John sat in the living room. On the chair facing the room and the kitchen. He was paralyzed. A heavy weight tying him down, anchoring his hands onto the armrests, a rope around his torso making it impossible to get up. It was a nightmare. He would have to wake up. Someone, please, wake me up.
Mrs. Hudson had offered to help, had been quite persistent really, but he had declined. He wanted to do this alone. He didn't want anyone around in case he cried, didn't want anyone stopping him if he lingered on something too long. He didn't want this to be another practical task.
But he was unable to move. The boxes waiting for their contents, waiting for him to write their names on them. Watson. Holmes. Watson. Holmes. Separate boxes. He didn't know what Mycroft planned to do with Sherlock's things. He had told him that he could keep anything he wanted.
The one thing he would have needed was the violin, but it was gone. The bow, the case, the instrument. It had been gone already when he finally got back home on that dreadful day. He had turned the place upside down looking for it, Mrs. Hudson trying to calm him down, insisting that no one had been upstairs. He had been in near hysterics, searching everywhere: the plausible places such as the closets and cupboards, then the impossible ones. He had looked under the sofa, the desk drawers, behind the shower curtain. There had to be a nook it was in, some hidden corner he hadn't looked in yet. Finally he had collapsed on the floor, curled into a ball and lain there. He knew he was in shock. He didn't care. Someone had stolen Sherlock's violin before he was even in his grave. He slept on the floor that night.
He had decided to keep the skull. It was the only thing he had packed so far, in a box marked 'Watson'. Sherlock's clothes were piled up on his bed. John had dived into them, buried himself in Sherlock's scent, tried to drown himself in them, inhaling the fabrics until he had had to turn away sneezing. Sherlock, please, don't be dead.
He closed his eyes. He could imagine Sherlock reclining on the sofa. He could be very quiet when he was thinking. If he'd open his eyes, he would be there. He put his hand over his eyes, forced them to stay shut. Sherlock would be there, he was there. He was just on a case.
Like that, hand covering his eyes, John was finally able to stand up. He moved the hand to the side of his face, so that it hid the view over to the sofa, opened his eyes and went to the kitchen. He put the kettle on, made himself a cup of tea. He glanced at the fridge. Hesitated, before going over and opening it. The foot was still there. It was becoming discoloured, a sort of greenish purple. He closed the door.
He went upstairs through the kitchen door, avoiding the living room. His possessions were swiftly packed. One and a half boxes. He travelled light. He sat on the bed. He put his feet up and lay down. Stared at the ceiling. No, it didn't feel right. He clampered downstairs. Through the kitchen to Sherlock's bedroom, where he lay down on his bed, pushing the clothes away from under him. Better. Much better. He closed his eyes.
Maybe Sherlock was right next to him. If he would stretch out his hand, he could feel him. He wouldn't disturb him now. He'd just enjoy knowing Sherlock was there, knowing he could touch him, if he wanted to.
Someone was coming upstairs. There was a knock. John didn't move, didn't open his eyes. The footsteps approached, looked around the flat. A quiet tap on the bedroom door. He still didn't move. The door was opened. A polite cough meant to arouse him.
"Hello John."
John didn't open his eyes, squeezed them tight more firmly.
"What do you want, Mycroft?"
"I came over to see how the packing is progressing."
"And? What do you think?"
Pause.
"Anything I can do to help? Perhaps hire a removals company?"
"No."
Mycroft shuffled his feet uncertainly.
"Don't mean to be rude, but if that's all, could you please leave, I'm busy."
Pause.
"Is there anyone I can call? Anyone you'd like to help with… the task?"
"No. Thank you."
After a few more hesitant steps Mycroft turned around and walked away.
John relaxed. If he'd move his hand just a few inches, he could hold Sherlock's hand in his. Sherlock would squeeze it, like he used to, in that reassuring way that meant that everything was alright, that holding hands was all he could give now, his mind occupied with something else, but maybe later they'd watch telly, have dinner, or make love. John would just have to be patient. He opened his eyes.
As soon as Mycroft was outside, his phone rang.
"Yes?" -
"He's coping. A bit dispirited, but he'll come through." -
"Hmph, why ask me then?" -
"Fine, fine. He is lying on your bed, eyes closed, not sleeping, dreaming of you. He has been sniffing your clothes, looking for the violin again, and put the skull in a box. He has packed his own things." -
"Yes, the foot is still there." -
"Of course it's started to smell. He doesn't seem to mind." -
"Heavens – who do you think I am? No, I didn't try to comfort him!" -
"No, I'm not going to go back to pat your lover! You should contact Florence Nightingale." -
"Aren't you snappy. But I do agree, he could use some help." -
"Him? Well, if you think that's best." -
"No, I can't think of anyone. The sister's drinking again." -
"No! I won't ask him to –" -
"No, it's not –! Alright, alright, but – " -
"Very well. I'll make sure he will." -
"Yes, I will call him right away."
