Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: 'Hands you a tissue' Sorry about that last chapter! Geez, all the angst.
John stood if front of the door to 221B Baker street.
John chuckled at how ironic it was. Of course the git's address is 221B. John took a deep breath in and promptly coughed. London air had not improved since he had been away.
Thankfully, Mycroft had had all of John's things delivered. With his right arm now in a sling and his left hand gripping his cane, John could barely hold onto the violin case. He had refused to let it out of his sight. It felt like an anchor in a storm that John could still not weather.
He steeled himself and knocked on the door. He had been pleasantly surprised when Mycroft had told him that Sherlock employed a housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson. She was a charming older woman.
"Here, deary, hand me that case." She held out her hand but John recoiled from it.
"Thank you. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather carry it."
John was almost used to the sad look he would get from people. Mycroft, Lestrade and now Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't like he carried it around everywhere, but when he did have it, John preferred that only he touched it.
Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. "I've made you a nice fire. Now, go sit yourself down and I'll make a pot of tea. I've got some scones warming up now."
She was away in a flurry of skirts. John smiled. Baker street was very nice. He made his way to the sitting room. It had been recently cleaned. Sherlock must have been in Canada for quite a while. John remembered how Sherlock said he hated cleaning. 'Dust can leave a trail for a criminal to blunder into, clean surfaces...' John placed the violin case down gingerly and sat down.
The fire felt fantastic. It was now December and John could barely believe how cold it had become. There were a few decorations in the room. A bit of garland and a small tree. John was sure that was all Sherlock would have allowed.
John felt his heart clench.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea...when I look around, all I can see is him. But maybe John liked it that way? The memories were bitter sweet (and filled with regrets) but it was better than feeling nothing. Wiping the slate clean of Sherlock all together, was something John couldn't even contemplate.
He and Mrs. Hudson exchanged small gifts on Christmas. She gave him a pair of gloves and John gave her the best remedy, a bottle of Mr. Gin's cream, he could find for her bad hip. It was a quiet affair and Lestrade was the only guest; he dropped by for a few minutes.
He and John had gone out for a beer or two, but with Sherlock gone there was no real reason to keep up a more constant relationship. Even though it was true that Lestrade acted as a liaison between Mycroft and him, there had been little information to convey.
"I wish you would have come to Christmas eve dinner." Lestrade took a sip of his sherry.
John smiled warily. "I appreciate the invitation, but I really have no business being there."
Lestrade nodded in understanding.
Winter had began to thaw and John was finally able to feel the full use of his fingers again. He had opened up a small practice inside the sitting room for consultations. His arm was still in a sling, but had healed enough that it allowed him to examine patients if the illness wasn't too serious. Occasionally, he worked at the hospital but John rather liked working from home.
It was only possible because Mycroft had given him a large sum of money. At first John had refused to take it, but then Mycroft had finally told John the "truth".
"It was intended for Sherlock's widow."
"What?"
Mycroft took a deep breath. "Mother was never sure if he would marry, but if he did, she was sure that he would never leave enough for funeral expenses. His lifestyle, as it were. Since you are the closest he ever got to a 'wife' I deemed that it should go to you."
John was flabbergasted. Slightly flattered; and annoyed. John finally relented when Mycroft refused to back down. Mostly, John agreed because if didn't take the money he would have had to leave 221B for cheaper accommodations soon. A situation that John didn't even want to begin to imagine.
Mycroft never told John it was all a lie. There was no money for Sherlock's widow. Mycroft had known John couldn't afford Baker street for every much longer, so he decided to share some of the money he earned. Having a 'minor' position in the British government did have its perks.
It was another restless night stuck inside. Wind and rain pounded against the windows. John remembered the storm that had accompanied the air pirates. John stared unblinking into the fire until the light stung his eyes.
It wasn't that he was trying to forget Sherlock. More, that he was exhausted from having everything remind him of Sherlock. See the sugar on the table? Sherlock took two sugars with his tea. A man that was too thin? Sherlock should have ate more. The opera is in town? Sherlock always loved a good opera. Would you like to attend a ball? Sherlock was such a gracefully dancer.
