Meet me at 221B, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.

Received: 8:00 p.m.

John rubbed his eyes blearily as he read the text. It was well past four in the morning, and h was more exhausted than usual. It had been a hell of a time working overtime in the A&E. He had been planning on going home and crashing on the first flat surface he met when he walked in the door… but now…

Who would want him at 221B? John hadn't been there in, Christ, years. Not since-

Well, not since the fall, really.

It couldn't be Mrs Hudson. She had accepted that he was never going back long ago. As far as he was aware, however, she wasn't going to rent the place out either. The last time he checked, everything was still boxed up, left to gather dust on her miscellaneously-stained carpet. Except for the violin. He had taken that a year or two ago.

He had been in the neighborhood. Stamford had invited him out drinking, thinking maybe something social would do him good, and if not, the alcohol might. It did for a little while, but it did nothing for his heart. What felt like a stab wound or a bullet hole was numbed until he felt almost dead. He felt so alone, so isolated, even surrounded by people. He needed Sherlock, he needed to be home. So he left.

John didn't necessarily realise where he had gone until he had walked up to the door and subconsciously pulled out the key Mrs Hudson had insisted he keep. The lock turned with ease, welcoming him inside. He was met with darkness. Either no one was home, or Mrs Hudson was asleep. He peered over to the door of her flat. Nothing.

Without further delay, he rushed up the seventeen steps to his old flat. Everything looked the same, yet it didn't.

The smiley face stared at him from the horrid wallpaper he secretly loved. His chair was there, and so was the sofa and other furniture. But the usual clutter wasn't scattered about. Sherlock's various case files were carefully packed away, along with everything else he owned. Boxes littered the floor precariously. Everything looked bare without all the books and papers and experiments. The whole place was covered in a good amount of dust. John sneezed, and the sudden noise seemed to echo.

It all looked hazy in the darkness, but he didn't want to turn on a light. Instead, with soft steps, and eyes slowly getting accustomed to the dim, he walked through the maze Mrs Hudson left and took a good look around. It hurt.

God it hurt.

John had no idea he could remember so much just by looking at empty space and blank walls. But it wasn't empty space. Sherlock had left his marks everywhere. He filled the room even when he was dead and all his things were packed away.

There was the knife mark in the mantle. John could see Sherlock holding a handful of letters. Whatever he approved of was set on his desk. What he didn't was stabbed animatedly and therefore affixed to the mantle until John realised the bills hadn't been paid in months. He saw the indent in Sherlock's chair, bullet holes in the wall, Sherlock firing his pistol, the face in yellow graffiti. He saw the mark on the kitchen table, chemical and blood stains on various surfaces. And then…

There it was. Moved somewhere it shouldn't have been, touched by intruding hands. The one thing that said "Sherlock" more than anything.

The violin. John didn't know how he hadn't spotted it, hidden amongst the chaos on the carpet. The bow wasn't far away. Oh, how he longed to hear it played again. He regretted how he would hate the sound of he accursed instrument being plucked and abused at two in the morning, only to be coaxed into a quiet melody by four. He hated himself for not appreciating it when he had it. He hated the fact that he hadn't asked Sherlock to play it more often. John ran his fingers down the neck, dared to pluck at a beckoning string.

The sound it made was hollow, just as John felt.

He set the instrument on the side table beside Sherlock's chair, where is belonged, and made to leave. He could feel his chest tightening, and a panic attack setting in. His leg started to hurt again, and he wished he had his cane. He wished for a great many things as he walked out of the flat as empty-handed as he had walked in.

He stood outside for a long while, head bowed, focused on keeping his breathing even. With a glance, he saw the dusty violin. It seemed to beckon to him, begging for someone to pay attention to it, to please take it, please love it.

John was already in the cab when he realized he held a violin case in his lap.

So not Mrs Hudson. Not Mycroft. The man hadn't had anything to do with John since Sherlock's funeral. He didn't even cry, but John could see he was screaming on the inside. They shook hands. John wanted to hug him almost. His blue eyes looked so sorrowful behind his mask. Briefly, John wondered what he was doing with himself nowadays. He was ripped out of his thoughts by a sudden ping.

Where is my violin? I'll be very cross if Mrs Hudson sold it.

This was not a funny joke.

Too bad it's not here, I was so looking forward to playing it.

It was, in fact, a terrible joke, and John would find whoever had thought themselves funny enough to even-

Oh, by the way John, this is in no way a joke.

What?

It is me. I am alive. Now get your arse to 221B, I know you're done at Barts'.

How?

Please, I need you as soon as possible. Get in a cab now.

John thought for a second.

This can't be Sherlock, he never says 'please'.

There was a meager pause while John waited.

I've been told it's polite. Now please get your arse in a cab and get to the flat now before I have to leave. It's important.

John thought back to the first time he was texted to get to the flat as soon as possible.

Need me to text another serial murderer?

If it will get you over here. Hurry up!

Alright, fine. On my way.

John was in a cab before he knew it, and was on the way to Baker Street in less than five minutes. He had a little ride there, and decided to text Mycroft while he waited.

Sherlock may be alive. Don't ask me how.

I have been made aware of the current situation, yes.

MH

So you knew?

Not until ten minutes ago. He has been texting me immature things incessantly.

MH

John smiled.

Okay, maybe the bastard was back.

He was going to relish the moment now before he got to the flat, because as soon as he saw Sherlock's perfect face, he was going to punch it in.

A/N: No idea where this came from, but I like it. Now I have this, and my Mystrade to deal with. Oh joy. Oh well.