"Sarah, how many patients have I got for tomorrow?" I ask, as I slip on my jacket.
She hums and types types into the computer, and then looks up at me, "You have two in the morning and then five after lunch." I sigh deeply at this, shaking my head at the stress.
"Alright, thanks. See you tomorrow then." I huff as I walk out of the door.
"See you!" She calls back, logging off the computer and gathering her own stuff up to leave. A blast of fresh air ushers me out of the door and small specks of rain pellet down on my exposed neck and face. I turn my collar up against the biting wind, and I trek back to our house. I moved out of 221B Baker Street a month after Sherlock's fall, hating the emptiness and drabness of the flat without its eccentric, wild sociopath. I remember with a small smile finding experiments in various places of the kitchen, the sprayed on smiling face and the bullet holes in the living room. I'm left wandering aimlessly, taking a trip down memory lane and forgetting about the roads currently around me.
After half an hour of walking, I lift my head and look around at my surroundings. Tears prick in my eyes as I take in the familiar, haunting street. Baker Street. I can almost feel Sherlock's absence here, how ordinary it looks without him running around and hailing taxis, without his shouting and pacing that could be heard across the street. I walk over to the apartment, the brass door handle beckoning me inside. I knock on the door, and I am soon met with Mrs Hudson. She squeals my name and brings me into a hug, her frail but strong arms keep me trapped in her embrace, and I feel my arms rise to hug her back. Her sweet perfume fills my senses and clogs my mind, until the next minute I'm sitting on her sofa balling my eyes out with her offering me tea and biscuits. I snivel, wipe my eyes and blow into a tissue, before accepting the tea. The warmth slips down my throat and spreads through my body, making me shiver delicately.
"It's so quiet now," She murmurs, her mascara slightly smudged from her own tears. "I haven't been able to rent the flat out, it just sits up there, untouched."
"You haven't moved any stuff, have you?"
"No dear, I haven't, if anyone decides they want to move in then I'll have to but I'll warn you first if they do."
I nod and mutter a thank you. "Mind if I see it? It's been so long."
"Of course dear, are you sure you want to?"
"Definite," I nod and follow her upstairs to my old flat.
She pushes the door open, and I step tentatively into the living room, everything left exactly how it was, as if I was just coming back from the shops, as if Sherlock still vacated the flat. I can see him now, sprawled across the sofa, deep in thought, barely registering I went out, he paces around, playing random notes to help him think. But he's not there. He's gone, and dead, and the flat is empty. I walk around in a small circle, before striding out of the flat, shaking my head.
"Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry but it brings back too many memories."
"Of course, dear." She closes the door, and locks it, watching my with dismay as I make my slow retreat downstairs, clutching the banister and my cane. I hug Mrs Hudson goodbye, and she hums into my hair,
"Stay in touch, dear," I know it's harsh, but 'staying in touch' with someone that reminds me of Sherlock is devastating. I rarely see Lestrade or Mycroft anymore and if so it's by accident, and I avoid going past Scotland Yard and Bart's. I pat her on the back and give a sharp nod, not making any promises. I walk away, and back to my house, away from my home.