All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter Four

'The Belstaff Coat'

Dr John Watson gave a little weary groan as he slowly straightened up, pressing his hands hard into the small of his back as he attempted to stretched his aching body. It was late afternoon, the skies outside the window were turning grey, suggesting rain and there was a definite chill in the air. Although John and Mrs Hudson haven't stopped labouring through Sherlock's clutter since midday, they had only just managed to pack up one small corner of the living room. The ten cardboard boxes of varying sizes, some John suspected were originally intended to hold police evidence and case files, were all neatly stacked upon or in front of the green leather sofa. And there were seven large, black bin bags scattered about the room bugling with scrap paper and discarded, unpaid bills.

"Oh John" sighed Mrs Hudson as she tied up the last of the rubbish bags. "I am such a nuisance; you haven't missed your train back now have you?"

"It doesn't matter" replied John calmly. "I'll find somewhere nearby then we can get stuck into this again tomorrow"

"You will do nothing of the sort John Watson" scolded Mrs Hudson waving her finger at him. "Didn't I say you were always welcome to stay with me?"

"Oh no...no...I couldn't intrude..." replied John, a little shiver dancing down his spine at the thought of spending the night in 221, Baker Street again. "I wouldn't want to be a bother...beside I snore...terribly...use to keep Sherlock up all night sometimes"

"Honestly it is no bother..."insisted Mrs Hudson in a firm but maternal tone. "My late husband use to snore but if it will make you feel less embarrassed I'll just make up the bed in Sherlock's old room...I can't have you spending your money on a hotel when there is a perfectly good bed going free here John".

"Sherlock's room?" replied John a little taken aback as if Mrs Hudson had suggested he trespassed upon hallowed ground.

"Well yes dear...if that is okay because I gave the bed in your room to Mrs Turner next door...apparently her two tenants...you remember the married ones? Well now it seems that they insist upon separate beds something about one of them working nightshifts...I don't know..." explained Mrs Hudson as she walked over to the little table to clean away the tray.

"No...no...that's fine" replied John in a strangled whisper, his voice rising a couple of octaves higher than normal.

"Thank you for doing this John. I don't think I could have faced sorting through all his stuff on my own"

"It's my pleasure, honestly. I am glad that you asked me...my therapist would say it packing up Sherlock's possessions was healthy, that it would help me to move on" said John thoughtfully.

"And do you believe that?" asked Mrs Hudson kindly, her expression questioning, full of apprehension for the man she had come to consider, like Sherlock as someone more like a son to her than a lodger.

"Not really" answered John quietly, sighing sadly as he thrust his hands into his jeans pockets and glanced down nervously at the floor.

"Shall I make us dinner, nothing fancy perhaps beans on toast or I could pop out and get us some fish and chips?" asked Mrs Hudson reluctant to leave John on his own but desperate not to scare him off by smothering him with all her motherly concern.

"To be honest I'm not that hungry Mrs Hudson but I'll go to the chip shop if you like" replied John as he finally decided to snatch up the solar system model from under the table. Dusting it down with the sleeve cuff of his cable knit jumper he carefully placed the model into a box on his armchair, memories of Sherlock he had permitted himself to keep, to help him 'move on'. "I think I have a tenner left in my wallet ..."

"Oh John" scolded Mrs Hudson shaking her head. "I'm fine but you really should eat something; you're looking so pale and thin..."

"You sound just like Harry...oh shit...shit...she'll be setting off to meet me from the train. Sorry Mrs Hudson I better give her a call and let her know I am staying here tonight" said John as he started to fumble through his jacket pockets to locate his mobile phone.

"You do that dear" replied Mrs Hudson as she picked up the tray and started towards the door. "I'll go find you some clean bed linen and a blanket. And perhaps a nice mug of hot chocolate, it will help you sleep and I'll leave the biscuits here..." she continued placing the half packet of Hobnobs on the corner of the kitchen table. "Just in case you get a little peckish in the middle of the night, but I insist on making you a proper breakfast in the morning you hear...you can't go on just eating biscuits John, it just isn't good for you...you should know that dear, you are a doctor"

"Thank you Mrs Hudson" said John quietly as he watched her disappear out of the door. John took a deep breath as he decided to send Harry a text instead. He just couldn't face the questions, the accusations that would only result in yet another heated argument about how his former flatmate still had a hold over him even from beyond the grave, that he was more haunted by Sherlock's death than everything he had suffering during his service in Afghanistan and he just needed to let go.

John had been far too tired to make the bed up properly, besides it was only going to be for one night so he just tucked the bottom sheet around the mattress, pulled on one of the pillow cases and draped the rest of the bed linen over the bed. He sat lost in thought upon the edge of Sherlock's dark, wooden framed bed as he sipped the hot chocolate that Mrs Hudson had bought him before she retired to bed herself. He knew Mrs Hudson, his sister; everyone meant well, everyone was worried about him but how could they know just how deeply Sherlock's life had touch him, just how deeply he grieved for his best friend when he couldn't put it into words himself. 'He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him', John knew the last pathetic few words he had posted onto his blog were by no means a fitting epitaph but he just couldn't bear to write about Sherlock's death, that just made it all too real, too final in his mind.

John let out a heavy, sad sigh as he put his empty mug down upon the bedside table and got ready for bed. After splashing his face with water and due to the absence of a toothbrush he quickly swilled his mouth out with an old bottle of mouthwash he had found in the bathroom cabinet. Slipping out of his boots and socks, John glanced around the dimly lit bedroom for somewhere to put his clothes. John's years of military service had drummed into him the need to be neat and organized so it was no surprise that he soon found himself standing barefoot before Sherlock's wardrobe. As he tugged his chunky jumper over his head and slowly started to unbutton his red, cotton shirt John decided the best thing would be if he hung his clothes up in the wardrobe, he had to wear them home the next day after all.

John pulled open the wardrobe door and almost instantly slammed it shut again. Taking a deep breath he inched open the door to what he had thought would have been an empty wardrobe only to discover it contained the one thing he had never expected to see again, the grey Belstaff coat, Sherlock's coat. John's hands started to tremble as he gently pulled the 'Millford' coat out of the wardrobe, his chest tightened as his fingers caressed the faded, stripy blue scarf, neatly knotted around the neck just as Sherlock worn it.

John staggered backwards, suddenly lightheaded and nauseous as he desperately clung to the coat, burying his face in the familiar heavy woollen fabric as a violent resurgence of suppressed feelings associated with the last time he saw Sherlock wearing the coat stabbed at his heart. Shaking, fighting back the terrible memories John toppled onto the bed as the back of his legs collide sharply with the wooden frame. All pain and embarrassment John might have felt as he rolled over on the mattress were overshadowed by his inconsolable grief for the lost of his best friend. Curling onto his side, still wearing his jeans and too emotional exhausted to even pull the blanket over himself, Dr John Watson cried himself to sleep.