A nervous laugh escapes John's mouth.
Well that's a breakthrough. From lying on a table to lying on a nightstand, what do you expect Watson, are you trying to burn it with the power of cowardice? Just do it.
John lies on his back, watching the ceiling, finally whispering "I'm sorry" like he wanted to.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, ceiling. Jesus Christ, why are you laughing again?
He feels the irrational need to punish himself for that, although he knows it's his strange way to cope with all this: he reaches for the envelope right next to him without even watching his movements, he closes his eyes and opens it.
He holds his breath but soon he realizes it's just a will. It's all lawer-y and it has Mycroft written all over it.
John doesn't know whether to be sad or relieved: he opts for flabbergasted, given that Sherlock has left him a huge amount of money, enough to contemplate a year off.
He could have paid a cabbie once in a while, that cheap bastard. And I could use some time off. No, no I don't, I need work, something to keep my mind busy. Sarah, I need to call Sarah, first thing tomorrow.
He decides to have a lawyer look at the papers and folds them right back into the envelope, when he feels something else inside of it, a little piece of paper, more rigid than the other ones, feels like a…piece of cardboard box. He reaches for it and flips it over:
You're right. Keep thinking. SH
Suddenly the bed feels like it's moving, the sheets are heavy as lead on his legs and John throws away the little piece of paper like it's on fire: his brain is working fast, too fast for his movements to keep up with his thoughts, so he finds himself with his phone in one hand, the envelope in the other, only one shoe on, and – catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror –messily dressed with a suit, the only suit he has.
Did I…did I just dress like Sherlock?
He doesn't have time to question his actions; he just puts the other shoe on and starts running towards the door.