John Watson had never noticed how empty apartment 221B was without Sherlock Holmes. Even when he was doing absolutely nothing, as he frequently did curled up on the couch in his robe, Sherlock's presence somehow managed to fill the apartment. Now it just seemed cold and lonely.
John wanted to move. He wanted so badly to get out of apartment 221B, but Mrs Hudson insisted that he stay. And besides, where else did John have to go?
From his place on the couch, John could see the top of his cane leaning against the far wall. He couldn't remember the last time he had used it. Before meeting Sherlock he was reliant on his cane, it kept him upright, kept him steady. His cane gave him something to lean on and rely on. Over time, John had stopped using that cane. He had come to rely on something else.
Sherlock had once told John that he had no friends, only one. He may have been indifferent to the world, but the world was not indifferent to Sherlock Holmes. Even now, years after his death, John would still read a snippet of the paper to see crime going unpunished and criminals evading capture. If Sherlock were still alive he could have solved these cases in a heartbeat. Occasionally there would still be mention of Sherlock in the media, a quick reference to London's great psychopath. The mention of his name would always make John miserable. Not just because it was a reminder of all that he had lost, but because it seemed like no one else in the world even cared.
To them he was a murderer. A villain. Driven mad by the weight of his crimes, until finally he committed suicide, much to the apparent benefit of all of London.
To John, Sherlock was a memory he clung to for fearing of losing all that he held dear. He clutched at remembered snippets of conversation, the facial expressions he would make, the sombre music of Sherlock's violin. Remembering Sherlock gave John a sad sense of happiness.
He was the greatest man John had ever known.
When you lose someone as close to you as Sherlock was to John, parts of your world stop spinning. Sitting in this room, John was surrounded by things that reminded him of Sherlock. He could picture him at the window, playing his violin thoughtfully. John could imagine Sherlock on the couch huddled up in his coat. It seemed that at any moment Sherlock would come walking through the front door ready to drag John on another murder case that Sherlock so inappropriately enjoyed.
This apartment was the one place in London that Sherlock still existed.
And it was beginning to kill John.
The past few years John had clung to a memory, a fantasy of the Sherlock Holmes he knew. In his mind there was no possible way Sherlock could be dead. He would have survived somehow. But as each day passed, John's hope began to fade. And as one year turned to two, then two turned to three, John had finally lost all hope altogether.
Sherlock was dead.
It didn't matter that John still had his things, or that the smiley face on the wall was never covered. It didn't matter that John cleaned and oiled Sherlock's violin as often as necessary, and kept his coat hanging on the back of the door. Sherlock was never coming back to claim it, and John could not keep holding on to a memory.
John had not used his cane in years, because Sherlock had become his crutch.
But now Sherlock was gone.
John glanced over at the bag he had packed the night before. He had to repack it several times, making sure nothing in the bag belonged to his old friend. John did not want to mourn anymore. He not want to remember. John wanted to forget Sherlock, and leave all traces of him behind in apartment 221B.
John picked up his cane from the other side of the room and twirled it in his hands, absently brushing off the layer of dust that had accumulated due to its lack of use. Walking out the door of the apartment, John fell into step with his cane. He limped down the stairs and out the front door into the busy London streets.
John didn't know where he was going; he just wanted to get away.
But he had one place to visit first.
Sherlock's grave was overgrown with weeds, the headstone dirty and unpolished. John's last set of flowers had wilted and died, and he had not brought any new ones. John stood silently for a few moments, calculating the rate of decomposition. Sherlock's soft tissue would have liquefied by now. His face would be completely unrecognisable. In the coffin buried six feet under the ground, would be a pile of clothes and a body John could not associate with Sherlock. He was not here, he never was.
John's grip on his cane tightened.
The first time he was at Sherlock's grave, John had begged him not to be dead. He had never accepted that Sherlock was in the ground. And even now, now that John knew it really must be true, this site still did not feel like it held any of Sherlock's spirit.
John should have said his goodbyes in apartment 221B, where Sherlock's memory was still alive, not at this place of rotting flesh. But John needed closure. He needed to give himself permission to forget.
"Goodbye Sherlock."
The words were strained, forced. John hadn't realised he was weeping until that moment. He clutched his cane with both hands.
"I miss you Sherlock."
John's sweaty hands slipped on his cane handle and he stumbled slightly.
"I don't understand why you jumped. Why you did want you did. But I know now you're not coming back."
John drew in a long breath, eyes closed to calm himself and stop the tears, his hands still shaking on his cane.
"Well I guess that's all there is to say."
John opened his eyes and coughed quickly. He nodded brusquely at Sherlock's headstone and turned away, limping out of the graveyard.
John never heard the deep baritone voice that whispered through the trees as he turned his back on Sherlock's grave.
"Goodbye, John."