John's stopped seeing Sherlock.

Finally.

To be more precise, it's been exactly 7 months, 3 weeks, 1 day, 15 hours, 9 minutes and 4 - no, wait - 5 seconds since John's even caught a glimpse of the Belstaff. Well, not the one tucked away in Johns closet anyway. He'd been given it, along with Sherlocks scarf, after the incident with no questions asked. The blood had been washed from both, but Sherlocks ever present smell still lingered in the fibres and it was something that made Johns heart squeeze everytime he'd moved to pick them up to hold them close at night.

It had taken a long while before John had been able to let go and stand on solid ground again. The coat had been a difficult departure (hiding it away behind a bunch of tacky christmas gifts seemed the best place to stow it where sympathetic glances wouldn't find their way in) but he hadn't said the same for the scarf. As well as using it as a comfort item at night all these months, he'd gradually begun to wear it around his neck everywhere he went, tied the same way Sherlock had tied it round his own. When he had entered Scotland Yard to ask about a case, John wearing the scarf for the first time, Lestrade had done a double take, they'd met eyes, but otherwise, not a word was said on it and Greg had simply shaken his head no. In the beginning, it had been something John had latched on to, but now he found himself automatically winding the fabric round his neck, tucking the end in the loop in one swift move in front of the mirror every morning - whether it was to head down to the shops or a quick walk in the park to clear his head, he was never seen without it.

He wears it now as he sits in his armchair, a plate that holds the remnants of a piece of lemon cake at his side as he types up an email to his sister. She hadn't waited a moment longer after the incident to reach out to her brother, telling him that whatever he needed, she's a call away. John had been tempted to call her bluff (she had done things like these in the past) but forced himself to squash those feelings down and gratefully accept her words - he guessed Harry knew just how vital Sherlock had been to Johns life from his blog; though Harry hadn't always been one to keep her promises, he knew she cared a great deal for him - he needed someone in his life who wasn't his landlady or therapist. And at least she was there. Unlike their rotten father…

John lets out a shaky breath. No. That's the last thing he wants to have weigh on his mind. He finishes up the email, a reply to Harrys weekly checkup on how he's doing, before closing his laptop with a quiet 'thunk' and placing it on the floor beside him. The quiet that surrounds him is slowly broken by Mrs Hudson walking about below in her own flat...baking something, John recognises, when his ears pick up the hum of the oven and the latches of jars being opened. He begins to smile to himself when he hears a song filter through the radio she keeps on her kitchen bench and he leans back to bask in the comfort of it all. Mrs Hudson is a saint, if anything.

John closes his eyes for a moment. The oven door's opened with a sharp squeak before it's slammed closed, and the radio is clicked off. A timer's set, a pair of feet retreat from the kitchen, and once again, the flat is engulfed in silence. In the previous months, it would have bothered John. Would have had him restless and soon bolting to the door for some much needed air. The quiet always consumed him fast, made him feel as if he were choking or drowning and couldn't breathe unless he were far away from this place as soon as possible. But now...now that's gone, and he can go about the various rooms and not have his chest tighten when he feels himself listening out for Sherlock tapping away at his PDA. It's strange. He never thought he would be able to make it here. Wherever here is, exactly, he isn't entirely sure. He isn't 100% okay - he never would be - but he is moving forward. Gradually, taking it day by day, slowly leaving Sherlock in the past but also keeping him deeply rooted in his heart as he always would be. He absentmindedly reaches up to thread his fingers in the scarfs fabric as he thinks on this and the movement makes him sigh heavily. He sinks further into his chair and pushes all those thoughts away, his hands trailing from the scarf to his lap, where he has them stay folded for the time being.

He doesn't know when he fell asleep.

