlock and John had gotten drunk and fell together on the stairs, all the times Sherlock had sat with his steepled hands inquisitively listening to clients while John tried to understand. John flatteringly complimenting Sherlock on his amazing deduction skills, Sherlock grinning at John when he finds a brilliant case. Sherlock's smile, Sherlock only ever really smiled to John and Mrs. Hudson. John's heart wrenched and he felt himself trembling. Mrs. Hudson broke John out of his trance by asking if he'd like to go see upstairs.
"Okay.." John sighed, he knew Lestrade brought him here to do so and John felt that this was the least he could do for the inspector after all Greg had done for him over the past year. John stood up shakily, Greg placed a reassuring hand on Johns back and guided him toward the stairs. Up the stairs. Slowly. One by one. On the top step Greg let go and left John to himself. John needed to be alone and was glad Lestrade understood.
John reached his hand out and turned the handle. Pushing open the door, imagining Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, complaining about crap telly. John smiled sadly. The flat looked the same, dust lining the surfaces, papers strewn across tabletops and Sherlock's, John's and the clients chair still in the same place.
A tear rolled down John's cheek as he ran his hand along the mantle place and splashed onto a blank envelope. What was strange though was the knife protruding through the envelope, sticking upright into the wood. Sherlock always stuck a knife in something frustrating, that he couldn't solve or understand, you get the idea. Odd, John thought. Perhaps he would try and solve the case himself to fulfill what Sherlock had started.
Pocketing the envelope, John walked around the flat, leaving Sherlock's bedroom alone. John had personally never seen the room, the door was shut and John left it that way, giving Sherlock privacy. Walking up the stairs, heart sinking, into his old room. Gathering a few special items- his notepad, a pen his sister Harry had got him, an old newspaper of a fantastic mystery he and Sherlock had solved a while back. Although the newspaper contained the story, memories of the little things on the investigation flooded john's mind. How Sherlock insulted the police, then utterly surprised them with the correct solution before much evidence was given, Sherlock's satisfied grin, the way he jumped happily up and down when he received the case, the soft violin playing at night. Salty tears streamed down Johns face and onto the floor.
John curled up on his bed, back home after saying goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and promising her to call at least once a month. He lay clutching the unopened envelope. Unopened? Why would Sherlock stab an unopened envelope? There was no way he could know who it was from, there was no writing on the front, the envelope was crisp and clean. That was weird.
Starting to get curious, John carefully opened the letter, it was addressed to John. A note?
Dearest John,
I know this will come as a shock to you. I don't know how long it will be before you read this, a year perhaps. I'm sorry I had to leave this way, it was for your own safety, trust me I would never leave you if it didn't mean inflicting harm upon you. John you are the most important person in my life, and I want you to know that you are the bravest, kindest, best friend anyone could ever ask for. No. You're more. John Watson you keep me right.
Every night I'm gone I will think of you.
SH