Hi, everyone! :) Thank you so much to everyone who alerted this story! I was pleasantly surprised by the response, and I'm so grateful. A special shout-out to IamSHERlocked4ever for being my first reviewer. Virtual hugs and cookies to you! :) The next chapter may take a while, but I hope to have it out in the next two weeks.

So, anyway, here's the official first chapter. Just a warning, I'm from the US, so I don't know a ton of British slang or mannerisms. I picked up a few from watching Sherlock, of course, but otherwise I'm a little inept.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman, or anyone else involved in the show. In fact, I own relatively nothing in general. Seriously. I'm just a fan.

Don't forget to Review! :)

"Look at you, sullen in yielding, brutal in your rage— you will go too far. It's perfect justice: natures like yours are hardest on themselves. "– "Oedipus Rex" 746-748

Ch. 1: The First Package

John couldn't really understand why he was punishing himself like this. The grief was hard enough. His episode at Sherlock's grave that morning when he went to say goodbye was proof enough of that. He was ashamed of how hard he had broken down. John couldn't remember ever crying that hard before Sherlock had... jumped. He still couldn't bring himself to say it. The grim reality. The "D word", as he had dubbed it in his mind. He had only said it once, to his therapist, and that had felt getting shot in Afghanistan all over again. He had admitted this to his therapist, and she had once again threatened him with a Zanex prescription. John had simply laughed off that idea. He was a doctor, after all. He would know when he required medication, wouldn't he? John knew that he should be moving on, pretty much everyone else had. But a part of him still couldn't comprehend that Sherlock was actually...gone. It just didn't feel real.

And now, here he was, standing at the doorstep of 221b. It felt like Sherlock was going to pull up in a cab at any minute and let him into their flat, just like he had when John had first moved in. But it could never be like that again, so John just let himself into the flat.

It had been five months since the fall, and this was the first time that John had been back to 221b. Just the thought of the cozy, familiar flat had become too painful for him to bear. The idea of the smell of all of Sherlock's now-abandoned experiments, the familiar skull on the mantelpiece, and the yellow smiley-face on the wall riddled with bullet holes now taunted him. Even now, there was a deep pain in his soul and an uncomfortable ache in his chest at the thought of returning. He had only returned today because Mrs. Hudson had called him over. Apparently she needed him to box up some of Sherlock's old things for her. Probably some of Sherlock's old experiments that she had no idea what to do with. As if he would know what to do with them.

The entryway looked exactly the same as it had, all wallpapered in Mrs. Hudson's classic hideous prints. Yet all John could see were the ghosts. The ghosts of him and Sherlock, giggling like schoolgirls in the entryway, bounding up the stairs, and panting after a long run. The ghosts of the night when Sherlock had been drugged by Irene Adler, and John had carried his raving friend up the creaky stairs. The ghosts of them, every day and every night, almost always side by side. These ghosts ran through John's mind, tormenting him as he stood in the entryway. The echoes still rang through John's ears.

Memories were flooding his brain, he saw Sherlock in every inch of the entryway, on every step on the creaky stairs and in every repeated pattern in the wallpaper. Sudden tears came to John's eyes, surprising the man who had thought that all of his tear ducts had dried up after his ordeal this morning. He wasn't surprised that Mrs. Hudson hadn't put 221b up for rent. Sherlock's essence filled the whole building. Speaking of his former landlady...

"Mrs. Hudson?" A squeak came from around the corner, and before John could even blink, the kindly older woman scurried up and gave him a huge hug.

"Oh John, It's so good to see you again." John felt himself relaxing at the hug and the sound of her voice. It really had been too long.

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Hudson." After relishing the moment for a few seconds, John pulled away from the hug. "Now, what was it you wanted me to box up for you?"

"Oh now, we'll get to that. You boys always were rushing around, all businesslike and such. Never any time to stop and relax. Now come and sit down, I'll brew you a cuppa and we can catch up." She started to pull him into her kitchen, and John started mentally panicking. This wouldn't go well at all. She'd be far too interested in how he was feeling and what he'd been up to, and John just didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

"Err...um...How about we just get right to the stuff you need me to look at." Mrs. Hudson turned around, sad surprise in her eyes. "It's just...well... I didn't really plan on staying long. Too many painful memories, ya know."

Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue sympathetically; the crestfallen look in her eyes turning into that goddamned pity that John hated so much.

"Oh, John..." The heavy sigh that accented his name was so piteous, it took all of John's self restraint to not leave right then and there. He held himself firm, shifting into military posture, his default mode these days. She embraced him again, but he couldn't find the strength to hug her back without losing whatever remnants of self-control that he had left. Finally, the kind landlady pulled away.

