He tore himself from Lestrade's grasp and dragged his feet up the steps to his flat. No one spoke, no one tried to stop him, but when he stood in front of the door he hesitated. He knew what lay on the other side and he wasn't sure if he was prepared for it. To see everything just as it had been left, all of the imprints of John staining the flat, taunting him, hurt to think about. With his hand on the handle, he considered walking away. He could just leave and never return, which was a wistful thought but not a valid option. The crowd at his back was expecting him to go inside so he ripped open the door like a band-aid, walked in, and slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock kept his eyes squeezed shut childishly, as if not seeing it would make it untrue. He rested his back against the door, stealing deep, calming breaths. Slowly, he started to open his eyes, narrow slits at first, opening gradually until he could take in the whole scene. The reality of it hit him immediately and wrenched the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air as he slid to the floor. He curled up into the fetal position, hugging his knees to his chest as he looked around. Just beside him was John's coat, hanging limply from the wooden rack, never to be worn again. Dishes that were in the process of being cleaned by John sat in the sink. Even the air around him bore his scent.

There was evidence strewn everywhere of his life but he was no longer living it. All of the emotions he pushed down, trying not to feel, cracked open and saturated every inch of him. It caused a pain so overwhelming that he doubled over, feeling it as if it had been a physical knife thrust into his heart.

Even in his broken state, he was always thinking. He thought of those on the other side of the door he rested against and how they would react to his cries. Sherlock didn't want them bursting in there, offering help. He wanted to mourn alone. He pushed himself up onto shaky legs and managed to stumble into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. It was unfortunate for him that he hadn't thought too clearly. The bedroom was the worst place he could've gone because so much of him was there. Turning around to face the strewn clothes and disheveled bed only multiplied his agony. It forced him to realize that he would go to bed alone and wake up alone; a thought that was hard to process and hard to bear.

His sorrow had reached its peak, shredding his insides, clawing to escape until it tore him apart in a chilling wail. It was a deep, primal, ear-splitting noise, that could raise hairs, chill bones, and shatter hearts. In a single note, he slit open his soul and exposed it to the world.

The tears broke the surface, swimming in his eyes before falling down the hills of his cheeks, and the poor, broken detective crumpled into a ball on his bedroom floor. His thin, fragile frame was shaking from the sharp sobs and he stayed on the floor long after there were no tears left to be shed. Soon enough, he stopped moving altogether, staring at the wall across from him blankly. It was plain, no wallpaper, but his eyes found the imperfections and traced them as a task to stave off madness.

The flat was screaming in unheard mourning but when the whispers started they cut through the thunderous nothing. They started out soft and unintelligible but it was a constant stream of unwanted noise flooding through Sherlock's head. He plugged his ears, hoping to muffle the sound, but there wasn't any change. Impossible, he thought. He couldn't think of a reason at first as to why the volume wouldn't change but, when it hit him, the pace of his heart beat quickened. It's in my head.

That thought scared him more than anything; his mind was all he had left. The whispering never differed in volume but it didn't stop as Sherlock covered his head with his arms, humming to drown them out. He was on the verge on another breakdown when it stopped abruptly and silence cut through him again. He sighed in relief until he remembered the sadness and a mix of guilt and grief constricted his heart.

Sherlock picked himself up off the ground with difficulty and stared at the bed. Sherlock's side was left unmade, unable to bother with straightening the covers each morning, while John's side was fixed but wrinkled from where he'd sat earlier that day. He almost reached out to touch the spot but caught himself before he did. He didn't want to ruin it; he wanted to leave John's presence as noticeable as possible.

Sherlock's side of the bed appeared open and welcoming and he was starting to realize just how drained he felt. He kicked off his shoes and socks, removed his trousers, all in a trance-like state. However, when he unbuttoned his shirt he was jolted back to reality by a warm pair of dog tags resting against his chest. He had already forgotten about the stolen piece of John that hung around his neck. He reached up to touch them with hesitance, as if they would burn him, but ended up grasping them tightly with his right hand. The rutted metal was rough against his palm, the edges digging into his skin as he clutched them tighter. He was staring off into the distance, remembering the days events as if it were something long since forgotten. After a few seconds, he snapped out of it and slid the metal chain over his head. Sherlock gazed at the tags one more time before setting them safely on his nightstand.