His hands are still threaded together but his head's bent at an angle that has a muscle in his neck twinge. John winces as he raises a hand to rub at his neck, blinking slowly awake as the world begins to shift back into focus; he looks up in time to catch a figure, their back to him, quietly descending the stairs with their hand on the rail. He frowns and tilts his head, starting when the movement causes him to yell out and the figure turns in an instant. Even at this distance, he can see spots of flour on her dress.

Ah. Mrs. Hudson. Of course.

That's when the strong, yet comforting, smell of honey and cinnamon draws his attention away and he averts his gaze to the small table beside him, where a large plate sits with steam rising off of 12 golden scones. Tiny pottles of jam and cream with their own tiny spoons have been placed beside it and John cracks a small smile at the sight.

His appetite had been incredibly non existent in the months following Sherlocks death, so much so that he hadn't even had the strength to crawl to the cupboard for a box of stale crackers. It was only when Mrs Hudson discovered him wrapped up in Sherlocks bed, tangled in his sheets wearing 3 day old pyjamas and clutching to Sherlocks coat that she took it upon herself to cook his every meal until he could stand on his own feet again, no questions. And John didn't have the energy to protest against it. The pains in his stomach had gotten too much to ignore and he almost leaped up from the bed when Mrs Hudson walked in bearing a large bowl of chicken soup and a bread roll.

He'd weaned himself from the bed in the 5th week of the first month and had started to cook his own food in the middle of the second - though still grieving heavily, he had partly lied to Mrs Hudson about not being able to do it just yet, only because he wanted her to make more of those peanut butter shortbread cookies - but she'd seen through it and with a knowing smile, and a promise to make an endless supply, she'd gone back downstairs and John had laughed as he stirred the sauce for tonights spaghetti and meatballs.

Though it has been awhile since Mrs H found John in such a state, and John has adamantly proved himself to be in a capable enough way to look after himself, she still worries for his wellbeing. And though John does shake her off with a wave of a hand and a firm reassurance that he's alright, he doesn't miss the way her eyes stray over his face, taking in the growing bags under his eyes and the wrinkles becoming more tight on his forehead, but neither say a word as she nods and simply leaves him to it. One time, when John had turned back to sprinkle sugar on his bowl of porridge, he'd heard her footsteps behind him and had turned, in time to have her arms wrap him in a tight, motherly hug, then like that she'd left for the stairs without a word. It had spun John so much that he stood there a moment, feeling her warmth dissipate from his body, and wondered what had suddenly brought that on. Then, when John was settling in for an evening filled with soap operas, his porridge balanced on his knees, it instantly dawned on him that maybe...maybe this is how she had been when he had gotten married and had moved out of 221.

When he had left Sherlock in the apartment. On his own. Unstable and jacked up on drugs to ease the pain. His violin lying untouched for months on his chair…

Johns eyes fly open.

When had he closed them?

A sudden lump sits in his throat and he swallows to push it down, already feeling the hot tears prick his eyelids. Funny. He hasn't cried over him in weeks.

Mrs. Hudson's watching him closely at the doorway, and John realises that neither of them have said a word. Or maybe she has and she's waiting for an answer. He isn't sure. He's just come back from another memory of Sherlock, which does take a moment to recover from.

John clears his throat, and this prompts her to walk forward into the room, a warm smile gracing her features. She's still wearing her apron, She has her hands clasped as she nods to the scones, "Thought you could do with a pick-me-up, John. I know they're one of your favourites."

John too smiles and sits up, ignoring the crick in his neck to lean forward and lift the spoon settled in the cream pot. He chooses the biggest scone, gingerly opens it and begins dolloping the cream on, along with a thick layer of jam. When he settles back, he's surprised to find Mrs. Hudson hasn't moved and is staring at Sherlocks violin case which sits besides a pile of sheet music. He runs his fingers over his neck as he chews on his scone, letting a small smile pull at his lips. Sherlock had wanted, had tried one evening, to teach John how to read sheet music, but John had never been all that interested and had dismissed him, going back to his book while Sherlock continued playing his violin at the window. He'd worn his blue dressing gown and those grey sweats, and to any passerby he'd look like he'd just woken up, but to John he looked almost ethereal, with the suns rays bouncing off his messy curls and his pale blue eyes cutting slowly to John when he realised he'd been staring too long...

