He did not return to Baker Street for a long time.
When he did, he did so without telling Mrs Hudson about it. He did not want her there, aware that her comforting words and gestures would only make him feel worse than he already did.
Everything was the same. The lingering smell of chemistry reagents, the light through the curtains, the way the furniture was arranged. There was a thin layer of dust on everything and dust, he remembered, was eloquent. He had to agree. The dust spoke volumes.
It said that no one had sat in the armchairs since before the police had returned, arresting Sherlock, and John had punched the superintendent in the face for being such a pompous prick.
It said that the long rows of books, loved and well-read as proven by their worn covers, had not been touched since a hidden camera had been removed from behind them.
It said that the apartment which had always been so full of life, whether clients were visiting or Sherlock was blowing something up in the microwave, was perfectly abandoned and had been so for a very long time.
Even Mrs Hudson had been neglecting it. And was there really any reason why she should not?
The rational part of his mind said that any reasonable landlady would have had the apartment cleared out when it stood clear that none of the tenants would return. She would have advertised for new occupants. Perhaps a nice couple, perhaps with a child. But she had not, and John was at the same time incredibly thankful and thoroughly annoyed.
He did not sit down. He did not touch anything, even though his fingers itched for the violin, which was carelessly left standing against one of the bookshelves. He wanted to lift it up, to place it somewhere covered, but he could not will himself to do it. The violin belonged to Sherlock and thus, he could not, would not touch it. As if doing so might offend.
In fact, everything in the room was Sherlock's. The furniture, the paintings, the books… The few things John had brought with him to Baker Street had never made it into the living room, but had remained in his bedroom and been removed from there as he left after the… the incident.
John drew himself up, drew a breath. It hurt. Burned.
None of this was his. Not the apartment, not the armchair in which he had been sitting almost every day for two years… And if it did not belong to him, then he did not belong there. Not when the man who had given him access to it was not there.
He made his way down the staircase. He needed… somewhere. Something of his own. The hostel in which he had been staying was too expensive in the long run, especially when you did not really make any money. He could not come back here, live here, even if Mrs Hudson had asked him to. He had known that before visiting, had known that coming back was bound to feel like being shot all over again, like watching it happen all over again, but he had done it any way. Self-inflicted pain was still pain, but he could handle pain, could control it. And if he could control it, perhaps he could move on.
Even as he closed the front door, he knew the answer to that question.
He could never control the pain. He could never really move on.
