Prompt: photo
He's gone.
John sighs, looking older than he'd ever been, and limps into the flat he used to share. Everything was just as they'd left it. The doctor couldn't bring himself to move anything. He couldn't believe that the greatest mind – no, the greatest man – he'd had the good fortune to meet was…
Cold. The tea he'd made just before his appointment had gone cold. He must've picked that up from Sherlock without realizing it, since the great detective was usually the one who needed someone to tidy up after him. With Sherlock it was just too boring, with John… He just can't seem to get himself to care.
But he had orders. Doctor's orders, as a matter of fact. It had been so long since he'd had those.
His orders are to say goodbye.
His therapist had gotten him to finally say it aloud weeks ago, to acknowledge Sherlock hadn't pulled another great trick, that he wasn't coming back. But it took about a month of sessions before John finally relented that he couldn't just keep the house as it was. Obviously he knew that: the fingers in the fridge had started to rot and he was frankly a bit scared to open it. But he could start with a box.
He'd talked through it at length, trying to figure out the best way to get it over with quickly. He'd finally settled on Sherlock's room. The man was so secretive, that one space so personal, the one hope he might someday… No. The rest of the house shouldn't seem so bad with that gone.
So armed with a shoebox, he goes to the door, shut like always. For the first time since running with Sherlock, he hesitates. He'd never been in there, not without being specifically told to come in by Sherlock… But there's no one to ask permission of anymore. So he takes a breath and steps inside.
It's exceedingly neat, just like the last time he was here. The man didn't need much – most of his mess was in the main body of the house – and the minimalistic room was the very essence of Sherlock. But even the very few choices he has of things to look through has John stuck. He would rather leave it all untouched, but…
He has his orders.
So he starts in the most logical place, the small set of drawers by the door. In the first one he finds a very well organized sock and underwear index. Clothing isn't so bad, but the fact he's looking through it still feels like an invasion of privacy. Especially once he notices a bit of paper underneath the nicer of his socks.
He hesitates again. What could Sherlock possibly have put into his sock drawer besides, well… Socks? The man was so organized… His hand reaches forward of its own accord, curiosity taking over, and pulls out the one thing that could make his world come crashing down all over again:
A photo of himself.
John feels his throat close up on him, eyes stinging as he realizes that one of the greatest minds in the world, his best friend, and the man he called a machine on their last encounter… Has a photo of him in his sock drawer. Not Mrs. Hudson, not a family photo, not even the woman from a few cases back. But him, Doctor John Watson, is placed somewhere that Sherlock would have seen him every day.
He doesn't know how long he spent crying after that, but, to this day, 221B Baker Street is exactly as his flat mate left it. It's the first time he's blatantly defied his orders, but… John just couldn't. Sherlock was still alive, even if only in his heart.