"Today's the day," John thought as his alarm went off at precisely 7:00am. He turned over and pushed the button labeled 'OFF,' trying to stop the noise as soon as he could, despite the fact that nobody else was in the flat.
That was the reason for today, after all. Mrs. Hudson had offered to let him stay at half the rent, saying she would just find somebody to live in 221C, "A nice girl, perhaps," but he knew that he couldn't stay here. He quickly put on a pair of trousers and a cabled sweater. There were still some boxes that needed to be packed.
Everything felt so different, even though nothing much had changed. Only Sherlock was gone; him and his ridiculous black coat and blue scarf. That man who had only so recently come into his life. John couldn't understand it - he had seen men die right in front of him, men he had known for years, good men with wives and children - but none of that could have prepared him for how he was feeling right now.
"We were just flatmates," he said out loud as he walked into the living room, startling himself with the sound and angry tone of his own voice. The flat was much quieter without Sherlock; there was no violin music, no shouting at the telly, and no clicking of computer keys as he wrote another one of his blog entries. John chuckled as he remembered the last one, "Analysis of Tobacco Ash." The man was brilliant, but really, who would want to read about the 243 different kinds of tobacco ash?
He stopped chuckling once he realized that he would give anything to be able to read it now. So many small regrets playing in his head.
The amount of emotions he felt about Sherlock being gone were startling, the confusion of those last few minutes still played in his mind. Had Sherlock known Mrs. Hudson hadn't been shot - is that why he said he was too busy to go? And if he had known it was a lie... did he set it up? Did Sherlock know he was going up on the roof of St. Bart's to d-
John slumped into the chair right behind him, unaware that he had been pacing while deep in his thoughts.
He still couldn't say the words, or even think about them. He looked around the room at all of his belongs in their moving boxes despondently as he tried to figure out where he was going to go from here. He was planning to stay with Harry for a little while as he searched for a new flat, but he didn't know whether or not he'd find one close enough to keep his current job. But maybe a change of job would be good too; get out of London and away from all of the happenings at 221B.
His next flat would pose much less of a threat to his life, he imagined, as he stood up and started towards the kitchen to make some tea. He would finally have a normal life, one not so plagued with danger and death.
But as soon as that thought crossed his mind he faltered, remembering what Mycroft had deduced the first time they ever met. John Watson was not a man who was haunted by war - he was a man who missed it. He had been taken out of one war only to find himself in a different kind, but now this one was over, too. What was a man who thrived on war so much going to do?
Walking into the kitchen, he grabbed a mug from the cabinet and set it down next to the stove. He put the kettle on the burner, turned it on, and sat down at the table. It felt strange sitting there without Sherlock or any of his experiments - well, maybe he didn't miss the experiments that much. But that's not true. He did miss it, he missed everything. He missed not knowing what he was going to find every time he opened the fridge or turned on the microwave, he missed being wary of everything Sherlock ever made that he claimed was edible, he missed Sherlock and everything that he was, good and bad.
He sat in silence while the water began to boil, as he tried to make peace with the house itself. Maybe once he had done that, he could begin to make peace with the man he had shared it with.
This was more than just a flat though, John thought as he slammed his fist down onto the table. This had become his home. 221B Baker Street was more than just an address, it was a part of his life, one he hadn't wanted to end so soon. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," John said hoarsely, the words getting caught in his throat. Part of him stubbornly refused to believe it had happened at all. This was all just a joke, just an experiment. Sherlock was trying to see how he responded to tragedy, study the effects of grief. He'd give it some silly title and type it all up on that nonsense blog of his, only to delete it in a huff when nobody read it and complimented him on his genius deductions, because God knows what that man needs is more placation and acknowledgment of his massive intellect!
The whistling of the kettle startled John back into the present day and he noticed his hands were shaking as he stood up to turn the stove off.
"You can stop it now, thank you," he said in the general direction of the living room. Even though John knew that Sherlock wasn't there, it still felt like he was. Taking a breath, he continued in a stern voice, like he was reprimanding a young child he had caught stealing a candy bar. "Sherlock, this has gone on for quite enough time now." It had been almost a week since... the incident, after all. "I'm serious, I've another flat all lined up," he continued to speak towards the empty room, though his eyes remained fixed on the wall behind the stove.
"I've another flat, and I'm taking all of my things there this afternoon," he continued on, his voice becoming less stern and more hollow. "I'm moving out, Sherlock. I'm moving out and I'm not coming back so you better stop this little game unless you'd like to be in the market for a new flatmate."
The silence that followed only served to fuel his anger "I won't live here without you!" he shouted, startling himself not only with the volume, but the desperation in his voice. He gripped onto the oven railing "I can't live here without you, Sherlock," his voice broke as he tried to steady himself.