John had dozed off, but even in his sleep he had been careful not to move. As he awoke it was starting to get dark. The outlines of furniture hanging in heavy shadows on the ceiling. He closed his eyes. Sherlock. He was just working, mind busy with a puzzle. Maybe soon he would turn to John and he'd see the blue eyes looking at him. The pensive face suddenly brightening up into a smile seeing his face. The hand cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss. Maybe soon, any minute now, Sherlock would say "Dinner?"
This time the steps were more confident, coming straight for the bedroom. A quick, bold knock, not waiting for an answer. Only after the door had opened, there was the hesitation. The "what am I doing here". The steps approached the bed. Pulled a chair and sat next to him.
"How are you holding up?"
"Marvellous. It's been wonderful. Another beautiful day in a beautiful world."
"Right."
Pause.
"Look… we're all sorry. We'd like to help. If there's anything…"
"All? How nice. Who's that then? Anderson? Donovan? They must be devastated, I'm sure. I've been getting a lot of similar condolences by reading the papers. Everyone is so sorry. Oh, no, I forgot, they're not sorry, they're having a good laugh."
He almost opened his eyes. Then he did. The mood was ruined for now. But he didn't move, kept his eyes on the ceiling. It was dark now. Only the lights from outside stretching in.
"I know this is difficult for you, but if…"
"Come on, Greg, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not in a mood for chit-chat. Just say what you came to say and leave, ok?"
"Okay. I came to see if there's anything I can do to help."
"Yes, there is, as a matter of fact. If you could just nip down to the cemetery and raise Sherlock from the dead, that'd be a big help."
Pause.
"No? Thanks for stopping by."
John turned to his side, his back to Lestrade, and pulled one of Sherlock's shirts over his face.
Lestrade stood up, hovered hesitantly a minute, and then placed his hand on the back of John's shoulder and patted him. As the door closed behind him, John burst into tears, pulling Sherlock's clothes closer, hugging them. Sherlock, come back, I need you.
He dried his face onto the shirt. Turned to lie on his back again. Closed his eyes. If he'd just reach out with his hand.
Mrs. Hudson had peeped in at half six. John had been sleeping, one hand as if reaching for Sherlock on the other side. She'd looked in again at ten. John had been awake now, but still on the bed, just lying there. Answering politely that he was fine, thank you, when Mrs. Hudson had inquired how he was.
It was already noon.
"I'm so sorry to disturb you, dear, but I really must let the new tenants move in soon. Are you sure you don't want to stay? You'd take these rooms and we'd find you someone nice for upstairs. Someone quiet?"
They had been over this. John wanted to stay, but knew he couldn't. He would just stay here, lying on this bed. He had to leave, even though he didn't want to. He had to move on. Even though he knew he wouldn't. This was his life now. There was nothing in it. Nothing but his own breath, his own heartbeat, useless weight he would drag around with him, waiting for a miracle.
He had the bedsit ready for him. He had promised to clear out their rooms in 221B. He couldn't do it.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll start packing in a minute. Promise."
A few hours later he heard them. They tried to move as quietly as they could, talking in low voices as they showed items to each other and asked "what about this then?", Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft indicating the box it should go to.
John wanted to get up to stop them, to shout at them to put everything back. But he kept his eyes closed, didn't move. He wouldn't reach out yet, he didn't want to disturb Sherlock. He could, if he wanted to. Sherlock wouldn't mind. He would squeeze his hand.
Mrs. Hudson brought in a tray with tea and biscuits. He didn't open his eyes. He could hear the others sitting down, taking a break, talking about the weather, last night's TV. Trying to get Mycroft to discuss the latest political scandal. Their voices relaxed, normal. He would never be normal again. He didn't even want to. At least he had once had something none of them would ever have. Someone no one could ever have anymore.
His eyes welled up with tears. He was tired of crying. It didn't help at all. It was boring. He wasn't the crying type. Besides it was uncomfortable to cry lying on your back, the tears trickling down to your ears. He pulled Sherlock's shirt over his face. It smelled more of him than Sherlock. He pulled out another from deeper in the pile. He pressed it against his face, howled in to it, muffling the sound with his hands and the fabric. Not that he cared whether they heard.
