A/N – To Billy and Annabella, neither of whom will ever read this, for finally leaving my house. And to everyone who waited so patiently. I hope it was worth it.

Sherlock

Anderson brought the box in.

Lestrade is printing out images of the men from the video. Harry is in the loo, vomiting. She didn't handle the sight of John hitting the wall very well.

I am sitting in a chair, watching the pieces fly around in my head. Moriarty, it has to be Moriarty. Why like this? It doesn't make sense. It doesn't fit. Who else? Who else?

Anderson sets the box in front of me. I stare at it.

Lestrade stops typing. He's looking at me. I don't have to look up to know this. It's obvious. He starts again. He's going to finish and then leave me alone.

Alone with the box.

Alone with the box of John.

"I've sent the picture to Donovan, she'll ask the staff of the clinic if they recognize the men." He stops next to me and looks at the box. "I'll…um…give you a few minutes." He goes away.

It's a typical file box, nothing unusual or special about it. It is white with black markings allowing for dates, information on contents, and names. There is no writing on the box, yet. I wonder what they will put on it.

I reach out and trace my fingers along the lid. The cardboard is smooth on all the surfaces, but rougher at the edges where the folds are. It smells like cardboard, that not quite wood, not quite paper odor that reminds me of packages and Christmas. And after today, probably this moment.

I bring up my other hand and push my fingers under the lid. I take a deep breath and lift it.

John's shirt is on top.

It's the green and white checkered shirt that he bought about a year ago. It'd been on sale and he needed a new work shirt. It is carefully folded, but the day's events are obvious in its wear.

I am, or rather had been, indifferent to this shirt. I don't love it like the blue one that makes his eyes shine or his jumpers. I love his jumpers. I also have never hated it like I hate…no hate is the wrong word. I don't hate anything that John loves. I don't like his football t-shirts or his general "lounge around t-shirts" as he refers to them. They have silly slogans or advertisements. I don't like the idea of John as a billboard, even though some of them are humorous.

This shirt had never earned an opinion before today.

But now, I hate it. I hate it and want to cover it in petrol and throw a match on it. I want it to burn away to nothing and have the ashes disperse in the wind.

I breathe.

I examine it. There are spatters of blood on the collar from the initial hit against the wall. He'd been wearing his jacket, so most of the shirt was covered, and spared from the spatter.

I gingerly reach my hands in and pull it out of the box. I hold it up by the shoulders, letting it hang loose in front of me.

There is more blood along the back of one shoulder. He landed on his back when he hit the ground, the blood travelled that way, down his neck and on to the shirt. It is ripped along the right side and there is blood around the tear, not much. It isn't a smooth tear, like a knife or razor would have caused. It must have caught on something.

The tail of the shirt is soaked with blood; it is still tacky to the touch. His shirt must have come untucked as they dragged him. The wear pattern and blood stain along the hem seem to verify this. I'd imagine the stain will also be on the seat of his trousers and the back of his jacket.

There are several buttons missing, whoever it was didn't take the shirt off of him. They ripped it off of him. My hands clench on the material and I have to force them to relax.

My chest hurts. I gulp in a breath and I feel like I breathed in fire, my throat and my lungs burn.

I bring the shirt up and bury my nose in the collar. I close my eyes and breathe again. It smells like John, just like he smelled this morning.

I'd rolled over and buried my face into his neck at the sound of the alarm. After years in the military he is almost always awake just before the alarm. This morning was no different. He'd turned it off quickly and settled back into the pillow. I kissed just below his ear and he let out a pleased hum. "Don't go to work today." I ask of him, just as I ask every morning.

He'd smiled, just like he does every morning, and insisted that he had to go in. His patients needed him.

I need him more. There are other doctors. There is only one of my John.

All scents are based on particles. I can feel little bits of John entering my lungs and surging through my body. I breathe in and my throat burns, again.

I count to 20. That's all I get.

I fold the shirt neatly and set it aside.

His trousers are next; they are just standard John khaki trousers. He almost buys them in bulk. I have never bothered to differentiate between them, like I have done with his jeans, dress trousers, sweats and pyjama bottoms. These are for his work and therefore separate from me. I fold them, quickly confirming the blood stain and tears from being dragged and set them aside.

His jacket is next.

The black one he wears frequently. The black one he wore, not at our first meeting, but when he first came to Baker St. The first time he ever stepped into what would become our home, he was wearing this jacket.

It is not the most flattering, or the most stylish. But it is so John, such a constant element in my pictures of him. So fundamental. I love this jacket, love it. I will have to replace it for him. I note the maker on the tag. It is not an expensive brand. Perhaps I will buy him an expensive one. He'll cherish it.

It's ruined, shredded in the back from bearing the brunt of the dragging. And there is so much blood that it makes the matte fabric shine in places. It is still damp, no longer warm but cool to the touch as the blood has dried.

I squeeze the fabric of the sleeves between my fingers. The feeling is familiar, welcome. I've touched John's arm countless times, feeling this fabric under my touch. I've felt it pressed against me as my freshly showered body pressed against John, just home from work.

I grab either end of the collar and hold it up to my nose, the smell of John is strong here, overwhelming. This isn't cleaned as often as the shirt.

I take a deep breath and hold it.

I count to 30.

Running through the London streets after a cab, after a madman. Looking up and realizing that it was him, he'd shot the cab driver.

I take another breath and count to 30 again.

Walking out of the flat after a fight. Walking back in the next morning after the explosion. Sitting with me days later laughing about the weird hairless cat. Laughing.