He pulled off his shirt, picking up from where he'd stopped, and dropped it in a wrinkled, bloody pile on the floor. It was one thing that stayed normal, he wasn't going to exert effort by placing them in the laundry basket, but an idea hit him as he stared at the clothes on the floor. It was a comforting, yet masochistic, idea.

He glanced at the corner of the room where the laundry basket sat, holding the dirty laundry from the past week. Without a thought, he started digging through it until he closed a hand around what he'd wanted. It was John's striped jumper, the one he'd worn just a day before. He pressed the fabric to his nose, causing his heart to flutter and sink when he found it still smelled of him. Automatically, he dragged the clothing over his head and pushed his arms through it. It didn't fit quite right but it fit well enough. He inhaled the scent, treasuring it while it lasted, as he climbed into bed, careful not to disturb the other side. He settled in and looked to the empty space beside him that left him with a hollow chill. The pain of his absence was still that of a thousand twisting knives. He turned around and faced the wall, pretending he wasn't alone in the large, cold bed so that he would be able to sleep.

Sherlock slipped effortlessly into unconsciousness, which was slightly disconcerting to him because he had only just lain down. Soon after sleep, he slipped into a dream that felt too real, yet too impossible to be real. His mind concocted an image of himself walking through darkness, no floors or walls visible. He felt each step as it lifted and hit whatever was solid beneath his feet.

He kept walking, there wasn't much else to do in the midst of nothing, for what felt like ages. It seemed as though he had gotten nowhere when a flickering light appeared on what distinguished itself as the horizon. It was so bright in the midst of pure darkness that even that tiny light burned his eyes. He followed the light on instinct alone, hoping to escape the darkness.

He walked for hours with small increments of change to the light's size but that small change is what kept him going. The light had doubled in size before he noticed that it was a rectangular doorway. It was so close so Sherlock ran, charging toward an escape from the color-sucking blackness. The doorway was within a few feet when he had to stumble to a stop. A figure stood in the doorway, a familiar silhouette, features shrouded in shadows due to the back lighting. He knew that frame, the slightly ruffled hair, the cable knit jumper.

"John?" he whispered. Just speaking the name caused him to wince in pain.

"How could you do this to me, Sherlock?" John asked in a lifeless monotone.

"What do you mean? What did I do?" Sherlock, squinting into the light to try and see John's face.

"How could you?" John sounded so sad, so disappointed, as the darkness was suddenly bathed in light as if someone had flipped a switch.

Sherlock shielded his eyes from the blinding light. He had to blink a few times before he could see again but what he saw almost made him retch. John stood before him, standing in a wasteland of white rather than blackness, with pale skin that was tinged slightly green. His grayish brown eyes were dark and sunken in. He was clutching his heart as blood pumped through the cracks between his fingers. He dropped his hand to reveal a gaping gunshot wound before he repeated himself.

"How could you?"

"But I—"

Sherlock noticed smoke billowing in front of him and followed it down to its origin. His own right arm was extended, gun in hand with smoke emanating from the barrel.

"No," he whispered, horrified.

He was so scared that he almost didn't noticed the other warm hand that was gripping the gun on top of his own. Sherlock turned his head to the right to find Moriarty standing closely at his side. He had a cat-like grin on his face as he watched John bleed out in front of him. Moriarty started to speak but whatever he was saying left his mouth in unintelligible whispers. Sherlock dropped the gun and stepped away.

"John, I didn't," he said, pleading with the dead man.

"It was your fault."

"No…"

"I'm dead because of you."

"NO!" Sherlock screamed in anguish, waking himself up with the startling noise.