The peculiar thing about having a dead flat-mate was that although the person ceased to exist their things did not.
The flat was almost a shrine to Sherlock. Strewn on the kitchen table were half-filled beakers and newly prepared slides of god-knows-what, and the cupboards still held three boxes of nicotine patches. His dressing gown hung on the back of the bathroom door and his toothbrush sat in its holder waiting to be used.
In the days immediately following Sherlock's death John mostly lived inside the consulting detective's bedroom. He slept in Sherlock's bed, dreaming his detective was there beside him. He pulled clothes from Sherlock's closet until they made a pile on the floor and nested among them losing track of time and space. Sitting there, surrounded by the scent and feel of Sherlock, John was finally able to cry.
Crying was not something an army man did well. In the army they taught you to be strong, brave, stoic. When an army man broke he shattered; quiet dignified tears were out of the question. John sobbed; body shaking, nose running, gasping for breath as if he were drowning. He felt as if his heart had been ripped out, leaving a black hole that threatened to suck him into oblivion.
Eventually John had to leave the flat. It had been three days since he had cleared the flat of food. He tried to leave but it was as if there was an invisible electric fence. Every step down the stairs caused physical pain.
It was three hours until the idea hit him.
There were still a few shirts hung up in Sherlock's closet, a fact that somehow comforted John. He ran his hands along them, trying to decide which one he wanted. He ended up choosing one of Sherlock's numerous eggplant shirts and slipping it on. They were all varying degrees of tight on Sherlock but miraculously this one fit.
Must have lost a bit of weight then. John wasn't sure how long he'd been locked up in here. Long enough to worry Mrs. Hudson and earn a visit from Lestrade, who he refused to let inside.
With the shirt on John somehow felt a bit less alone. It was as if the shirt had slotted a small sliver of his heart back into place.
John left the flat with no clear destination and only a murky purpose rattling away in the back of his mind crying out with a muffled voice.
He found himself overwhelmed by the people, the noise, the bloody happiness after only a few blocks. It was just like the first few weeks back in London after his discharge; every loud noise put his nerves to high alert.
Ducking into an alley, John leaned up against the cool bricks, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.
Sherlock
The scent, evidently emanating from the shirt, was all around him. With his eyes closed it was almost as if Sherlock was right there next to him. All background noise faded and John swore he heard Sherlock's voice.
"Come along John. I'm thinking Indian tonight. I know a perfect place; the owner owes me a favor."
For the first time since Sherlock jumped John smiled. It didn't matter if he was at last really truly going insane. He had his detective back.
And he was right; Indian sounded delicious.