The alarm was going off and John made a muffled noise, reaching out to hit the off button. He stayed curled up in his bed, not wanting to move but then there was the sound of the doorbell and Mrs Hudson calling up for him. With a yawn, John got up and dressed, taking a quick moment to wash his face and brush his teeth before walking into his living room. His living room, it seemed so odd. He still hadn't gotten used to not hearing the violin being played or waking up to see Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa. No one seemed to be expecting him to be used to it yet though, it wasn't long since the … well, since Sherlock died. In fact it seemed that most of his friends were just waiting for him to explode. In their minds he was a bomb waiting to go off, just a matter of time.
"John, dear, there is a package here for you," Mrs Hudson smiled at him, handing over a small brown parcel. He took the parcel, looking at it curiously. He hadn't been expecting a parcel and there was nothing to say who had sent it. His address wasn't even written on it, just his name. "Wait, Mrs Hudson," John called, standing at the top of the stair case. She looked up at him, pausing half way down. "Who delivered this?" He asked her because it couldn't have been a postman. It had to be someone they knew. "Oh, it was a little boy. Looked a bit of a mess, but he seemed nice enough," Mrs Hudson replied and John thanked her before hurrying back into the apartment.
He felt slightly sick as he picked up the package again. There was this awful feeling of hope inside him as he turned the package over in his hands. A little boy who was a mess that knew where he lived. It was one of the homeless kids Sherlock knew, it just had to be. He needed that to be it but at the same time he knew it wouldn't be. Not unless this was some sort of sick joke. John bit down on his lower lip and then sat down in the armchair, carefully opening the parcel. Inside it was a plain white box with a note taped to the top. John, I apologise. For everything. -SH Stupid idiot, John would have known who it was without the initials. There was only one person it could ever be. He was trying hard not to cry, taking a deep breath as he opened the box. Inside was one of those lucky cats like the one a lady had tried to sell them on the case, the blind banker. John laughed quietly. "Of course," He mumbled and then he spotted it. The blue scarf he knew so well. Sherlock's blue scarf. He thought it had just been something to keep the lucky cat safe but oh how wrong he was. Taking hold of it in his hands he looked it over. It was perfectly clean but there was no mistaking that smell, it smelt like Sherlock.
One day you'll understand, I promise. Happy valentines day. -SH The second note caught him by surprise and John found himself laughing and crying at the same time. It was a valentines present, how had Sherlock done this? John imagined he'd planned it before he died, it was the only sensible explanation. "Valentines day is for couples, stupid," he muttered, wiping at his eyes. Sherlock had never really seemed to understand that. Last year he'd gotten a present from Sherlock for valentines day, much to his girlfriend-of-the-time's annoyance, and had to explain that it was usually a day for couples to celebrate their love. Sherlock had argued that it was also for friends to show celebrate if they so wished as well and John hadn't the heart to argue, a gift from Sherlock was a rare thing after all and he'd felt rather special to be given one. Now though, this gift was just bringing back memories that he'd wanted to forget and then John was crying, curled up in a ball on the arm chair and clinging to the scarf. "Bastard. You stupid god damn bastard."