Two days.

The death of Sherlock Holmes had hit them all hard; and the whole world had come to a standstill. Even Scotland Yard's homicide and forensic division had ground to an excruciating halt. All the police officers and forensic investigators who ever worked in close quarters with Sherlock Holmes had been temporarily suspended, pending investigation. So they sat at home, mirroring the positions of three grieving friends and the brother – sat alone in a darkened room, staring into space.

If you were to look closer though, the faces would all be different; like a collage of emotion – all diverse, but all still devastatingly similar.

The estranged brother (Mycroft Holmes') face was stony as usual, displaying nothing but tight control, power and self-assurance. But behind his eyes, The Iceman burned. He roiled and thrashed internally in the all-consuming chains of guilt and sorrow; refusing to let it melt his cold exterior. He only succeeded when he wasn't alone. He knew he was to blame for this tragedy, for getting the little brother he loved so dearly killed; he didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out. But still, Mycroft's compartmentalizing abilities and deduction skills were never up to the impeccable standard of the younger Holmes, and he just couldn't stop thinking of ways that he could have prevented it. Deep down he knew it was impossible; he just wasn't as good at the whole deduction lark as Moriarty and Sherlock. He couldn't keep up. But still the thought tortured him and Mycroft was reminded of the phrase he had reiterated to his younger brother from such a young age. 'Caring is not an advantage.'

The landlady – not housekeeper – sat with tears brimming her over her large brown eyes in 221A; half in shock. Sherlock Holmes was always getting himself into trouble, flirting with death and disaster in a desperate attempt to not be BORED. But he always came home eventually. Always. He'd been coming home sooner and sooner after living with John for a few months. Most of the time, he even arrived home from cases with John. Tears stained her cheeks as she thought of her other tenant. Poor John. Poor, poor, poor, poor John. She thought, how will he survive without Sherlock to look after? Mrs. Hudson knew more about the cause of the complicated dynamics of the relationship between John and Sherlock, than they themselves did.The both of them remained blissfully unaware of the tension, and studiously in denial when queried about it. She sighed, taking another large swig of her drink whilst swallowing down an herbal soother.

My boys. My poor, poor boys.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade could safely say that this time two years ago, he would not have considered himself a friend of Sherlock Holmes. Hell, three days ago he wouldn't of said he was thatclose to the officious bastard anyway. But now… As soon as Lestrade had heard that Sherlock Holmes had jumped off that goddamn hospital roof, he realised just how fond of him he actually was.

Rather than just being 'that-arsehole-genius-who-solves-cases-when-I-can't', Sherlock had become a friend; and a bloody close one too. Lestrade knew what – or rather, who – had caused this change. Doctor John H. Watson had worked his way into the detective's life, smoothing and softening all the sharp edges, making the abrasive genius less callous and almost kinder with his condescension – less purposefully harsh.

Greg was almost proud of the way his friend had changed, and Lestrade had started to think that perhaps they were, in fact, going to be very, very lucky. But he couldn't forget who had been the catalyst for this change, and he couldn't help but be thankful of the tiny soldier.

He didn't envy Doctor Watson's position. He never had. Lestrade could imagine living with the world's most arrogant prick was not the easiest thing to do, but he'd admired him for it. But it didn't take a genius like Sherlock Holmes to realise that Sherlock was so very important to John, and if he was taken away from him against his will, that it would not go down well. One might say he would be heartbroken, Greg mused through his sadness. Yes. Lestrade was grieving over Sherlock Holmes – he recognized the choked and achy symptoms of grief – but he knew there were two who had it worse. John Watson and Mycroft Holmes.

Doctor John Watson knew he was sinking back into the depression he'd developed upon coming back from Afghanistan. He didn't care. It was perversely appropriate really – That he should fall when Sherlock falls. John felt now that his life had simply descended back to the way it was... before. He was no longer the haphazard whole that Sherlock had made him just hours after their introduction; he had gone back to the weary soldier, invalided home.

John knew he would feel a tiny bit better – no, that was the wrong word – more human if he cried. If he sobbed his heart straight out of his chest, he knew he could just begin to try and carry on with his life. Not as normal. No. John's life had only been normal in the few days between returning back to London and meeting Sherlock – crushingly so. But he couldn't cry. It was too much. The empty feeling of numb agony and aloneness choked John from the inside, pushing up his throat and churning in his stomach, rendering him unable to let go enough to let the tears flow. So he just sat there, staring at Sherlock's empty black chair and the clutter of Sherlock's things, mixed with his own.

But it wasn't just sadness. It was rage. How dare he go where John couldn't follow? Because that's what he was – the follower. The Doctor. The blogger. The friend. But it wasn't as simple as that; Sherlock was so much more to John than the detective realised. John wasn't even sure what all the facets of what he felt were. He just knew he cared. Sherlock taught him to be brave – braver than he ever had been in the Army. He kept John's limp at bay, kept him busy, annoyed him, made him furious, happy and excited all at the same time; and made him laugh more than he ever had in his life, just by being himself. John owed him so much.

And now John's fantastic consulting detective/colleague/flatmate/friend/reason-he-was-still-alive was dead and there was nothing he could ever do about it.

John felt he had failed.

Failed Sherlock.

Let him down.

He'd been all alone, and he owed him so much.

Oh, God.