Sherlock couldn't do it.

Logically, it should be easy. After all, it's only seventeen steps that Sherlock needs to take to reach 221B. But he simply couldn't.

He stood at the foot of the stairs, doing nothing, just staring at them. His feet felt as if they were made of lead, which Sherlock knew to be impossible, and yet he did nothing to stop a thought like that to rush through his mind.

Someone closed the door to 221 behind him. Possibly Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's mind was too preoccupied to remember that Mrs Hudson had left that afternoon for her sister's. There were more important things to think about.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. A strong, steady hand which wasn't shaking. If Sherlock looked down, he would notice that his own were shaking quite violently. He turned his head slowly to the hand on his shoulder. His eyes continued to follow the arm attached to it until he saw the face of Lestrade. Sherlock noted that Lestrade's eyes were filled with an aching sadness, there were more lines to his face now, and he looked exhausted. The last case had drained him. It had drained the entirety of Lestrade's team. It was tough, for everyone. Especially Sherlock.

Sherlock's changeable eyes met Lestrade's hazel ones. He gave Sherlock a weak smile, before giving Sherlock's shoulder, what he assumed was supposed to be a reassuring squeeze. He removed his hand and made his way slowly up the stairs to 221B, leaving Sherlock still stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Get it together. Sherlock scolded himself internally. This isn't what he would have wanted.

He had done so well all day. He hadn't broken down, and had managed to hold himself together in front of everyone. And there had been so many people. Any other day, Sherlock would have been proud of himself for behaving. But not today. He took in a deep breath and began to ascend the stairs.

Each step felt like an enormous effort, and by the time he reached the top, he was exhausted.

Lestrade was already moving around the flat, tidying the papers that littered the floor. And the desk. And the kitchen table. Pretty much every available surface. Lestrade moved into the kitchen, and out of Sherlock's vision.

One again, Sherlock was frozen. He couldn't bring himself to enter the flat. He envied the ease with which Lestrade just seemed to glide into the flat as if it wasn't emptied of life.

The trembling in Sherlock's hands spread like ice up his arms, through his shoulders and down his spine, until his whole body was shivering as if he'd spent the whole day in the Arctic conditions of London in winter without his beloved Belstaff coat.

Suddenly, the light was too bright, and there was a pricking sensation in his eyes. He forced them closed against the intrusion and tried to control his body as it continued to shake. But it was hopeless. There was no chance of control. Not now. Probably not ever again.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock heard Lestrade's footsteps move towards him.

There was a trail of unexplainable warmth down Sherlock's cheeks as he screwed his eyes even more tightly shut. It was becoming more difficult to breathe. Air entered into his lungs in great gasps. The trail of warmth, Sherlock realised, were his own tears. He wasn't just crying, he was sobbing. His chest felt like is was trapped in a giant vice, and every time he tried to take another gasping breath it was pulled tighter. It was not in his mind, it was a physical pain. His stomach rolled and cramped as another sob wracked through his body. He wrapped his arms around himself. His head dropped so he was completely curled in.

The same hand that had rested on his shoulder at the bottom of the stairs was now joined by it's twin, supporting his weight as he collapsed against the wall. The hands guided him down until he was sat on the landing with his back up against the wall as he continued to cry.

"Hey, Sherlock. Look at me."

Sherlock couldn't. It was impossible. If he opened his eyes, he would have to face the facts, he'd have to accept that this was real. If he kept his eyes closed, a least he could pretend.

"I can't."

"Yes you can."

One of the hands moved from his arm to the nape of his neck, forcing his head to turn towards Lestrade's voice.

"Sherlock, you've done so well today. You've been incredibly brave and I understand that it hurts, God knows I do. It's killing me to see you like this but need you to look at me."

Sherlock complied, peeling his eyes open slowly, allowing himself to adjust to the harsh sunlight that was streaming through the windows. Of course it would be sunny today. Pathetic fallacy was an occurrence only found in romantic literature, not in the life of Sherlock Holmes.

His vision was blurred due to the excess moisture in his eyes. As he made out the fuzzy shape of Lestrade, the tears spilled over. He wiped them off his cheeks with his fist, body too tense to uncurl his fingers, turning away from Lestrade as he did so. One look at the shock and pity on the DI's face had been enough for Sherlock to guess just how broken he must look.

Greg straightened up and held his hands out to he man before him.

"Come on, we should probably get you into the flat."

"I can't."

"Sherlock, you need to-"

"You don't understand. Everything we were is in that flat. It's embedded into the wood of the table, it's woven into the fabric of the cushions. It's in the dust, the wallpaper, the very air. Everything is tainted with memories of him. It's bad enough that I had to bury him today, but please don't make me face the ghosts of our past. I'm not ready to do that."

Greg knew what Sherlock meant. When he'd entered the flat, the wave of grief that washed over him was so powerful it overwhelmed him and he'd nearly turned around and walked straight back out. But he'd needed to remain strong - or appear to be - for Sherlock's sake.

He turned until he was leaning against the wall, and then slid down until he was sat side by side with the world's only Consulting Detective. Gone was the high-functioning sociopath. In his place was a broken man, with eyes so empty it made Greg's heart clench. It was scary to see this man - once so great, quick and aloof - reduced to this. And there was nothing he could do, and that made Greg feel totally useless. He ran his hands through his short, silver hair.

"It was my fault." The voice was so quiet and timid that Greg could hardly believe it was coming from the man next to him. Sherlock had taken his face out of his hands, which were now resting of his knees drawn up to his chest. At full height, Sherlock Holmes was often rather intimidating. In this state, he couldn't even intimidate a mouse. His eyes - usually so analytical as they took in every piece of information available to them - were staring at nothing, completely blank. It was disconcerting.

"No, Sherlock."

"If I had just told him what he meant to me as a friend."

"Sherlock, this was nobody's fault."

"I should have realised that he could never just get over the PTSD, the depression."

"Sherlock-"

"He was my best friend. My only friend. And he died thinking his life was worthless. He died thinking it couldn't get better."

The sobbing began again. Although it helped to relieve some of the pain, it did nothing t fill the hole in his life, the flat, his heart. A hole that was created the moment his best friend took the step off of St Bart's hospital. The hole that could never be filled. Only one person could fill that hole, and Sherlock had just attended his funeral. Only John Watson was capable of making Sherlock feel complete.