They'd heard. The chatter stopped. They'd remembered they were in a mortuary. The packing resumed. He closed his eyes.
They were done with the living room and kitchen. John heard them on the other side of the door trying to decide, which of them would go in.
Finally the door handle turned slowly. The door opened and was quietly closed again. She sat on the bed, next to John, stroked his arm gently.
"John, honey. We will need to come in here next."
Gin. But maybe just the one in the morning to steady the nerves. She probably didn't have a hip flask with her. But then you could never be sure, could you. Personally, John would've preferred Mrs. Hudson. Maybe she felt she'd already tried.
"Fine." He opened his eyes and sat up.
"Is there anything particular here you'll want?"
"No."
Pause.
"Yes. The… the dressing gown and these shirts." He took two shirts from the pile. Unlaundered ones. Gripping them he walked to the door. Didn't look back, didn't look around. The living room was bare. He had never seen it empty. He had never seen it without Sherlock. He sat on the chair. The boxes were neatly piled up next to the door. He stared at the sofa. He didn't need to close his eyes. Sherlock was there. Thinking. He had to be.
Harry placed the dressing gown on top of a box marked 'Watson' and closed it. Mrs. Hudson helped her with Sherlock's clothes, Mycroft and Lestrade dithering about.
"Mycroft? Will all of these clothes go to charity?" Harry's voice was strained, she couldn't pretend John wouldn't hear.
"Yes, yes," Mycroft confirmed nervously.
All of them tip-toeing around him, afraid he'd break down. He could've told them it wasn't necessary, he was already broken. But he didn't feel like speaking.
When Mycroft's phone rang he went all the way down to Mrs. Hudson's rooms to take it.
"What is it now?" -
"No, he is not any better." -
"I know, I know. I'm… I'm… well, this emotional distress is most unfortunate. For both of you. I sincerely wish it could have been avoided." -
"Nothing I can do." -
"I did make sure. He did." -
"Started to cry, apparently." -
"Now, man, use your head for Pete's sake. You do not want him too thoroughly comforted, do you?" -
"I'm –. " -
"I'm not –." -
"I am not insinuating anything! I'm simply stating that no amount of friendly pats is going to make him feel better." -
"That's right." -
"No, I can't bring you your purple shirt." -
"Firstly, why would I want to have it? Secondly I couldn't get it off John's grasp even if I wanted to. He is holding on for dear life to that and another one." -
"Surely you're not serious?" -
"Because it would be totally uncharacteristic! I would never presume to say something like that." -
"No need to remind me. I know I'm to blame for – ." -
"I am not discussing this. I will not say that to him. Anything else?" -
"Good bye."
He went back up. John continued to stare at the sofa.
"Mycroft?"
He was startled.
"Yes, John?"
"What will you do with Sherlock's things?"
"I'll store them for now. Have them gone through at a later date."
"Could I… Can I visit the storage room sometimes?"
"I don't think that would be… healthy. Besides they'll be tightly packed, there will be nothing to see but boxes."
John hadn't moved his gaze from the sofa.
"Now, look here, John. My brother, he," Mycroft cringed, "he loved you very much. I'm sure he would be very sorry to see you so… forlorn. Very sorry, indeed."
What an odd thing to say. John looked at Mycroft. The Holmes' were hopeless at expressing sentiment. He nodded.
"Time to go then, John."
Lestrade had borrowed a minivan from the Yard and packed John's things in it. A removals company would come later for Sherlock's boxes. John got up. The sofa was empty. He went in to the bedroom. The bed was empty. Covers and sheets had been stripped. Only the mattress on it. He placed his palm on it, pressed lightly. He walked to the door, the stairs down. He opened the front door. He wanted to close his eyes. He went over to the car, sat in, buckled up. His knuckles were white from clutching the shirts. Time to go.
"Will you be alright?"
"Yeah."
"I can stay, you know."
"No. Thanks for the offer. I'll be alright."
"Fine. Well, then. Take care."
Lestrade closed the door behind him.
John put the shirts he'd been gripping on the bed. They were wrinkled. Sherlock wouldn't like that. Then he opened the box from the living room. It had mostly Sherlock's things in it. Things they thought he wanted. He took out the dressing gown and the skull and put the box in the closet. He placed the skull on the table and undressed himself, neatly folding the clothes on a chair. When he was completely naked he pulled the dressing gown tightly around himself and sat down. He was alone.