It was quiet. The streetlamps casting the golden play of light across the sheer curtains visible because they never closed the heavy winter ones; not even in winter. If he did it now, to close out the world, Sherlock would have called him sentimental.
It was bad enough that someone had come and covered the mirrors in the public spaces.
Nothing else had been moved. Dust, in its eloquent display of non-inertia, lightly covered as the first hazy snow covered the ground before melting. Their mugs still on the table by the mock-lab setup in their kitchen and his still by the paper and his cheaters on the small circular table beside him, he thought momentarily about cleaning them away.
He wouldn't be needing to make two anymore.
Sighing, he covered his face with his hands and rubbed hard exasperated at the fact there was no absolution to the current state of his heart. No finite summation at the end of this longest of nights. No honor guard watching over the wonderful hero he would be burying tomorrow.
It had already begun.
The flowers, gods the flowers. Never ending. The food, the scarves and hats. A few nicotine patch boxes. Cards, stories, anonymous thank you's and love being sent through the universe to converge on the singularity that was John Hamish Watson, M.D. blogger and only friend to one mighty brave soul that was laying in rest, a Mr. Sherlock Magnus Holmes.
If he could have spent the night with his corpse, watching over him, he would have. Had him right here, in the parlor. Sherlock would have loved that, to come home one more time. His sanctuary from the world, where he could bare his soul through composing, sing in the shower, walk around naked under his sheet because he felt depression closing in and the frivolity gave him minute lightness of being.
John used to allow him the small comfort of holding him, tousling his hair.
He was the only one.
Sherlock made sure to ruin the doctor for all others. How could he ever love someone as passionately as he had loved his best friend. They lived, truly lived together. Ate, argued, been bone weary and catty. Slept for comfort when one had nightmares and could, didn't want to fight them alone anymore. Washed the other when the other was injured, or in his closest of mate, when he was too lost to the depths to care about himself.
He was a healer.
He loved healing, he loved caring, he could give a hang about the press or how others outside of them could not understand the meaning of unconditional. Could not understand how the love they shared was unique because they loved the soul, not the flesh. He knew Sherlock. Sherlock knew him, which was terrifying and exhilarating.
The very first night. Less than five minutes.
That was all that was needed, his heart had turned traitor at that very moment. He did not see it until days, months, almost the first year had passed really. Then, he had known. The night that changed everything for the both of them. They had known, accepted and moved forward. John had stopped dating. Sherlock started showing his internal machinations. It was new, timorous, fragile.
Gods, why hadn't he spoke the words.
He had wonderful warm memories with him. Love, light, laughter only the two of them shared. The few times it had caught Mycroft by surprise when Sherlock gently teased and joked off-handedly with his older brother. Those times were some that he knew, going forward, that he would hold the closest. They proved that they were slowly becoming better together. Taking chances again, even if it was only within the confines of Baker Street.
Maybe one day they would have.
The promise had just begun to really slowly unravel. It might have been another year, two, never, but he knew to his marrow that they were all each other would ever need in this lifetime. Now, he would have to move forward alone. He could do it. Clothe himself in the robes of mourning that would slowly melt to show the armor that would take its place. That was already there, had been since he began to defend the frail genius he lived and breathed with. Hammered with passion for truth, polished with the praise his closest dearest friend, his brother, his charge.
It would shine in his honor.
He would be picking up their business. He would never be as astute, but he had learned so very much. He knew he could carry on Sherlock's work. Be on the side of the angel's; carry out his selfless work with his homeless and the Irregulars. The massive undertaking of saving those in need that society had no earthly idea existed. He was an archangel that had been on loan to mortals. He was so thankful to have known him.
Tonight, he would lie in their bed. Quiet and alone. No nightmares.
Tomorrow he would bury his hopes and dreams, take up a dead man's cause and love every single second until his heart stopped. It was the very least he could do in memory of the greatest man he had ever known.