John was sitting at the kitchen table, coffee mug in hand as he stared blankly into the sitting room where Sherlock usually sat playing his violin or considering a case. It had been almost three days since the funeral, and John was slowly working on finding a new flat and moving out of Baker Street. He couldn't take the quiet and the memories anymore, knowing that he'd never see Sherlock again. Never hear his violin playing, never get annoyed with his spot-on deductions. Clearing his throat, John shook his head to try and rid himself of the thoughts that filled his brain. Mrs. Hudson entered, and he let her presence distract him.
"You should have a window open if you're going to be sitting in the gloom like this," the landlady informed him, her own grief masked as she tended to things as usual. John simply huffed and shrugged mildly. John ignored Hudson for the mostpart as she moved throughout the flat, but when she came back from Sherlock's room with a box that she set on the table, John allowed himself to be pulled momentarily from his fog of sorrow. "These are some of Sherlock's things, sheet music, pictures, the like... She thinks I don't know where he hides it, but I know more than he thinks," she told him, before marching back out.
John sat in silence, then let a small smile cross his lips. He knew Mrs. Hudson was trying to cheer him up, encouraging him to look through the box and find closure. But John felt certain such closure would be hard to come by as he pulled the box closer and pulled out various scribbles of sheet music, glancing over the notes and titles with some interest. When one caught his eye titled simply "For John", however, he frowned in confusion and opened the envelope, unfolding the piece of paper.
His eyes scanned the notes, forming in his head the tunes they might make. He was no mucisian, of course, but anyone could sort out the general do re mi of a song if they paid any attention to music at all. It took a few minutes, but eventually he began to form the tune in his head and a shot of familiarity stung his heart. He could recall the tune being played now and again when John was having a rough night. He had often asked Sherlock what it was, but Sherlock would simply shrug and tell him that it was "just a little melody".
For John.
"Oh, Sherlock..." John whispered, picking the envelope back up and looking over the two little words, in Sherlock's usual chicken scratch. Tears stung his eyes and he felt as though his heart might physically shatter in two, so deep and sharp and real was the pain that he felt in his chest. Sherlock had written that melody for John, especially for John. No doubt for the nights when he woke up from nightmares, because that was when he'd always heard it.
Pressing the sheet music against his face and overcome with emotion, John laid his head on the kitchen table and wept.