JOHN.
John isn't even dressed when they knock on his door. John doesn't get dressed at all, these days. He just stalks around the tiny one room flat in his boxers and small dressing gown.
He misses 22B1. He misses the mess and the junk. He misses finding fingers in the microwave and eyeballs in the fridge.
He couldn't stay, he was kicked out. John couldn't afford the rent, so he returned to the tiny place.
There's a sharp knock on the door and John walks slowly across the room to open it.
He's not in the mood for visitors. He's not in the mood for anything, really.
He yanks open the door, angrily, and mutters a swear word to himself.
"Are you John Watson?" A cheery looking woman asks. She might be beautiful but John can barely see anything from his constantly red eyes.
"Unfortunately." He grumbles.
"Can we come in?" She asks.
We? Johns eyes make out a fuzzy shape of a second person.
Male. 6ft1. Heterosexual. 53 years old. John just knows.
"Sure, whatever." John mumbles walking away from the door to let them in.
The two people sit at the dining table chairs, while John slouches on the bed. They look and mean business in pristine suits. The man places his briefcase on the table and loudly clicks it open, much to the annoyance of Johns fragile ears.
"Sherlock Holmes left a will." He says. Johns breathing stops and his eyes tear up.
"He's left practically everything to you." The woman continues.
This doesn't please John like it should. A bunch of objects mean nothing, nothing compared to a human life. If Sherlock was even human. He was so... so alien to emotions. A machine. But, he was Johns best friend and nothing could ever amount to that.
The workers take it in turn to rustle through the paper work, making John sign a few places. The woman opens up her briefcase and takes out a blue scarf and a letter.
"Sherlock asked for these to be delivered straight away. The rest of the stuff will be delivered with in a week. The money will be automatically transferred to your bank account." She explains, handing the things to John.
"Money?" He asks. He hadn't really listened to their blabbering.
"Yes, Sherlock left all his money to you. You're lucky that you had such a rich boyfriend." She smiles.
"He's not my- You think any amount of money could make up for the big hole in my life that was Sherlock?" John snarls, his fingers gripping the scarf violently.
"My apologies, Mr Watson." She says but she doesn't look sincere.
They close up and leave before John really registers what has happened. He's still slouched on the bed clutching the blue scarf, the envelop laying next to him on the bed.
He brings the blue fabric to his nose. It smells like him. If John closes his eyes it's like Sherlocks here. With him. Without hesitation, John wraps the scarf around his neck and snuggles into it slightly.
His now opened eyes dart to the envelope. He doesn't want to open it. He can't bare to read what ever last words Sherlock wanted him to have. But he's curious. He needs to have something of Sherlock. Something he only knows. Whatever is in the letter.
He rips it open. He tries to be normal, peeling the flap up. But suddenly he's angry. Angry at Sherlock. He rips it with all his might, which isn't very much since Sherlock died. He pulls the paper out.
John,
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I left you.
I'm sorry I lied about who I was.
I'm sorry I dragged you into this.
I'm sorry for each and every time I hurt you, made you angry or sad.
I'm so sorry and I wish I could make it undone. But, I can't. I've gone to far.
Sherlock.
There's a small crossed out sentence under his sign off. It's crossed out so much it's impossible to read it. But John thinks he knows what it is. The ink starts to run and John realises he's crying again.
GREG
Greg sighs as he pushes the door to his office open. He's not really surprised by the two formally dressed people sitting in front of his desk. He sits in his chair, takes a deep breath and greats them.
"Can I help you with something?" He really tries to sound helpful but it comes from his mouth as a whimper.
"We're from the funeral offices." The lady explains. "We need to go over some files. It's about your friend, Sherlock Holmes."
Greg visible winces.
He chokes on the lump on his throat.
"He left you something in his last will and testament. You just need to sign a few things and then we'll leave you to your grieving." The man clicks open the brief case on the desk, which Greg had failed to notice, and pulls out a thin brown package.
They show Greg where to sign and after everything is in check they leave.
Greg just sits in his chair, staring blankly at the package. He is motionless, barely breathing. He can't seem to bring himself to open it. Not yet.
Minutes pass, maybe half an hour, although it verges to a hole hour. The package stares back with a daring manor.
After two empty hours, Greg stirs and moves to open it. It takes years for the tear away part to rip off. He tips the contents onto his desk.
It's a black A4 notepad.
Greg slowly lifts the front cover, to the first page. It's practically blank, save for the brief message.
Greg, its not your fault. You can't blame yourself. This book is for you.
Sherlock.
The next page is covered with receipts, CCTV pictures and writing. The page after is similar. And the one after that. The whole book is filled with the same things. Each page with a name in red ink.
Unsolved mysterious.
Now solved.
Thanks to the one and only consulting detective.
Sherlock Holmes.
MYCROFT
Mycroft wasn't expecting a visit from the lawyers. He knew Sherlock wouldn't have left him anything, because they weren't sentimental types. He grieved his brother, of course he did. He just had no value for inheritance. He had everything he could possible want, except for a brother. The thought stung his open wound but he never let it show to anybody around him.
The lawyers arrived at his MI5 office. Fortunately he was working there that day so he didn't miss them. Sherlock hadn't left him anything, no surprises there. The needed to talk about funeral arrangements.
It went smoothly until the lawyers began to leave. Something in Mycroft just snapped and he shouted at them not to go. He begged them to give him something of Sherlocks. Something he hasn't given anyone. He needed something. They didn't have anything to give. No sentiment, the brothers had silently agreed when they were young.
"The skull. Give me his skull." Mycroft partially pleads.
"Unless you mean his actually skull, he didn't have one." The man explains.
They leave quickly before Mycroft can creep them out again.
Where's the skull? Mycroft wonders. Sherlock would never left anything happen to it. He's had it since he was a boy. Like a best friend to him.
Mycroft needed that skull.
Just as he began to leave for 22B1 Baker Street, his secretary called him back.
"There's a package for you, Mr. Holmes." She says, handing him a box.
There's no return address.
Inside is the skull.
That was the only time Mycroft cried over Sherlock.