"Do you miss him?"
John grunted, barely acknowledging his wife's existence. He'd started seeing Mary again. Most of the time she didn't say anything, just stood there and smiled reassuringly. But John liked it when she spoke. He missed her voice, the way her eyes would glow when she laughed.
He missed him too. He missed both of them. His wife, and his best friend, both mercilessly ripped from him, leaving him alone in this cold, cruel world.
No, that wasn't true. He had Rosie. He had Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock had once said, In saving my life, she conferred a value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend. He did know, though, at the end. Sherlock died saving John and Mycroft. Mary's sacrifice was still alive in them.
John ran his hand over his chair, trying not to look up at the empty one across from him. Mary continued to wait, patiently, by the door. She never entered the flat though, as if it was a sacred space. In a manner of speaking, it was. It was the place for the desperate, the lonely, the ones with nowhere else to go. The place where two men went on their ridiculous adventures. But most importantly, it told the story of a broken solider and a heartless detective, coming together and completing each other in so many ways.
"I do." John admitted. Mary gave him a sympathetic smile. "Why don't you come on in?" Mary shook her head, but John already knew that she wouldn't.
"What are you going to do next?" Mary asked. John rubbed his face hard, messing up his hair as he did so. Rosie was downstairs with Mrs. Hudson. They knew, of course. Or at least Mrs. Hudson did. Lestrade, too, and probably the majority of Scotland Yard.
That just left Molly Hooper. John grimaced at the prospect of breaking the news to her. She had always been sweet on Sherlock, but after the emotional context incident...well, it was better to get it over with sooner rather than later.
"I need to tell Molly." John mumbled. He waited for Mary to reply, but she had disappeared.
Sighing, he stood up, stretching. Every joint in his body seemed to pop, he had been curled up in that chair for what seemed like hours. John slowly made his way towards the door, trying not to look at the flat. Every thing, from the science equipment to the lines of dust on the wall, reminded him of Sherlock and every glance brought a burst of pain within him, as if someone was slapping his heart.
John finally cleared the stairs, keeping his eyes away from the stretch of wall he and Sherlock had both leaned on, all those years ago, laughing about chasing cabs down London. It was also the place where John had officially moved in, thereby changing his life forever.
John reached up to grab his jacket, and caught sight of the coat hanger, empty except for that darn deerstalker hat. John realized with a pang of sadness that he did not know where Sherlock's coat or scarf was. After they had stolen the boat Sherlock had changed into the security guard's uniform, leaving his signature accessories to the sea. John wished he'd kept track of them, it would be comforting to be able to hold onto a piece of Sherlock. Alas, the deerstalker would have to do.
He opened the door and stepped out, as he had done with Sherlock many times before. Yet now there was only one set of footsteps. It felt quiet.
"Taxi!" John called, waving his hand. He'd better get his act together, because the next few hours were not going to be easy.