Mycroft showed up.
Sherlock supposed it was about time. He had been sitting in the waiting room for nearly six hours, and some of the medical staff had begun to get concerned.
"Come along Sherlock," he sighed.
Sherlock got to his feet and followed his big brother down the hall, into the elevator, and leaned against the shiny surface, watching his distorted reflection. Mycroft didn't say anything, just waited until they reached the ground floor and led Sherlock to the waiting car.
He slid in and stared out the window as Mycroft had the driver take him home.
"I will handle all the funeral arrangements," he said softly.
Sherlock nodded slightly.
"You're not the only one grieving Sherlock," he reminded him. "He was loved and cared for by many. John was a wonderful person, and an even better friend."
But no one knew him like me. No one can feel like I do. No one. So don't try to tell me otherwise.
Sherlock's thoughts must have been so loud that Mycroft could hear them, or perhaps so acidic that they burned through his skull and were etched on his face, because he was silent for the rest of the ride.
The flat felt wrong. All of John's things remained where they were, Sherlock not having the heart to change them or do anything that would shatter the illusion that John had just gone to Sarah's for the night, or some other girlfriend, or maybe even a medical conference.
Because as long as Sherlock could lie to himself, he could get up in the morning. If he managed to make it to sleep, which was elusive and unattainable.
Sherlock grew mould on the bread, and there was no one around to yell at him that it wasn't acceptable. Somehow, the experiment wasn't as rewarding.
Likewise with the burning candies and mini explosions.
It was all rather dull.
There wasn't any milk in the fridge.