John put the key in the door. He didn't turn it. He didn't push on the door to open it, because that would mean seeing something he could not handle. The flat. His flat. Sherlock's flat. He could still see it in his mind. The wooden table. The couch against the wallpapered wall. The painted smile with bullet holes puncturing the paint. The books laid haphazardly around every item, filling the flats empty spaces. The skull staring with empty eyes that pierce in his soul with a sadness of longing.
Like ghosts, memories came to life as he could almost see a glimpse of black trench coat material and a sliver of curls. Movement seemed to fill the hallway as his memories overwhelmed him in his grief. The first day in the hallway, laughing after a good chase. Bickering over the milk as the walked home from another successful case. Mrs. Hudson stopping them right outside the door to make sure they were taking care of themselves. Sherlock complaining about Anderson as he turned the key. Sherlock forgetting his key. Sherlock's walk. Sherlock's laugh. Sherlock.
Sherlock on the roof.
Sherlock reaching his hands to John.
Sherlock crying.
Sherlock falling.
Sherlock's note.
Sherlock's blood.
Sherlock.
"John?"
He woke out of the personal hell in his mind to find Mrs. Hudson standing behind him, concerned and red-eyed.
"John?" She repeated the question in a quieter voice, like he was a deer that would be startled.
"I can't even open the door." He punched the door with one hand and leaned on the cold wood. "I can't even open the bloody door!"
Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps, dear, you should stay with a friend for a few days."
He started shaking his head. He had to do this.
Mrs. Hudson retreated. She knew this was something he had to do alone.
John took a deep breath and turned the key.
The flat was exactly how he left it. A half empty tea cup still rested on the table. Every inch was full of painful memories that threatened to explode his heart. Every step felt like moving a ton of bricks. He sat in his chair and put his head in his hands. The inside of his eyelids became a screen with the horrifying fall on loop.
"Mr. Watson, package for you," a cheery delivery man yelled at the closed door.
"Leave it at the door," he replied.
John painstakingly pushed himself up and opened the door. A parcel of medium size greeted him. He picked it up and searched for a note, but found none. There was no return address. He pulled the tied string and began to unwrap the item. A bit of orange peaked out from the brown packaging. His heartbeat quickened as his unveiled an orange shock blanket. Identical to the one Sherlock wore. He grasped at the material, digging his fingernails into the hope that it brought. He wrapped it around his shoulders and he searched again for a note, even a single word. He again found none.
Could it be?
Could he not be dead?
If anyone could do it...
Could he?
No.
He couldn't.
Nobody could do it.
He was dead.
He couldn't be alive.
The blanket must have been a gift from the office. Or Mycroft. That would explain the lack of note. It must be Mycroft.
John went back inside and closed the door, leaning on it while holding tightly to the blanket.
He then began to cry.

"Is it done?"
"Yes, sir," Jacob Morseman answered into his mobile. "I dropped it off like you asked."
"Did he ask who it was from?" the deep, sad voice came from the speakers.
"No, sir. I never saw him. Didn't sound like he was open to visitors."
Silence breached the conversation.
"Sir?"
"You'll get your payment tomorrow. Thank you for your service."
"Wait, Sir!"
"Yes?"
"Why don't you tell him who you are?"
Silence.
"Because he thinks I'm dead."
*click*