Sometimes, even though it made him slightly ill, John would smoke a cigarette. The smell of tobacco reminded him of Sherlock too. There was a beautifully carved pipe that John had found. He would have loved to seen it touch the lips of Sherlock. John took the pipe out of its case and displayed it on the mantlepiece.
John's eyes wandered from the pipe to Sherlock's violin case. With hesitant hands. John unclasped it. He always kept it propped against his chair. John looked down at the violin.
It must be horribly out of tune. John wasn't ever sure if that happened to violins; like pianos that had been ignored for too long. You're sad, aren't you? No one to touch you anymore...to play you, making sweet music. John knew he wasn't just thinking of the violin now.
With tentative hands, he lifted the violin out of its case. He turned it over, inspecting it. John took out the violin bow and without thinking, he placed the violin in the crook of his neck. His arm had almost healed completely. Four months was about all it took to heal a broken arm. Well, one cracked in a few different places.
What am I doing? He let out a small laugh. I must look ridiculous! John touched bow to violin and a horrible sound came out from it. John frowned. Of course it would sound like a dying cat.
Suddenly, John remembered the aether. He had ignored it mostly over the last few months; just another reminder of Sherlock. John had been surprised when it hadn't disappeared. He just took it as a sign that he still loved Sherlock; what John didn't realize was that it was proof that he was still loved.
Please aether, if its in your power, help me play. Just this once. John brought bow to string again, and this time, he was rewarded with a sweet sound. It was low and sad. John cleared his mind from all thoughts and allowed the aether to direct his movements.
John vaguely remembered the piece as one that Sherlock had played frequently. Until this very moment, John had almost forgotten it. He let the music surge over and into him. He closed his eyes and memories invaded his senses.
'Do you want to have dinner?'
'Do you want to see my experiment?'
'Come to the ball with me.'
'Have you ever had a broken heart?'
'John, I love you.'
The tears fell and John continued to play on.
The next morning it was bright, sunny and oddly warm. John was filled with a blissful peace, and for some reason, John felt that the day was full of promise. He whistled as he buttered his toast. Mrs. Hudson came in when he was in the middle of pouring tea.
"Doctor, I know its early, but there's a patient here to see you."
John sighed. "Can no one read that consulting hours don't begin until 9 am. Fine, fine. Show him in."
John placed down the teapot and went to go retrieve his medical bag. He was only in his dressing gown, but the visitor was male and visiting outside of his hours. The unknown man could just deal with it.
He turned to greet the man. He had a long beard and straggly hair. What was left of his face was shadowed by a hat. The man let out a long rattling cough.
"Please come and take a sit sir."
The stranger nodded and sat down. "If you will give me a moment, I will find my stethoscope." John took his time getting the instrument from his bag. A thought had dug into John's mind. It's Sherlock. If I take long enough, he'll have time to take off that silly beard.
But when John finally turned back to his patient, there was still an old man sitting there.
Six months. I only knew Sherlock for about a month. It is right that my grieving period is longer than my whole relationship with the man?
The nights had gotten warmer, but the only reason was because summer was fast approaching. With Mycroft's generosity, of quite a substantial allowance every month, John had been able to save up some of his consultation fees. John spent one May evening contemplated taking a small vacation to Paris or Venice. He had spent too long locked up the rooms of 221B. John didn't necessarily look forward to a vacation by himself, but that was how it had started last time.
John laughed. It sounded hollow against his ears.
He curled up in his chair. John had drifted in and out of consciousness for the last half an hour. He put a bookmark in his medical journal and stood up. John stretched. He flinched slightly; he had been so stiff lately.
I feel like I've aged ten years in the last one. He knew why. Life had been so boring and the mundane did not suit John. He made his way to his room, only pausing for a moment to pass a look at Sherlock's room. He had never gone in there and he probably never would.
John opened the door to his bedroom. There was a prone sleeping figure in it.
It was Sherlock Holmes.