Carefully, so carefully, John Watson packed away the last few beakers and test tubes. Wrapped in bubble wrap, placed on foam sheets. John knew it was silly but he couldn't throw them out, and he couldn't donate them. Not yet, at least. But he was getting there.
His phone beeped. Text from Lestrade. [How are you?] He closes his phone and decides he'll reply later. He and Lestrade are still not on the best of terms, though Donovan's transfer and Anderson's resignation had helped. Lestrade had come to him and told him he was going on record with his superiors - he still believed in Sherlock's innocence.
John sighs and grabs his phone. [Fine. You? Anything?] He sends it and closes the phone again. He knows Lestrade's hands were tied on that whole mess. Lestrade had never wanted that. He had believed. He had always believed.
John tapes the box shut as his phone beeps again. [Nothing yet. Something'll turn up.] John closes his phone and carries the box into Sherlock's room. From across the flat he hears his phone beep again. He holds his breath for a moment, setting the box down with the others. Lestrade really can wait this time. This is his moment now.
He sits on the bed and stares. Boxes line the walls. Furniture pushed aside to make stacking easier. The bed has been stripped - linens tucked away. Boxes labeled neatly. John smiled. FOr all that Sherlock was brilliant, he was not a particularly neat man. Oh, he had his books on the shelves and his sock index, but overall he'd been nearly hopless when it came to organization. From the kitchen his phone beeped again. He got up and walked out of the room.
His phone was still on the kitchen table. The whole room looked so different now, without all of SHerlock's experiments everywhere. He could probably make a decent cup of tea or breakfast now. He sat down and looked at nothing. His phone beeped once more.
"I swear, Lestrade, you're almost as bad as him these days." John opened his phone again. He stared at the screen, eyes widening. The phone fell from his hand and he bolted from the kitchen. Down the stairs. The door flew open once he grabbed it.
"Hello, John."
John Watson stood in the doorway to 221B Baker Street, staring at a ghost.
"Sherlock." He felt breathless. The ghost smiled.