The sky was gray, as it was usually gray. But today's gray was particularly gray. John Watson sat in 221B on Baker Street, in his usual chair by the fireplace.
Mrs. Hudson knocked lightly on the door, "John? John, dear, you have to eat something."
John took no notice that Mrs. Hudson was even in the room.
She shuffled over to him and put a cup and saucer on the table next to him, "I suppose we're going to have to go through his stuff and decide what has to go." She said quietly while reaching out to pick up the case with his violin inside it. Before she had the chance to pick up the case, John reached out and touched her wrist.
"Don't." he whispered, "Just… please, Mrs. Hudson."
She lifted her hand and nodded gently, "Yes, of course, John. I'll leave it to you."
She mutedly staggered out of the room, and back down the stairs, closing the door behind her.
John reached over to where Mrs. Hudson had just been, and his fingers brushed the hard, bumpy surface of the violin casing.
He lifted the bulky black container and pulled it onto his lap.
The golden clasps clicked open, with the quiet intensity of the person whom it belonged to. The hinges did not utter a word, as the case opened to reveal the violin.
The violin of the 'mind palace'.
John couldn't help but smile brokenly at the memory of Sherlock owning a whole palace for his thoughts.
He tenderly removed the instrument from the casing, holding it like his very own firstborn, loving but inexperienced. Just looking at the thing was hardly bearable.
He stood slowly and walked right across from his chair, to where he used to sit, and placed the violin in seat of the chair, carefully, like it would break if he tilted it the wrong way.
John sat back down in his rightful arm chair, staring across at the violin. Suddenly, there was no longer a violin seated in the chair, but the man himself. The one who destroyed everything that was once John Watson, the man who made the walls come crumbling down around him.
John didn't say anything, he knew he wasn't really there, but it was nice to imagine, if only for a little while. He could see it now, that funny smile he used to wear when someone died in a clever way. John's eyes began to shine with the memory, covered in a thick film of tears. Suddenly, he can't see the man or the violin, for the whole world is rapidly becoming blurrier, and he can no longer determine mass from men. The tears became heavier then, but he dared not blink. Everyone knows when one tears falls, many follow closely thereafter.
John was about to swallow back the tears, when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
"Hello, John."
John broke that day.
He dropped his head in his hands, his whole body shaking with silent sobs.
"You're not real. You're not really… here, I know you're not."
John's face was slick in his hands, tears slipping between his fingers and running down his forearms, slowly soaking the knees of his corduroys. He refused to lift his head, not until his ghost was gone.
"John," it whispered, "John, I've missed you so."
'No… no…" he murmured harshly, "You liar. I knew you weren't a fake. Why did you lie to me right before you… before you did that! Why did you leave me behind!"
"John…"
He lifted his head, and came face to face with the man who broke him.
Sherlock Holmes.
John rammed his back into the arm chair, pushing himself away from the ghost, from the echo of a shattered memory who once lived here.
Then, theghost stretched out his hand and placed it on John's arm.
Their eyes met and John couldn't breathe.
It wasn't long before he threw himself forward, embracing the man and they both sank to their knees onto the abused red carpeting.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, you idiot. You… you god forsaken bastard."
Soon, it became evident that John was not the only one crying, and they remained that way until Mrs. Hudson ran in sobbing, pulling them both into her frail but reassuring arms, confirming to him that Sherlock was really there. Sherlock was really there.
Sherlock came home.