I'm afraid this chapter is rather uneventful, I hope I'm not boring people with my story so far!

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Fourteen Days

I have made a rough estimate of how long I have locked myself inside the house. My methods are not the most modern of techniques, but they appear to be working. I count how many times the light slowly disappears outside my window and I am plunged into darkness. Fourteen times that's happened now, my tired brain manages to work out that's two weeks. But that's ridiculous, I have not been in here for two weeks, it feels like only yesterday that I fled from the journalist all the way to 221B Baker Street like a coward, locking the door behind me.

Then again, sometimes it feels like I've been in here for two months.

At first Mrs Hudson tried to talk to me, she knew I was upset, more than during the first week after Sherlock had...Anyway, she didn't want to disturb me so she tried to communicate with me through the door. Her sweet voice tried to coax me out, persuading me to tell her what was on my mind. I blocked it out.

This only made me feel worse, like I was letting Mrs Hudson down in some way by refusing to talk to her, but what could I say? There are no words to fill the empty void that I find myself living in.

There is nothing for me to do here, I cannot bring myself to write my blog, what can I say? Sherlock Holmes is dead. You all think he was a fraud. And I'm starting to believe that he betrayed me too. I don't have the energy to do any cooking or cleaning, and other than those options I find myself with nothing else to do. I am completely listless.

Another dull light rises over the window covered by the curtain. You know Sherlock used to think that the sun went round the earth, the solar system wasn't particularly important to him. For me, the world has stopped spinning entirely.

I'm lying on the floor. I have no idea how I got there, but the way my back is aching suggests that I've been there for a long time. I stare up at the bland ceiling, my dark mind strangely absorbed by it, as if it's the most fascinating thing I've seen for the past fourteen days. I'm not sure if I've managed to fall asleep or not, time appears to have passed quickly, but then again, time seems all over the place these days. What takes a minute feels like an hour, yet lying around doing nothing lets time pass smoothly and easily.

Perhaps as more time passes, I shall think of something to fill this void, to amuse my empty head, to lift up my heavy heart. It hasn't worked yet.

Perhaps hiding from reality will make some improvement on my life right now, to keep the curtains close and continue believing that the earth has stopped spinning for everyone else as well. That hasn't worked either.

But I refuse to go outside again, especially what happened last time. Sometimes I make the occasional glance out the window, and anyone on the Baker Street road immediately becomes a journalist waiting hungrily for me to come outside, or someone to mock the death of my friend.

I keep the curtains closed.

I pull myself up from my peculiar position, squinting through the pain of my aching back as I begin to move once more. I take a deep breath once I manage to get myself into a sitting position, leaning onto the front of my chair, but this does nothing to clear my head, my mind is as foggy and dark as the world around me. Sometimes I feel desperate to get some fresh air, I want to get out of here and run away from this place full of memories, but I decide that perhaps it would be better to just stay inside, away from people's judging eyes. I'll just sit here like this all day doing nothing, because there is nothing else to do. When I discover however that from my sitting position I am facing the very chair that Sherlock always used to sit, I suddenly find the energy to get up and go to the kitchen.

The fridge and the cupboards are almost bare, but that didn't really bother me, I didn't have much of an appetite. In the end I make the decision to put the kettle on, perhaps a strong coffee would help clear my mind.

Don't get me wrong, I know I'm being pathetic. The most productive thing I've done all day is stand in this kitchen waiting for water to boil. I am sulking like a child because life hasn't gone the way I want. I have a mind of a grumpy teenager, believing that my whole world has gone black and I'm falling into a pit of despair.

Sherlock wouldn't let me do this. Sherlock would force me into a game of Cluedo or have me running after him through the streets of London as he chases a serial killer. Sherlock...

Sherlock's dead. His dead eyes stared up at me from his blood spattered face as he lay on the ground, his body broken...

God, I can't stand being in my head any more. My thoughts have become so dark and desperate. There is no adventure to keep my mind off the black future I seem to be heading towards, or let me escape from the terrible, yet recent past. I sigh, what's the point anymore? All I can see when I close my eyes is Sherlock tumbling to his death...

A soft knock on the door suddenly brings me back to my senses. I remain perfectly still in the kitchen, as if I'm afraid of what might be outside the door.

"John?" Called the soft, tentative voice of Ms Hudson. "I'm just going to the shops John, do you need anything?"

I don't respond. I remained motionless.

There was a brief pause, then I heard Mrs Hudson's voice again, sounding more resigned. "All right then, I won't be long."

There was the sound of Mrs Hudson's footsteps as she made her way downstairs, then the front door closed behind her. Before I had felt like I was the only person in this house, but now I was completely alone.

I go over to the window, peeking through the curtain to watch Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street, a pang in my heart as I didn't even have the courtesy to say goodbye.

There's a figure standing on the other end of the street that for some reason catches my eye as I look out the window. It was hidden in shadow, but I could see the tall silhouette, like the one from the graveyard.

I looked away for a second to watch Mrs Hudson turn the corner out of Baker Street, and when I looked back the figure had gone.

That's it. I'm going mad. Too long I have been cooped up in this place, that's the problem. Too many thoughts, too many memories. The part of me that is still sane points out that I would have to go outside sometime again, and I definitely needed some fresh air if I was starting to hallucinate.

That helped me make a decision. I turned from the window, grabbing my coat as I went and marched out the door. It didn't matter how long I was outside, even for only a couple of minutes, just as long as I got out of this damn, stuffy house with far too many memories of a dead man. Fourteen days I had been in here, I had to get out.

Looking back, I realise what I terrible decision I had made as I left my home-made prison of 221B Baker Street.