The silence in John Watson's flat was broken by the sound of Mycroft's phone: a text message from Sherlock.

"There is something I need to do. Take care of John. I shall be in touch. - SH"

John looks across at Mycroft, noticing the change in his demeanour. "Sherlock?" he asks - it seems to be all he says lately.

Mycroft nods, grimly. "He's not coming back here, is he?" John continues. Mycroft meets John's gaze: this isn't going to be easy and he needs to handle the situation with care and diplomacy.

"John", he begins, "Come with me to my office. There is much to discuss."

John nods, stands and, gripping his cane, makes to follow Mycroft. He might as well. Really, the day cannot get much worse.

Sherlock is dead.

John is broken.

Sherlock is here.

John is saved.

Sherlock is... gone.

John is... John doesn't know what he is, but he's damned if he's going to let Sherlock and Mycroft keep him in the dark about all of this.

As he leaves, he looks back at his flat: his cold, dark, lifeless flat and his grey, empty life.

Sherlock is alive. This much he knows, and this gives him hope.

Whatever else the day throws at him, it's fine. It's all fine.