Somewhere in the back of his mind, John was vaguely aware that he was walking home. If he'd been in his right mind, he might have heard the whispers of those he was passing. The small girl asking, "Mummy, why's that man crying? Shouldn't we help him?" And her mother's answering shushes. He might have even noticed the stares, or the pointing.
But he didn't.
His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead.
As John entered 221B Baker Street and began climbing the 17 steps to his flat, he suddenly became aware of his surroundings, and even more aware of the silence. The only noise was the soft tip-tap of his shoes hitting the steps. It was deafening. Upset by their disruption of the silence, John took off his shoes and socks, placing them carefully in his bedroom. On his way back to the living room (to do what, he did not know), John passed his friend's bedroom. The door was cracked open. John took a step toward the door as if to enter, but stopped himself. Sherlock hated it when John invaded his privacy.
John continued to the living room. He settled himself in his chair, and had been sitting quietly for nearly a full minute when he realized he was staring at Sherlock's chair. Feeling suddenly intrusive, he turned his glance to the room around him.
The living room at 221B was filled with objects immediately identifiable as the possessions of an eccentric, and messes that brought back memories of the night they were made and the person who made them. It seemed empty. No, not empty. Lacking? As if it were missing some vital ingredient. Perhaps it was a cup of tea, or a book. Perhaps a figure sitting in a sofa chair, steepled fingers ghosting against his lips, murmuring to himself quietly.
John shook his thoughts and glanced at the clock. "Huh," he thought. "Molly's probably getting his body at the morgue about now. Maybe she'll finally get to see him naked. " John giggled to himself softly at the ridiculousness of that thought, but cut off abruptly. His laugh sounded so strange in the silence. He began laughing again, louder this time. The laugh grew in strength until it sounded almost tortured. Then, suddenly, the laughter became sobs.
They were not the quiet, dignified sobs of a widow at her husband's funeral. They were sharp, disturbing barks, sobs that racked the entire body and left one retching. Every once in a while, an unintelligible word would be thrown into the silence. Then, all at once, the noise died out. The silence seemed to stretch over all of London.
It was dark when John woke up from a nightmare he couldn't remember. When he glanced at his surroundings, he realized three things: That Sherlock Holmes was dead, that he was already sobbing again, and that the skull on the mantelpiece was missing.