"John!" John looked up as the door creaked, opening to reveal Mrs. Hudson carrying a small, chubby baby.
"Mrs. Hudson! Rosie!" John smiled. He sat up and took his daughter from Mrs. Hudson's arms. She cooed happily and grabbed's John's thumb with her tiny fingers. Mrs. Hudson dragged up a chair and sat down.
"I've only just heard," she started. "John, I am so, so sorry."
They kept saying that to him. Why were they sorry? Did something bad happen?
"Er..." John wasn't sure how to respond. "Huh?"
"I know it's not like last time," Mrs. Hudson continued, dabbing at her eyes. "But sometimes I find myself making a cuppa, thinking Sherlock'll come home. I just can't believe..." She sniffled and shook her head, evidently unable to continue.
John couldn't bear it anymore. He had to ask.
"Who is this Sherlock everyone keeps talking about?" As he said it, a pang of guilt ran through his body, yet he wasn't sure why.
Mrs. Hudson blinked a couple times, looking confused. "What do you mean, who's Sherlock?" She attempted to laugh, as if he had said something funny, but started crying instead.
"People say he's my best friend and my flatmate." John replied. "But I don't know who he is! I've lived by myself for as long as I can remember, and my best friend is Mike Stamford. You...you offered me the flat at a lower price..." John shook his head. "I can't remember why. But I've been working with Molly Hooper at Barts since then, I'm a doctor."
When he finished, he looked up to see Mrs. Hudson horrified. Something—many things about what he had just said sounded so wrong, like when you use a word too many times and it starts to feel awkward. And yet he found himself desperately clinging to the statement, as if it were a lifeline.
Mrs. Hudson gaped. "Oh dear..."
"What?" John asked, now slightly annoyed.
"I think you need to come with me."
ooOoo
221B Baker Street
John read the nameplate a couple times. The door was black, relatively good condition, except for a small chip near the door handle. The knocker was also crooked. He reached up to fix it, but stopped himself at the last second. Something held his hand back.
He hadn't spoken to Mycroft since, well, he arrived. In fact, Mycroft hadn't contacted him at all, so John just sort of assumed he was away on government business.
Mrs. Hudson stepped up and placed the key in the lock. The door swing open with a click, and John stepped in.
Clouds of dust drifted upwards, and the scent of cleaning chemicals filled the room. John slowly walked up the stairs into their flat.
Their flat? No, just his flat.
The living room came into view and John was appalled. It was a mess of papers, junk, and chowder all mixed into one giant dump that was scattered throughout the flat. There was science equipment on the kitchen table, and a knife stabbed through the mantelpiece. His mind immediately jumped to robbers, then realized if someone had really ransacked the place, they would not leave all that junk behind.
"It's so messy, did someone..." John trailed off. His eyes had landed on the violin.
And suddenly, like water bursting through a dam, everything came back to him. He had lived here with Sherlock Holmes, world's only—and greatest—-consulting detective. And now Sherlock, his Sherlock, was dead. Because he had shot himself at Sherrinford.
"Oh, god, oh god!" John yelled, doubling over and holding his head. He sank to the floor, shaking. "He's dead...he's never coming back." he whispered. The meaning of the words finally hit him, and his brief fantasy shattered.
How could he have forgotten—no, not forgotten—chose to deny his friend's existence? Was it because he was just in shock and denial, or was it because he was too cowardly to face the harsh reality of the truth?
Mrs. Hudson kneeled down beside him, wincing as her hip protested. She didn't say anything, just merely proceeded to wrap him up in a hug.
"Why did he have to die, Mrs. Hudson? Why did he leave us?" John sobbed.
Mrs. Hudson sniffled. "Because he loved you."