"All of his experiments, they're still up there. I got rid of the body parts; the smell was bothering Mrs. Turner and her married ones next door. And I took some of the equipment to a local school, but I left most of it here. All of his clothes and books and such are still there too. Mycroft hasn't come to get them or anything, so I assume that I need to do something with them." The two started up the stairs to the flat. John made sure to stay a couple steps behind, partially out of respect for Mrs. Hudson and partially because he was steeling himself for the sights and smells that would almost surely break him into tiny pieces of destroyed grief, and there would be no going back once he reached that point. The door clicked open, and John squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he followed his former landlady into the flat that held the only eighteen months of his life that really mattered, when it came down to honesty.

From the moment John stepped into the sitting area, the scent of Sherlock overwhelmed him. It was a strange mix of honey, tea, and cigarette smoke that surprisingly comforted him, enveloped him in its familiarity. It brought a brief smile to John's face, until he remembered that the smell had only remained because the flat had been uninhabited for the past five months. John took a deep breath, inhaling the comforting aroma to steady himself, and opened his eyes.

The flat looked almost exactly the same as it always had. Papers were stacked in piles and scattered on almost every surface, books are crammed awkwardly into the too-small bookshelves, and equipment covered basically every surface available in the kitchen. Almost nothing had been touched since that last day they had lived here. Instead of being stricken with sadness at the sight, as he'd thought that he'd be, John was comforted by the idea that a remnant of Sherlock still existed in the world.

Mrs. Hudson had moved into the kitchen while John stood there, taking in the flat that he hadn't realized that he'd missed. She was pulling some cardboard boxes out from under the sink and setting them up next to the leftover equipment, the beakers and tubes that had been either beyond cleaning or that she didn't understand enough to donate to the school several blocks down. John was too caught up in his reminiscing to notice any of this, so needless to say he was startled when Mrs. Hudson called out to him.

"John? John, are you all right, dear?"

"Jesus Christ!" John yelped as he nearly jumped out of his skin. He caught himself before he could react too violently, but his heart still raced and he couldn't quite catch his breath.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry!" The elderly woman scurried (there was no other word for it, really) up to John, guiding him down to his typical armchair near the hearth. "I should have known that you would be affected by being back here, really. How silly of me..." Her voice trailed of as she reached for a blanket.

"No, no, really it's not..." John started to get back up. The pity was back in his former landlady's eyes, and he just couldn't handle that on top of everything else right now. "If you don't mind, I'll just get started with the packing then." Mrs. Hudson looked almost startled, but she finally nodded, and pointed over to the boxes near the science equipment in the kitchen.

"Why don't you start with all that, then? I'll just go and...make you some tea for while you work..." Still appearing slightly stunned, the elderly woman turned and tottered down to her kitchen.

John pulled himself together, took a couple of deep breaths, and set about work. The equipment wasn't hard to deal with, really. Sure, some of the experiments that had been abandoned in Sherlock's...err...absence had left nasty stains (one particularly nasty stain resembled blood. John got a little faint at the sight of that one.), but there wasn't anything beyond vile left for John to deal with.

He had been working for about half an hour when Mrs. Hudson came back in, a puzzled look on her face. She was carrying a cardboard box that was covered in various stamps and paraphernalia. It was also a bit beat up, with one of the corners smashed in. Clearly it had been in the mail system for quite some time.

"John, dear, this package just arrived..." John nodded and turned back to his work. Clearly Mrs. Hudson wanted to open her package up here, with him then. She didn't have any current renters, so there's no one else it could belong to. So he was beyond startled when she said, "John...it's for you."

John froze. A package for him? But he didn't even live here any more. He was renting a flat close by the surgery, several blocks away. This wasn't just a wrong address. No, this was something far more sinister, something that smelled suspiciously of Moriarty. John stood, walked slowly to his former landlady, and cautiously took the package from her trembling hands. He set it down on the carpet, stared at it for a few moments, and nodded to himself. Moriarty was good with bombs. But he wouldn't...would he? After Sherlock had been dead for five months?

"Right then. Mrs. Hudson, would you mind if I opened this privately?" John's grim stare clearly startled the older woman, but she nodded and went back down the stairs, looking over her shoulder nervously as she did so.

John took a deep breath, inhaling the remnants of Sherlock's scent to steady himself, and approached the box. It looked tame enough, but the soldier in him cautioned that bombs always did. Slowly, carefully, John opened the box. He jumped backwards immediately, flinching as he did so, but no explosion came. The little box still sat there, now opened to the world. John crept up next to it again and cautiously peaked in.

At first, John thought it was just a large piece of fabric. Then he noticed the contours of the fabric, the way it was draped inside the box. It resembled some kind of a muffler or a...scarf. Realization hitting him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. That color, it couldn't be...? Scarcely breathing, John reached down and picked up the fabric, unfolding it as he did so. Once the fabric was fully extended, a sharp intake of air caught in John's throat. There was no doubt about it now.

It was Sherlock's scarf.