Blood. John saw blood. Whoever had been in here sustained a huge amount of torture. It had to be from multiple days. Weeks even. Whoever Mr. Moran was, he had to be a psychopath. That scared John the most.
John may not have been any Sherlock Holmes, but he knew his assumptions couldn't be wrong. Exactly eight days ago, Mrs. Hudson called John at his new address. John had moved out a week after the fall, he couldn't stand being there anymore. He had tried, for Mrs. Hudson's sake. However, he knew that if he stayed, he would be doing more harm to Mrs. Hudson than if he left. She was frantic and her voice wavered as she sobbed. She had received a package from an anonymous source.
The finger that arrived on Mrs. Hudson's doorstep was professionally identified as Sherlock's. It was even calloused from his constant violin playing. From there the only way to confirm it was to look at Sherlock's body. Struggling with moral dilemmas, John and Lestrade's division raced to Sherlock's grave. Three years ago, John swore to himself that he would never go back. Now he dreaded every second it took for them to get there.
When Sherlock's coffin was dug up, John kept a straight face for everyone around him. Out of his peripheral vision, he could tell that every eye was on him and how he would react. He made sure he appeared complacent; he made sure that no one could see his mind imploding in anguish. He figured he had to be near perfect in this area by now; he had been polishing the act for years. Then the terrible moment arrived. John both feared it and needed it. He needed to see Sherlock's body in there. He needed to know that Sherlock was truly dead. Alas, when the coffin was forced open, Lestrade leaned over it in haste. When his face resurfaced, it showed nothing but pure and genuine disbelief. The person inside wasn't Sherlock in any way, shape, or form. It wasn't even a real person, it was a doll. It was dressed in all of Sherlock's wears and it was the perfect height. John felt himself cringe and he knew that his act was coming to an abrupt end. Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson stepped back and let John wail. John remembered every second of that day with crystal clarity. He remembered the hope, he remembered the relief, but most of all, he remembered the anger. Three years, and for what? Just as quickly as his reaction began, John straightened up, wiped his face, and figured on what to do next.
The only person who had the means to replace Sherlock's body had to be someone who placed him in the casket before the funeral. Molly. Molly Hooper that's who. Sherlock could've easily convinced Molly to do something like this for him. Molly would do anything for Sherlock. When John confronted Molly she stumbled all over herself (more than she usually does, to be fair). She dodged John's gazed when juggling vials. Pretending to be occupied with her microscope was also a tell-tale sign. She couldn't look John in the face. Her actions said it all.
John's knees buckled from the reality of the situation. He fell to the ground and brought his hand to his face. There was a sudden and piercing pain that suddenly appeared from his would from Afghanistan. His hand clutched onto his burning shoulder.
"Dammit John, you know there's no way your shoulder still hurts. Get up. Get up!" John muttered through his clenched teeth. He drew a deep breath and brought his hand to eye level. His hand was coated in crimson. It wasn't just a memory, he had been shot.
"John." a weak voice uttered from the shadows, "John….. please…. Please leave."
Though blinded by pain, John looked up to see the face he had dreamed about for three years. It was the last thing he saw before his body fell to the ground and he lost consciousness.