Johns stomach curdles.

Stop it.

He bites his scone again, a bit too much this time, and he's suddenly leaning forward, having a coughing fit with his mind trying to still itself of...him. Mrs. Hudson's ripped from her own reverie to aid to John and John closes his eyes for the third time when he feels his face darken in embarrassment. 45 seconds later, Johns fit has ceased and the cream and jam have been cleaned from the carpet - Johns ears go pink at that - and Mrs. Hudson emerges from the kitchen with a damp dish towel in hand. She doesn't look mad. Almost sorrowful. Isn't that how she's always looked? Since Sherlock...did what he had?

He feels a tickle in his throat and coughs to rid it, "Sorry about that, Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what happened, exactly…" His voice trails off. He doesn't know why he needs to apologise.

Mrs H waves the towel and chuckles a little, "It's alright, John. Accidents happen."

He nods, his hands tangled on his lap as he eyes the plate of now lukewarm scones beside him, his own piece, a pile of crumbs, discarded somewhere amongst the lot. His ears turn pink again when he sees the spots of jam around it.

Mrs H smiles kindly, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes," John replies, almost embarrassingly too quickly, and takes a breath to calm himself, "Thank you."

He watches her leave, the silence momentarily broken with the kettle boiling and he feels that warmth come back into his body when he hears Mrs. Hudson rummaging around for a packet of biscuits. She returns with two cups in two saucers, both accompanied by 3 biscuits each, and hands one to John before carefully seating herself across from him.

In Sherlocks chair.

Usually Johns face would pale. Usually his words would stick in his throat and he would struggle to hold Mrs. Hudsons gaze for even a second. She would have been sent out the room by now, simply from a shift in atmosphere or a glimpse at Johns face. And she wouldn't have fought nail and tooth to stay put, already knowing, already understanding with just a look. Seeing someone else - someone who wasn't Sherlock, but, and this hurt the most, an incredibly vivid reminder of Sherlock - in his own chair cut into John as if it were another bullet wound from the war.

Presently, he takes a sip from his cup, seeing Mrs. H do the same from the corner of his eye, and they share a smile but otherwise a peaceful quiet stretches between them. John takes a biscuit and lowers it into his tea, just as Mrs. H speaks up.

She holds her cup with two fingers, the saucer placed on the side table. Her gaze doesn't fully meet his, and he finishes his bite as she asks, "How're you feeling, John?"

John fights the urge to frown. Had she been reading his mind?
He drops the biscuit and cup on to the saucer and places it on his side table, beside the scones, "Fine. I mean, I'm doing better than...well, than before." He forces a smile which she returns, but it doesn't find it's way to her eyes and as if on cue, the pain in his neck seems to triple. He can't - couldn't - deduce as well as Sherlock, but it doesn't take the brightest mind to tell that something's very off. This feels so oddly like his therapy sessions, which he doesn't take as often as he should. She's not helping all that much. Maybe he should get a new one…

"John?"

"Mm?" His hands fall to his lap and he nods. He's been listening..right? He should stop that.

Mrs. H blinks, opens her mouth to say something, closes it, then puts the cup on the saucer with a "chink" and opens her mouth again. She isn't smiling, "Listen, John, there's something I want to discuss with you."

He doesn't like the word discuss. Not used in that particular tone. Nonetheless, he nods for her to continue, and from the way she clasps her hands on her knees and sits forward, he has an inkling that it's not going to be the best discussion under this roof.

"Please don't think badly of me when I say this. Really, I've loved you being here…" She hesitates and Johns finds himself leaning forward, "Don't you think it's time you moved on, John? From…" She gestures around the room, but doesn't continue, and if John looks closely, he can about see how much this pains Mrs. Hudson to talk on. Anything involving Sherlock is a difficult subject, especially with recent events.

