The box was all the way in the back of his closet and covered in a thick layer of dust. Mrs. Hudson had given it to him when he came to 221B for the last time. Most of Sherlock's possessions had been taken as evidence, but Mrs. Hudson had secreted a few away, thinking John would want to have something to remember the detective by. John had tried to make her keep them-said he didn't want them-but she insisted, "I know right now you just want to forget. But in a few years, you'll want to remember and then you'll be glad to have them, you'll see. You'll thank me later."
Unable to deter her, John had taken the box, put it in the back of his closet, and tried to forget. Now John sat on his bed and stared at the box on the floor. In his mind the box stared back, taunting, "How brave are you now, soldier? Afraid of me, an old dusty cardboard box? What happened to the John Watson that looked death in the face and didn't blink? What happened to the John Watson who shot a man through two panes of glass to save a friend? Who used to chase criminals through the streets of London without a second thought? You're not half the man you were, John Watson. You should be ashamed."
"I lost him," John told the box, the empty room, and himself. "I lost him, and now I'm incomplete. He made me whole and brave, and now he's gone. But if I do this, I can bring him back. If I can prove he was innocent, he'll come back. He has to come back. A good soldier works with what he has. And right now, alone is what I have." John stood up and walked over to the box. Gently he crouched down to open it. John took a deep breath and braced himself for the pain.
The box opened with a sigh, releasing the last vapors of the 221B John Watson had called home. It was like being punched in the stomach. The musk of his old chair and those comfortable cushions. The acrid smell of Sherlock's experiments, and the shock of finding those experiments in the icebox. The earthy scent of tea, and the shadows of the teacups on the tray in the afternoon light. The dusty carpet and the way Sherlock's hair caught the light from the window. The wallpaper, the yellow smiley face, the blue dressing gown that made Sherlock's eyes glow like the night sky. The clinical smell of Sherlock's soap, those pale fingers wrapped around the neck of his violin. It all came back, as if he had never forgotten it; John couldn't breathe and thought he might drown in the wave of homesickness that washed over him.
He rocked back on his heels and took a moment to pull himself together before rummaging through the box. The things he was looking for: the proofs of Kitty Riley's article and the notes he'd taken, were right on top, but John made himself go through the whole box. Just to prove to himself that he could. Most of the box was little trinkets, like the waving cat he'd gotten Sherlock after that one case, or the antlers that Mrs. Hudson used to try to make Sherlock wear for Christmas. There were a few notes from pleased clients, Irene Adler's phone, and John was just thinking that remembering wasn't as bad as he had expected when he found Sherlock's violin at the very bottom of the box. There was a short note tucked between the strings:
He told me he wanted you to have this, if something happened to him.
Suddenly there was a lump in John's throat. Most of Sherlock's possessions were high-quality but utilitarian. Sherlock had clothes because people got mad if he went around in his bed sheets or dressing gown all the time. Sherlock had dishes and cutlery because he needed something to do experiments on, and occasionally eat off of. Sherlock had a bed because even he needed to sleep sometimes. Sherlock had books because there were things he didn't have space for in his mind palace. And although all of these things were useful, John had never gotten the sense that Sherlock was attached to these items. The only items that Sherlock truly cared about, John believed, were his violin, and his coat. And Sherlock had wanted John to have his violin. He'd wanted it so badly that he'd told Mrs. Hudson to make sure it happened.
John held the violin tightly to his chest and cried. He could still smell a little Sherlock on the chin rest, which only made him cry harder. John usually fought the sadness, tried to push it away. But this sadness was too big and too dark to be repressed, so he let it run its course. He wasn't sure how long he sat there cross legged on the worn carpet in his bedroom, clutching the violin-Sherlock's violin-to his chest, and sobbing, but when he finally stood up stiffly and went to the bathroom to dry his cheeks, there was a bright red spiral on his left cheek where the violin's scroll had pressed into it.
John went back to his room, and tried not to look too hard at the violin as he put it, and the other trinkets back in the box. But instead of putting the box back in the closet, he slid it across the room to the foot of his bed. It was time to get to work. John reread Kitty Riley's article, letting the anger drive away some of the grief. Moriarty had created Richard Brook. John knew that much. Richard Brook was a fake, and if John could convince the world, and more specifically Scotland Yard that Richard Brook was a fake too, then Sherlock might come back. No, Sherlock would come back. John had to believe Sherlock would come back to him. Waiting for his other half to come back was painful; living the rest of his life feeling like half his soul was missing would be impossible.