He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes past nine. He should probably be thinking of leaving . Deliberately taking his time in checking the bill and fixing the tablecloth, John reflected.
It had been a mistake, coming here. The restaurant itself was nice enough, but having to face yet another reminder of his situation… it was almost too much to bear. As usual, John had been eating alone, with nothing to distract him from the hollow feeling in his heart. He should have been used to his solitary state, after all this time, but it was still hard to ignore the stares of his fellow diners. He could almost hear what they were thinking: Poor man. Poor, lonely man. John couldn't help thinking that maybe… maybe they were right. The thought seemed to suffocate him: he needed to get out of here. He pulled on his coat and grabbed his cane paid for the meal and stepped out into the dark street outside, the crisp December wind piercing his face.
The last few months had been painful. He hadn't been himself, not since- since-. He stopped himself. But the name was already in his mind, on his lips, before he knew it. Sherlock. He willed himself not to let the pain show, but the horror of losing his friend, his best friend, threatened to overwhelm John, and he felt a pricking in his eyes. Tears. He hurriedly wiped them away and quickened his pace, avoiding eye contact with passers-by. They wouldn't care, he thought. No one really had. Except him. Although when they were trying to help, they all insisted that they 'knew what he was going through'. He knew they didn't. They had always questioned why he stuck with Sherlock, anyway. Didn't understand. Couldn't understand. Which was why they found the lie so, so easy to believe.
A fresh wave of anger, of injustice, flooded his veins. He had done what he'd promised all along: to destroy Sherlock. To burn him. John remembered their last encounter – he'd almost been blown up - as a shiver ran down his spine. Moriarty. He'd managed to put doubt in everyone's minds. Even his own, he thought, suddenly ashamed. But he had soon realised what the truth was. The papers had loved it all, of course. They'd presented Sherlock as a fraud, a liar, a cheat. But John could never believe that now. He just couldn't…
His hand shook slightly as he reached forward to open the door. Home. Except it wasn't anymore. Not without… him…. It was like an empty cage, a shell. He would have moved away – away from the memories, away from the pain – but he had nowhere else to go. John knew he wouldn't have accepted help anyway, even if someone, a relative maybe, had offered. He was too stubborn for that. He climbed the stairs somewhat awkwardly, supported by both his cane and the handrail. Images, memories, flashed through his mind as he remembered a time when he was able to sprint up these steps, caught up in an adventure. He stopped halfway, unable to go any further as he tried to block the flow of memories. The intense playing of a violin in the early hours of the morning… Gunshots through the wall… A head in the fridge… A head in the fridge. God, Sherlock…
It was later on in the evening. The flat had a depressing emptiness about it: all the lights were off, the curtains were drawn shut and there was a crackle of static from the TV. John sat in the front room, staring into space. He had tried, for a while, to focus on something else, attempted to read one of the books on the shelf. But the book now lay forgotten by his side. John was starting to think about turning the TV off and heading to bed, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. At first, he thought he was just making the noises up, that they weren't really there, but then he heard the unmistakeable sound of a creak as someone paused for a moment outside the door.
'Mrs Hudson?' called John in a cracked voice: he wondered when he had last spoken to another person. There was no reply, and John sensed a change in the atmosphere of the flat. Who was it? And what the hell were they doing, lurking in the stairwell?
'Mycroft!' he shouted. 'If that's you, I've had enough of your shit, just say what you have to say and get out!'
Silence. Again. John approached the door: half cautious, half not caring if it was dangerous. Eventually, he decided to nudge the door open slowly. A tall figure was silhouetted in the hallway. John opened the door a little wider, so he could see the face of the stranger in the light. Who he saw, John could never have been prepared for in all of his life.