John stares at her. What...what is she talking about? He chokes out a disbelieved laugh, "Um..I...what...what'd you…move on?"

Mrs. Hudson nods. Hands together again, "I believe you when you say you're getting better. I know, I've seen it."

He scoffs but otherwise remains quiet. He wants to hear this.

Her expression softens and she reaches out to him. Her voice is firm. "But John, listen to me. You spending most of your time here when you're not at work or out shopping...it just isn't good for you. You're surrounded by Sherlock in this flat."

He wants to laugh. She can't be serious, can she? Not once has she brought this up to him, and he knows how much she must have prepared to have this talk with him, pacing in her flat downstairs, guessing Johns responses. This had no doubt been a difficult topic to work around in her head and getting it out must have taken some emotional strength.

So he decides to go with it. No outbursts. No refusing to hear her out. He pushes it all down and gives her his full attention, though his fingers begin picking idly at a loose thread on his right arm rest, "So...what you're saying is...you want me...to move out?" He says it slowly, like he hasn't quite heard her correctly, and while he definitely has, he really feels like a part of his brain hasn't quite latched on to her words.

Her expression tightens, "I..think it would be best, yes."

He purses his lips. This feels a little like speaking to Mycroft - delivered the most plainest information, that's been said in the most riddled way possible, then slapped hard across the face to let it sink in. The slap hasn't gotten there yet, but he can feel it coming.

He can't find anything to say to this.

Mrs. Hudson leans back into the chair and smiles gently, and it's so unexpected that Johns mind whirls, "I'm not kicking you out, John." She laughs to herself and to John, it's the same sensation as being stabbed in the heart, "No, of course you're welcome to stay as long as you want." She pauses, "I just think that it would be better if you found somewhere that doesn't have Sherlock written all over it."

What the hell does that mean?

Push it down.

Johns entire body is tense. He lets his body relax when he sees Mrs. H go back to her tea, but when she takes a sip, her face twists and he knows his has gone cold too. The scones have turned to rocks and the biscuits have no doubt run stale in the warm air - those facts he can focus on. But this? Mrs. Hudson suggesting he leave Baker Street?

Ah.

It's processed.

And there's the slap.

John waits for Mrs. H to put her cup back on her saucer before standing briskly from his chair. He can feel the anger burning in his stomach and he suddenly needs out of here before he fires it on to his poor landlady. Before she can utter a word, John walks to the door. He only gets a few steps when Mrs. Hudson speaks,

"John? You alright?"

He stops in his tracks, shakes his head, then turns to give her a hard look, with his lips pulled into a wry smile. His entire body's fighting with such an intense emotion and he feels as if he might burst any minute if he doesn't leave. He puts his hand to his head, then flings it away to spit out, "I'm going to Sherlocks grave."

Mrs. Hudsons face seems to lose a little of its colour. He'd stopped visiting after the 4th month, and had only gone when things had gotten really bad. Or as Sherlock would put it - when he felt a danger night looming.

"I don't know when I'll be back, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow afternoon." He sighs, hand going to his head again to push at the frown lines. His voice lowers a notch; though upset, he can squash it for just a moment. "And- and I don't know if I'll even come back here. Maybe I'll stay at Harrys for awhile."

Mrs. Hudson moves to stand, but John's already heading out with nothing but the shirt on his back.

When the door slams shut, Mrs. Hudson gets up from the chair and gathers hers and Johns cups and saucers, along with his crumbed plate from earlier and the batch of scones. She covers the scones in plastic wrap, to put in her own fridge, then disposes of the biscuits in the rubbish and places the plate, cups and saucer in the sink. But as she's holding a saucer, her hand bumps against the tap and it slips from her grasp, tumbling to the floor.

She doesn't reach down to catch it. Why should she? It's just a saucer.