John watched the cabbie drive off and he slowly approached 221B. He stood at the door and stared at the brass numbers and green paint. Cars drove on the street, people milled about on the pavement, headed home, headed out...How does the world keep turning and moving without Sherlock? Shouldn't the whole world stop and take notice? Why doesn't everything just come to a crashing halt?

John felt that by going into the flat, this day would become that much more real, since Sherlock would not be there. The flat would be just as they left it yesterday, before getting arrested...and then fleeing.

Part of John wanted to leave and come back tomorrow, as if that could change things. But he had to talk to Mrs. Hudson, more than likely she knew, but John felt he should see her.

He opened the door, and stepped in, and walked toward 221A. She must have been waiting, because the door opened before John knocked. She stood in the doorway, her eyes red, her arms wrapped around herself.

"John, I...please, it's not true, is it? He can't have done wha-what they said, just jumped and..." She let out a hard sob and pulled in a shuddered breathe, John reached out and pulled her into a tight embrace, feeling her body shutter with sobs.

"I know, if I didn't see it I would not have believed it myself. I don't know why he did it, I just don't understand. He couldn't have thought it was the only way out..." John had to hold it together, for Mrs. Hudson, not fall apart into a mess. She pulled from him a bit and placed her hand to his check,

"John, I just can't believe it, I can't...why would he do it?"

"He called me right before...and he wasn't making any sense, saying it was all true, that he was a fraud and a liar,"

"You know that is not true, you know it," Mrs. Hudson said in a tense whisper, John nodded his head. No more words were coming to him and he felt so exhausted. Mrs. Hudson looked over his face,

"Oh John, I'm so sorry, so sorry dear," she stepped back and grasped his hand. "You must be completely drained, can I do anything for you, cuppa tea maybe?"

John shook his head, "I'm just going to go upstairs. I am exhausted, I hope to just go to bed, maybe find out this was just all a horrible nightmare,"

She smiled weakly at him and gave him a small nod, her bottom lip quivered, she seemed to want to speak but couldn't get the words out, so she squeezed his hand gently, turned and walked back into her flat.

He slowly climbed the stairs, each step feeling harder and harder. He reached the landing, the door to the flat closed. John reached his hand out and rested it on the knob, his body giving out a long sigh and he closed his eyes. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

What felt like somewhat of a relief, the flat was not as he and Sherlock had left it. The police had clearly completed a search, looking for clues to Sherlock's involvement in the children's kidnapping. Books and papers were about, furniture moved out of place, the sofa cushions displaced...not a complete mess, but things were all shifted about.

He glanced into the kitchen, and more of the same, glasses, and items shifted here and there. John wandered down the hall, and glanced into the bathroom, then paused outside of Sherlock's bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, so he nudged it open with his foot, and gazed in. No Sherlock in there.

He laughed to himself, like he had to make sure he wouldn't find Sherlock just there, waiting to explain everything.

He took a deep breathe, and staggered upstairs to his bedroom.

John awoke with a start at the sound of his mobile ringing. He reached out and looked at the screen. Mycroft Holmes. He really did not want to speak to Mycroft, but it could be news about Sherlock or the funeral...

"Mycroft". John said flatly

"John, I wanted to let you know, we've been able to demonstrate that Sherlock had nothing to with the kidnapping," Mycroft said "However, it may take considerable more effort and time to show that Sherlock was not a fraud. Thankfully, they realized right away he did not kill Moriarty."

Mycroft was met with only the sound of John's breathing, slightly muffled by a pillow, as he was sure to have just woken the doctor up. "John?"

"I'm here, just don't quite know what to say." John replied.

"Well, we've started plans for services, should be within the next few days, here in London. Our mother had wanted him with our father, but I had assumed Sherlock would have wanted to stay in London. What do you think John?" Mycroft asked cautiously.

"About what?" John asked.

"Being interred in London,"

"You're family Mycroft, it's up to you."

"John, you were closer to him than anyone. I do believe you may know his wishes better than I. Sherlock would rather have you decide over me anyways."

John ran his hand over his face and sighed, this situation had never entered the realm of possibilities in John's mind, and for a brief moment he nearly responded to Mycroft that they should just ask Sherlock what he wants.

"Yes, I think he would rather burial in London, a small service. The rest, I believe is for the benefit of the living, so whatever else you decide is fine," John said quietly.

"Would you consider giving a eulogy, John,"

John pulled in a sharp breathe and then forced it out. He didn't want to because he didn't want to have to give a eulogy, because Sherlock should not be dead. But perhaps that's not a good reason.

"I'll consider it, perhaps I would." John responded slowly.

"That would be appreciated, if you can. Please let me know what I can do John, I know this will be difficult for you. And so you are aware, I have a few of my people just outside the flat, keeping the media a discrete distance from the front door. Please consider them at your disposal as you travel around the city. While this media frenzy about Sherlock is happening, I don't doubt you will be a prime target for their attention"

John sighed heavily. He had not given the media much thought. He glanced over to his clock, 10:23am. He rarely slept this late into the morning. So, it must be Mycroft's men that were keeping the media from ringing the bell.

"Thank you Mycroft," John said plainly, he loathed to accept his help, but he knew it would benefit Mrs. Hudson as well.

"We'll, I'm sure we'll talk again soon, goodbye John"

"Mycroft," John said and then hung up. He stared at his phone, as his contacts screen flashed open, showing Mycroft Holmes' name and number, just below that Sherlock Holmes. John looked at the name and pressed the screen.

You called me, so you know who I am...

"London, I said to bury you in London. I hope that's alright. Mycroft wants me to speak, about you. I...if somehow you get this message, can you come back now, please, before this becomes real? It's not real now, not yet, I would believe it right now, if you came back. Please, Sherlock..."