John hadn't moved in quite some time. He'd been curled up in the chair facing Sherlock's, just staring into space. Mrs. Hudson would walk in and place food near him, which he ate, but she was the only person he would see. He didn't get up to feed himself. He didn't speak. The only thing he did was stare, use the restroom, and eat.
The cameras Mycroft installed the year previous assured him of that. Because of this, Mycroft found himself outside of the flat on Baker Street for lunch.
He went on a Wednesday with a case.
"Thank you for the food, Mycroft," John said, his voice raspy from disuse.
Those were the only words he said. He didn't reach for the case when it was offered to him and only held onto his knee in silence.
He came again the next day.
"Don't you have something better to do?" John asked.
"Not particularly," Mycroft replied, "I have a minor position, the world will carry on if I break for a lunch meeting."
He smiled, John frowned.
"The world doesn't seem to stop spinning for any of us, does it?" John whispered.
He accepted the file then. He sat up in the chair slowly and pulled the Manila folder close to his heart.
"No, it doesn't," Mycroft said.
They finished their food in silence.
John Watson missed Sherlock Holmes. He felt as if that should mean something to someone who wasn't him. He supposed he should be angry, after all anger is the standard feeling when someone leaves you like that. But he felt empty. He was on the phone with Sherlock after all, he should have picked up on it.
But it didn't count for much. Rent was still due when it was due, only now he had to pay both parts. The clock still chimed, he still found body parts in the apartment, and Sherlock was no more. John closed his eyes and curled into himself. He couldn't quite fit into his chair entirely, but he tried. He slept in the chair. It was painful enough, this sitting room. He couldn't deal with anything else. Especially the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, had been bringing him food when she made hers. They still hadn't exhausted the pity casseroles. Neither could muster much of an appetite. Sherlock had been gone for three weeks now. The world moved on.
Mycroft was a change. He'd come the week before, given John a folder full of "get over it already" and left. How Mycroft was so fine, he'd never know. But he looked at the case. The "we pity John Watson" case that nearly anyone could crack. He'd finished the case and now Mycroft was back.
"Have you been sleeping in this chair, then?" Mycroft asked.
"I'm sure you know the answer to that," John said.
Mycroft said nothing.
"It's not even been a month, Mycroft," John said quietly.
"This isn't me telling you to forget him. This is me asking you to remember yourself," Mycroft said.
John squirmed in the chair. It was not the most comfortable thing in the room.
"There's too much history here. You'll be coming to my house, coming back to yourself," Mycroft said.
"You can't order me about. You can't take his place," John said.
Mycroft sighed.
"I know," he said.
He handed John another folder.
"It's an option," Mycroft said.
Then he walked out the door.
