The two old friends sat in the living room of 221B. Dr. John Watson had not been able to leave the flat and move on. He felt that leaving would ruin the memory of Sherlock Holmes. He sat with Mike Stamford.
The large man took a sip of coffee and replaced it on the table, he did not however sit opposite Dr. John Watson; that would mean sitting in Sherlock's chair.
Like many other possessions which belonged to the late Sherlock Holmes the modest black leather chair remained untouched, collecting layers of dust in the living room of 221B.
Mike shifted awkwardly on the sofa, out of topics of conversation. John had not said a single word apart from "tea" since he had entered. Mike realised that it had been a mistake to meet John at 221B.
'So...John, how have you been?' Mike said sympathetically; with a hint of concern in his voice.
He spoke as he exhaled. 'So, so.' This was not a lie, it was hardly as if John had not struggled without the company of his recently deceased best friend, he had found more difficulty filling the hole in his heart that Sherlock had left.
At first he had friends to go to of course Mrs Hudson, his sister; but they could not cheer him. No matter how many times he saw the therapist, she could not find the route of his problems. She thought there was some deep-routed trauma, when in reality, John was just lonely.
And soon after that he met Mary. She had become the light in John's life, the small candle burning brightly in a darkened room. Mary had been kind to him and helped to lift some of the crushing grief that weighed down the doctor's shoulders.
'Have you... Erm been to the grave?' Mike said with a hint of worry in his voice, he needed to know his old friend was coping, his limp had returned as did his sadness.
John sighed heavily. To tell the truth, he had not been able to bring himself to return to Holmes' final resting place. 'Once or twice' he muttered, glaring into his tea.
Mike nodded, and the uncomfortable silence fell into place once again.