Then once more, and I drag the count out to 45 this time, my lungs desperate for new oxygen.

Leaning over after a different chase, walking up to me, touching me. Sitting across the floor from me, kissing me, guiding me. Kneeling between my legs, touching me again, lightly, slowly, tracing, dancing his fingers across me, showing me there was nothing to fear. Showing me he'd never hurt me. Loving me. Loving me so much.

I yank it away from my face, a wet gasp escaping my lips. My cheeks are damp, but I can't make myself care. I can't make myself be horrified at the weakness.

The jacket is too small for me to put on properly, but I can hold it in front of me and slip my arms into the sleeves. I do so, feeling the tightness of the material against my arms. My arms are where John's arms were, feeling what he felt. Wearing what he wore.

I yearn to bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my body around this smell. It isn't possible though, the chair too small to accommodate the position. I settle for bringing the collar back to my nose and bunching as much of the jacket together as I can.

I breathe in. I count. 1…2…3…4…5

I shift and something heavy hits my side. I ignore the sensation for a moment before I pull back and look towards the pocket. There is something in the pocket.

I fumble to reach it, unwilling to take my arms out of the sleeves.

It takes a minute but I manage to close my fingers around what feels like a box. I pull it out and look at it.

I stop breathing. My diaphragm relaxes and the air eases out of my lungs in a slow hiss, but it doesn't contract again. Instead it stills and I take in no new air.

I stare at it. It's a box, a jewelry box. I recognize the emblem as belonging to a store in Chelsea. Oddly, I wonder why he went to Chelsea. Could he not find anything closer?

I gasp in a breath as if I'd been drowning.

I know what's inside.

A jewelry box. A jewelry box in his pocket on the day we were celebrating our anniversary.

I am…I am…surprised. I hadn't been expecting this. I hoped soon, maybe, the not too distant future. But not tonight, I never expected tonight.

I run my fingers over it. The box is covered with very fine leather, excellent quality. Expensive, not that it matters in the slightest, but a high quality box hints at a high quality jeweler.

I trace my fingers along the smooth leather, feeling the valley where the emblem has been branded. It is silver in color and I wonder if that denotes the color of the metal inside.

I don't open it.

I bring it up to my nose and smell it.

It smells like leather and what I assume is the store. It feels smooth as it brushes my lips.

I don't open it.

I imagine John holding it. I imagine John going into a store, shopping. Did he pull on the sleeves of his shirt, one of his nervous habits, debating the pros and cons of multiple selections? Did he see one and know instantly that it was the one he wanted? What factors did he consider when picking them? Color? Durability? Are they exactly the same, showing we are united? Or do they complement each other, like we complement each other?

I don't open it. My hand is shaking. I don't open it. I am shaking.

How was…

"He was terrified." A voice interrupts my thought. It's Harry.

I look up and she has a sad smile on her face. She isn't looking at me, but at the box in my hand. She continues. "He told me at lunch today that he was going to ask you." She frowns. "He was so nervous and he asked me for advice. Me, that's laughable right?" She isn't laughing.

I look back to the box in my shaking hand. My grip on it tightens.

Nervous? Why? Surely he knew I'd say yes. Of course I'd say yes. I will say yes, soon. If not, I'll ask him and he can say yes. It doesn't matter. There will be a question and there will be a yes. There has to be.

"They're beautiful." She says getting my attention again. She looks vacant, lost in memory.

I don't open it. I can't.

"I…" I clear my throat. "I haven't…" I pause staring at the box. "I haven't opened it."

She frowns, her eyes moving up to meet mine for the first time since she walked into the office. She looks sad, like John does sometimes when he thinks about the war or the people he lost, when he remembers.

I hate when John looks like that.

I hate that Harry is looking like it now. John is not lost, his whereabouts is just unknown.

She walks forward, and my hand seizes around the box so that one of the corners is stabbing into my palm. I will not let it go.

She doesn't reach for it.

Instead, she runs her fingers along my arm, along the jacket. I realize suddenly that I must look ridiculous. I have a coat that is too small, on backwards, with my arms through the sleeves only as far as they will go.

Harry doesn't seem to notice that it is ridiculous. She just traces the material, fingers barely brushing over it.

She smiles the sad smile again. I don't like it much either.

I want to pull away. I don't want her to touch me. I don't want her touching John's jacket with that smile on her face.

Lestrade charges into the room, door bouncing against the wall as he forces his way through it.

He looks between us quickly, eyes aflame.

I jolt upright, shooting to my feet. Harry jumps back, startled. I understand the look. I understand Lestrade.

My breathing is too fast, too rushed. I can't control it, I don't want to. My heart is pounding, in my chest. It's is pounding in my ear. I'm certain the whole room can hear it.

I start trying to fumble out of the jacket, trying to force it off my arms without loosening my grip on the box.

Harry is looking at me alarmed, but she will know as soon as Lestrade speaks. I have to get out of the jacket. She grabs the collar, stabilizing it, allowing me to begin to extract myself.

"University College Hospital. A white van was abandoned in their ambulance entrance. When they went to examine it they found John in the back. He's in surgery."

Harry gives the jacket a final pull and my arms are free. I walk past her and past Lestrade. I don't look back to see if they are following. It doesn't matter.

I have to get to John.

I feel the corner of the box puncture through my palm and the warm sensation of my own blood coming to the surface. It hurts, but it is irrelevant.

I have to get to John. Now.