I woke up to the sound of loud voices and dogs barking. I scrambled to my feet, staggering out of a dream. "Yes, sir!" I shouted, barely awake. I saluted to the voices, imagining a sergeant in their place.

A deep voice told me to freeze, and I did. I stared strait into his eyes, not daring to move. He was wearing a uniform, badges pinned across his chest and biceps. He gave me a puzzled look as he pulled his dog back toward him. Another officer came up behind him, stopping short when he saw me. He had a slight limp. Recognition passed across the second man's face, and I realized who it was.

"Watson?" he inquired, scratching his head.

I nodded. "Yardley."

Owen Yardley nodded and tipped his hat. "Pleasure."

"As it is mine." I stood at ease. "How's the leg?"

He grumbled to himself, "Could be worse."

"What brings you here?" the first man asked.

"Sorry. I'll be going," I sighed. Picking up my shovel, I kicked some dirt into the hole and turned.

"Wait."

I turned back around, following Owen's gaze to the headstone. "What is it?"

His face was as white as a sheet and his hands trembled. He leaned against his dog for balance, lips quivering with fear.

"What is it?"

"How did you know him?"

"We lived together, before he passed." I gripped the shovel tightly, pulling my coat tighter around me.

"Get out of that flat, get out as soon as you can."

I opened my mouth to ask why, but the first officer was pulling Owen away by the arm, muttering about 'medical help.'

I pressed my shovel into the cool dirt, feeling the morning dew drag against the metal. Lifting the earth from its home relaxed my muscles as I followed the path to Sherlock's memory. My bones ached and my stomach churned with anticipation, but my heart was content.

An hour into digging, the whole had reached about five feet deep. I stuck the shovel in once more time.

Bam! A hollow vibration resonated from the ground. My chest heaved with the skipping thrum of my heart. I dug out the dirt around the coffin and brushed it out of the cracks along the grain. I pressed my fingers into the wood next to the latch, pressing on both sides and flinging it open.

I expected to find a rotting corpse, flesh hanging loosely on the bones of the beloved Sherlock's body. I expected to have to cover my mouth and nose as I stumbled back onto the grass. I'd thought this through in my head for so long before this moment, I thought I'd be sobbing at the memory of the man I loved, not frozen in shock at finding it coffin empty. None of his belongings were even there.

I could almost feel my stomach clenching in horror. I wasn't sure whether to tell someone or just fill in the hole and leave. I chose the latter. Slamming the box shut and latching it, I scooped dirt back into the grave. Another hour and I'd be home free.

I unlocked the door to my flat, flinging it open in hopes of lying down and napping. Unfortunately, I had company.

"Mrs. Hudson!" I gasped in shock, greeting the landlady jovially. "What brings you up this morning?"

It all happened so fast, I barely knew what was happening. She jumped up, spinning on me and slapping me square on the cheek. I reeled in shock. "Mrs. Huds – ,"

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? YOU'VE GOT SOME NERVE, NOT LEAVING A NOTE, NOT CALLING. WHAT HAS GOTTEN INTO YOU?!" she started on me before I managed to recover.

"Mrs. Hudson..." I attempted to explain myself again.

"JOHN WATSON, YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE, YOUNG MAN!"

"Mrs. Hudson,"

"WHAT?"

"I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself," I said blatantly. I placed my palm on her forearm, making an attempt at comforting her.

She nodded in a defeated manner. "I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't have said anything." Her face flushed in embarrassment.

"It's alright. Would you like some tea?"

She shook her head as she wiped tears out of her eyes. "I already had some." She gestured at the kitchen, tea leaves and cups spread across the countertop.

"I see. Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to take a nap." I opened the door for her. "Please don't cry."

Mrs. Hudson moved down the stairs heavily. "I really am sorry, John." She turned back to look at me.

"It's really alright." I closed the door, sliding the latch into place. I trudged somberly to Sherlock's bedroom, trying to console myself. I toppled onto the cool sheets, pressing my face into his pillow and taking in his scent. "Oh, Sherlock. What are you hiding?"

I tossed and turned on his bed, fighting against (yet for) sleep, however impossible that may be. I closed my eyes, I screamed into Sherlock's pillow, I ran my fingers through my hair. My exhaustion somehow didn't affect my sleep.

I got up from the bed, stroking the sheets as I stood. I closed the door silently behind me. I was still in shock, I guessed. It didn't surprise me that Sherlock had managed to deceive everyone and fake his own death, but where did all of his stuff go? How would he manage to get that?

I stopped short in the middle of the flat. A figure moved in the corner of my eye, and I turned cautiously on my heel. I sighed in relief when I saw who it was.

"Mycroft. What are you doing here?" I stammered.

"I have a delivery to make." Mycroft drew a box from behind his back. "I found it in my home yesterday afternoon. I thought you might like it."

I took the package from him, pulling the top off gingerly. My breath caught in my throat as I gazed at the fine wood and its intricately cut holes. "Why was this at your house?"

"He must have left it when he visited last. Anyway, I should be going."

"Wait – why didn't you just send someone to come get me? It seems to be an awfully insignificant reason to come all this way," I wondered suspiciously, touching the violin strings.

"I felt as though this, er, deserved something more. It is a time of grieving, after all." He pulled at the sleeves of his tweed suit jacket. Mycroft turned to leave.

"Hey." Mycroft looked at me. "Thank you."

He nodded and walked briskly down the stairs into a limo waiting at the bottom. I sighed, carrying the box to my bedroom upstairs. I placed it carefully on a shelf and sat down at my desk. I let my head fall onto it, making an ominous cracking sound. I could feel heat on my face.

"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock." I slammed my fist onto the desk. "Please...I need you."

I heard Mrs. Hudson's footfalls beneath me, moving through her kitchen as she prepared her tea and biscuits for the afternoon soap operas. I opened the top drawer, grabbing a stack of lined paper and a pen. I began writing vigorously, and before I knew what was happening, I had a letter. It read:

Dear Sherlock,

Where did you go? I need you here. Everything is so hard to manage without you. Mrs. Hudson has gone off on me about spending the night at your grave last night. I miss you. Everyone is grieving, Sherlock. Come back. We are all barely surviving.

I'm starting a job at St. Bart's next week. I don't know how I'll survive getting through the door, but I'll manage. We need – sorry, I need the money for rent and food. Mrs. Hudson has taken good care of me since you...died. I still can't believe it, Sherlock. What happened to us, against the rest of the world? You broke my heart, Sherlock.

Mycroft brought over your violin today. Why was it at his house? He delivered it himself, too. I thought that was weird. Why would he do that. The whole situation seemed deceiving.

The flat doesn't seem like home anymore without your sarcastic presence here to comfort me. You can't possibly understand how much energy it takes to live without you. You can't even begin to understand how much I need you. I guess we all need something. I think I'll die without you.

-JW

I folded up the letter, put it in the drawer, and fell asleep pondering death.