The city streets of London were busy as always. Cars honking, people talking on their cell phones, the urban noises. John Watson was walking down Baker St. He stopped and looked up at the familiar black door. He had stopped in front of this door countless times before. He glanced up at the silver letters were becoming tarnished and ran his fingers over the brass knocker. The paint was peeling in some spots. He hadn't been back to 221B in a year, since Sherlock's death. The floors and the walls of his old flat held so many memories of their adventures together. He had been afraid to return, scared of what might haunt him. He didn't know what lurked behind the walls and crawled under the floor. The past was a very delicate thing. The doctor took a deep breath, and then unlocked the door and stepped inside.
It looked exactly the same as when he left. He stood for a moment in the narrow corridor, remembering his first arrival at 221B. So much had changed since then. As John slowly climbed up the stairs, he ran his hand over the black, textured wall. Every scratch held a story. He closed his eyes as memories flooded his mind; memories of him and Sherlock leaning against the wall laughing, or running out the door with a new case to investigate. He felt a prick in the corners of his eyes. John trembled a little bit as he forced himself not to cry. By the time he got to the door of his flat, he was on the verge of completely breaking down, but he managed to keep his emotions together. He reached out to the doorknob, but hesitated for a second.
"You can do this, John," he said to himself quietly. John slowly turned the latch and pushed the door open. It squeaked as it's hinges moved. The doctor walked in warily, setting his bags down and looking around. Everything was exactly the same; the animal skull on the wall with the headphones, the desk below it covered in stacks of papers, the mirror and the human skull on the shelf, even the wall with the bullet holes and the spray painted smiley face. But John knew that something, or someone was missing.
"Sherlock.." he murmured sadly. He missed and longed for his friend, the detective. A year and John was still depressed. He sat down in his chair and put his head in his hands.