There was no sense to this all. Sherlock Holmes could not be dead, John just wouldn't accept it. And even though the rational part of his brain was imploring him to accept his friends' death, he wasn't going to give in. He believed in Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopathic consulting detective.
John believed in Sherlock Holmes, and he would continue to believe in him until the end. But what to do in the meantime? He looked around the room. Sure, it felt empty without Sherlock, but it was still a nice place, and he had been feeling slightly guilty about leaving Mrs. Hudson to find new tenants. Sherlock did have such a soft-spot for her, and he was fond of her himself. It wouldn't be fair to leave her, would it? He headed towards the door – he needed to take a walk to think about things. Harry wasn't coming over until after supper, he had plenty of time to figure out what he was going to do. He put on his shoes and stepped out into the chilly London air.
It was a rather dismal day outside, but that was to be expected. The air was thick with fog and the car horns were already honking as people started their morning commute. John was passed by many of these harried business men and women as he strolled down the street, hurrying to get to their offices and start their long day of work. John knew he could never work in an environment like that - he loved the excitement of being a doctor just as he had loved the danger of war in Afghanistan. He needed that adrenaline rush that came from being on the battlefield and saving lives.
He certainly wasn't going to get it now, he thought to himself. Continuing on down the road, he contemplated what his next move should be. Initially he hadn't thought he'd ever want to go back to Baker Street, though he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss it. It would be hard to live there without Sherlock, but John thought perhaps he could manage it. It certainly would be cleaner on his own. Maybe Harry would want to stay a little while before he made his final decision; who was he kidding, of course she'd like to stay for a while. It would be nice to have some company, plus he could keep an eye on her. She had told him that she was sober now, but he wasn't 100% sure he believed her. Slowing his pace, his shoulders sagged. He wouldn't have second guessed her at all were it not for Sherlock. Damn him!
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the shadow of a man turn down the alley about 10 yards ahead of him. He knew that it couldn't be Sherlock, but maybe...
He picked up his pace and briskly walked towards the entrance to the alley. He couldn't see very clearly, but the shadow had gone. It must have been the fog clouding his eyes. Discouraged, he began to walk away. But what if it wasn't? he thought. What if Sherlock is alive after all?
John's face flushed as a rush of emotions ran over him. What if that really was Sherlock who just slipped down the alley, timing it precisely so John would notice him? What if this was all a part of the experiment - Sherlock was trying to see how long John would cling to the belief he was alive and what he would do when he felt his beliefs were made real?
"I'll always believe in you, Sherlock," he said as he turned around, breaking into a run down the alley.
It was just your basic alley: cold, dark, littered with debris, and deserted. John spun around, frantically looking for a door, an alcove, somewhere that Sherlock could be hiding. "Sherlock!" he called out as he went further into the alley, not even trying to hide the raw desperation in his voice. He needed proof, he had to know that his beliefs were justified. He needed to know that Sherlock was alive.
"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John's voice sounded small, the sound was being absorbed by the fog and thick stone walls surrounding him. The situation became too much to handle, John fell to his knees with his head in his hands, weeping.
He stayed there on the ground for a while, tears falling and mingling with the puddles on the ground. He hadn't realized just how much he wanted Sherlock to be alive, how much he needed Sherlock to be alive. Suddenly, he heard a noise coming from his left. He pulled himself together and picked up the piece of cardboard laying next to him.
Huddled under it was one of the sorriest looking English bulldogs John had ever seen. He was a little on the scrawny side, his coat was a light fawn color, and he had a slight underbite. And yet he had a sort of distinguished air about him, like he knew something you didn't and that made him better than you. John rested back on his heels and stared at the dog. He figured he could take the dog with him to the local pound to see if anyone had lost him, or at least to get him out of the cold. John stood and moved to pick up the dog, making small reassuring noises as his arms extended out, and then he stopped; frozen.
Under the dog was a cream envelope with his name, John, written on it in neat, black script. Setting the dog down next to him, he reached down to pick it up. With trembling hands, he flipped it over, tearing it open. The letter read:
My dear John,
I hope you are well. I'm sorry I had to leave you, but I promise I am fine and one day, I will see you again. This is Gladstone; I'd like you to take care of him for me. He's become quite a friend to me, but I feel you could use him more. Dispose of this letter immediately. No one must know I am still alive. Until next time.
SH
He looked down at the dog next to him. "Gladstone, eh?" John said. Gladstone looked up at him expectantly. "I suppose I can see why he'd like you," John continued. "Let's get you out of the cold, I'll have Mrs. Hudson get you something from the butcher. Though you must remember, she is our landlady, not our housekeeper." Gladstone looked back at the cardboard box he had been under, then up to the roof. John followed his gaze, and though he couldn't be sure, he could have sworn he saw the shadowy figure of a man pulling back from the edge.
"Until next time, Sherlock." he said as he and Gladstone made their way out of the alley and back to 221B.