A/N: First things first, this was inspired by the song "To Build A Home" by the Cinematic Orchestra. Gorgeous song, you should go listen to it. This fic was a spontaneous little thing I did when I should have been doing my astronomy homework. But then To Build A Home was on repeat in the background, and I've been angsting over Sherlock all day, and this happened. Honestly though, I kind of like it. And I hope you enjoy it too. :)

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Moftiss and the BBC's.

To Build A Home

Sometimes, when John is barraged by memories, he likes to call in sick to work, catch the nearest cab back to 221B, and simply surround himself with the familiarity of his old flat. It's not something he can do on a daily basis; the memories are still too strong for that, even now, three years later. But in small doses, it helps. It gives him something to hold on to when he remembers, yet again, that Sherlock is gone.

He couldn't go back for a full year. The pain was still too fresh, and he nearly broke down in tears each time he thought about it. Nearly, because he's a fighter, and fighters don't cry, and besides, what would Sherlock have said? "Tsk, sentiment. Always getting in the way." Sherlock wouldn't want him to cry, so he didn't.

Still, though, he couldn't quite bring himself to open that door again, go through the case files again, organize and compartmentalize and shove Sherlock into labeled boxes, here's the cases he didn't solve, here's the cases he wanted to burn, here's the hat and the skull and the phone and the nicotine patches and all the other memorabilia that he wouldn't want to keep and definitely wouldn't want John to treasure and value and keep close by as he fell asleep. It took John 12 months, 2 hours, 5 minutes, and 15 seconds to muster up the courage to destroy Sherlock's legacy. Because that's what it would be: destruction. Sherlock hated order, except the order he himself created. He hated labels, except the labels he deemed appropriate. And most of all, he hated being confined, even within the boundaries he himself imposed.

In the end, John walked in, looked around, and walked straight back out again.

It was another 3 days, 10 hours, and 7 minutes before John went back, this time with a promise. A promise of determination, a promise of stubbornness, a promise of I'll-do-it-this-time-I-swear. And he did. He walked in, held his breath until he didn't feel like it was going to choke him every time he swallowed, and got to work.

He left everything as it was, as a final tribute to the man who had been his best friend. He simply dusted the shelves and the mantle and the skull and every other surface, swept out the cobwebs that had begun to collect in the corners, threw out the tea that had been in the cup for God knew how long. He cleaned the fridge and the sink and the microwave of the disgusting human body parts that had long since rotted and sprayed the flat with a healthy dosage of air freshener. It took the entire day, and when he was finished, he stood back and admired his work.

And then he felt the tears choking him up and rushed out again.

Later, when he was no longer drowning under the weight of his emotions, John felt satisfied with what he had done. It gave him a sense of closure, a sense of there-Sherlock-see-I-can-move-on-you-weren't-the-c enter-of-my-life-you-bastard. Except that he was. And despite John's efforts, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to truly get over Sherlock.

But that knowledge comes after three years of trying. Back then, when he had no idea how hard Sherlock's death would hit him, he tried. He tried so foolishly hard.

Now, when he feels like he can't breathe, when he has the sudden urge to chase that suspicious-looking man in the beanie halfway across London, when he wants to be handcuffed to his best friend and taking risks that will surely get them both killed, he kips over to 221B Baker Street, says hi to Mrs. Hudson with a small smile, climbs up the stairs, and just sits there, in his chair, surrounded by the smell and feel and atmosphere of Sherlock that somehow hasn't managed to dissipate. And sitting there, ensconced in his armchair, settled back into the warm comfort of 221B, it isn't hard to imagine Sherlock in the kitchen, peering through his microscope or keeping time under his breath as he tests the coagulation of dried blood on human toenails or some such nonsense. Sometimes John talks to him, tells him how his life is progressing, apprises him of the situations of the other surgeons he works with, describes how his life with Mary is going, muses that he wants to ask her to marry him soon. And sometimes he just sits quietly, reveling in the indulgence of his past life, in the happiness that has settled over him like a warm blanket.

The feeling never lasts, of course. Sooner or later, the knowledge that Sherlock isn't messing with eyeballs in the kitchen crashes into John like a train wreck, and he has to choke back a sob as he stumps back down the stairs.

And that's another thing. He won't admit it under pain of death, but he's noticed his limp coming back. The limp that only ever existed before he met Sherlock, the limp that Sherlock deduced away the first time they met, the limp he hasn't had in years.

The limp that Sherlock destroyed.

This, more than anything, tells John that Sherlock is never coming back. His limp is a constant reminder of the life he lived before Sherlock, the life he can't believe he was ever a part of. His limp is a reminder that Sherlock will never heal him again by leading him on a fruitless chase around London, guided only by the map of the city that Sherlock somehow has saved inside his mind. He finds himself favoring his left leg again and takes to carrying his cane around. He can feel Mycroft's judgmental gaze the one time they meet each other after Sherlock's death, when Mycroft drops by to apologize two years too soon, two years too late.

But John doesn't care. Let Mycroft think what he wants to think; it wasn't his best friend who threw himself off a roof while he watched. It isn't he who has to deal with the memories and nightmares night after night. If John wants to limp again, he will bloody well limp.

Shortly after this, John returns to 221B for a three-hour heart-to-skull with Sherlock about Mycroft's nosiness.

And then, one day, John realizes he is simply done with it all. He can't continue to return to 221B, can't continue to double over in pain when he sees Sherlock falling again in his mind, can't continue to lie to Mary and say he isn't hung up over Sherlock's death anymore.

He can't preserve Sherlock any longer.

It's too big a task for any one man, really. Sherlock was always larger than life, and no five-foot-six-inch army doctor is going to be able to keep him alive. And besides, John tells himself, if the bastard really wanted to be kept alive, he could have done it his own goddamned self. It's unfair of him to push this all on John when Sherlock doesn't have any obligations.

John's done his time.

He's paid the price.

And now it's time for him to move on.

It's the fifth anniversary of Sherlock's death when John locks up 221B for the last time. He's already made an arrangement with Mrs. Hudson to keep paying rent on the flat; despite everything, 221B is one thing he can't give up. It's as good a home as John's ever going to get, and he won't let some stranger intrude on that. But that's all he's going to do for it. When he turns away from 221B this time, he won't ever turn back. He's even entrusted the key to Mrs. Hudson, to make sure that he isn't tempted.

When all is said and done, he lingers. He's taken a few things from the flat: the skull, the case files, the microscope. But even then, the flat calls to him, and he almost breaks his resolve and begs Mrs. Hudson for the key back.

Then he steels himself and picks up his box. He's committed to this, he tells himself. He can't go back now. He stares at the oh-so-familiar door for another minute, his hand ghosting up to brush against the placard. And then his hand drops, and he limps down the stairs. He glances back at the flat one last time, taking in everything he can and preserving it in his memory, one final photo.

And then he's gone, walking up the street, away from the only place he's ever called home.

FIN