Chapter One

Moving Out

John climbed the stairs of 221B slowly, mechanically; forcing his legs to lift his feet one step at a time, his cane quietly thumping on every other stair.

Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in sight, although he knew she was home. He was certain she was hiding in her flat, not wanting to intrude on – or perhaps not wanting to witness – his grief.

Well, he couldn't blame her for that. Very few people could stand to be around him lately – not many tried.

He had come to pack up his belongings and take them to his new flat. The thought of living at Baker Street without Sherlock made him physically ill. Just the thought of seeing the place now was sending icy cold waves of nausea through his body.

Reaching the landing, he couldn't bring himself to make the turn to face the final six steps up into their rooms. He felt the first anxious pangs of an impending panic attack as he tried to steady his breathing, forcing himself to take long, slow breaths as he placed a bracing hand against the wall.

Come on soldier. You can do this. You've certainly done worse. He thought. But had he? Had anything actually been worse than this - this final visit to the only real home he could ever remember having?

He'd seen death and destruction…lots of it. And some of it happened to people he knew, people he considered friends. But this. This was exponentially worse than any of that. The destruction in Afghanistan was expected – horrific, but just a part of war. He had no real role in it, was not the cause of any of it. Nothing he could have done would have prevented it, certainly.

But this. Ah, this was different. His best friend was dead and he felt…. What? Hollow? Empty? Yes, certainly those; but mostly he felt guilt – a remorse so strong it stole sleep from him, took his appetite and sapped his strength.

He had failed Sherlock somehow. Confused thoughts tangled with each other in his mind. One moment he was kicking himself for not spotting the warning sides of an impending suicide – he was trained in that type of thing, damnit.

The next he was convinced the mad detective had faked the whole thing. But no, there would be clues. Sherlock wouldn't leave him like that. If it had been fake he would have contacted John within a day or two – wouldn't he?

He certainly would have left clues for him to follow. Was he too stupid and slow to see them? Or was he just wishing there were clues so Sherlock wouldn't be dead?

No, his friend was dead and he wasn't and wasn't that just a kick in the gut.

OK. Hetook a deep breath in through his nose, letting it out through his mouth with a quiet whoosh. Soldier up. Steeling himself, he pushed open the door, eyes sweeping slowly across the beloved space, taking in the remains of the life he had been living until three weeks ago.

Nothing had been touched. Sherlock's desk was littered with papers, his violin carefully placed atop everything else, a light sheen of dust already starting to dim its burnished patina.

As his eyes reached Sherlock's chair he nearly stopped breathing. A figure sat there, features indistinguishable in the dim light. For a breathless moment John's heart leapt – Sherlock!

"Hello John," the figure said softly.

"Shit, Mycroft! What the hell do you want?" John was caught off balance, unexpectedly confronted with the one man who might be even more guilty of Sherlock's death than himself. He hated Mycroft nearly as much as he hated himself.

"I didn't mean to alarm you, please forgive me," he said, rising from the chair. "I find we have some business to discuss and I thought I would do you the courtesy of coming to you, rather than having you brought to me."

"Yeah, well thanks for small favors, I guess. What business do we have?"

"You are moving out?"

"I can't… be here. Not now. Maybe not ever."

"I understand. Any assistance you require will be afforded you. There is quite a lot of"…. Mycroft paused as his eyes swept the flat with bemused distaste… "well, let us just say there is a lot to be moved."

"I'm only taking my personal things."

The elder Holmes cocked his head and looked inquiringly at John. "You are aware that Sherlock bequeathed you all his belongings and a large sum of money in his will?"

"Of course I am. But I'm not particularly comfortable with that, and I just can't deal with it right now."

"Quite right." Mycroft said softly, looking at John with a mixture of pity and respect. "I suspected you would feel that way. Please feel free to leave anything here that you wish. The rent has been paid for the next twelve months and Mrs. Hudson will occasionally pop in to dust, though clearly she has not followed through with that part of the arrangement as yet." His eyes swept the dusty room.

"Dust is eloquent," John whispered, staring at the violin.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, sorry…nothing," John said with a little shake of his head, trying to refocus on the conversation he was reluctantly having with Mycroft Holmes. "Why would you pay the rent? What do you care about his things? Why not just have them thrown out or boxed up and put in storage?"

"Well, they are now your things, John. I would like to do you a kindness. You are suffering, clearly; and I may have played a small part in that. It's the least I can do."

"Oh, you think?" John spat out through clenched teeth, swinging from quiet sadness to raging fury in the blink of an eye.

The arrogance of this man, He thought. He sold his own brother to the Devil, driving him to suicide and he has the nerve to say he MAY have played a SMALL part? Damn him to Hell!

"Sherlock's dead and it's your fault," he said venomously. "Yeah, I think it is the bloody least you could do. Now, get out, I think our 'business' is completed."

"Of course." Mycroft took a few steps towards the door, pausing when he drew level with John but keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead. "I know you have no interest in hearing me express remorse, so I will spare you that."

"But please know that, should you require any assistance with…." He faltered slightly, his voice dropping to a pained whisper, "well, with anything at all, that you can rely on me to render it."

John knew if he made eye contact with Mycroft now he would either break down in sobs or punch him in the nose, so he simply nodded once, turning to face the mantel

He heard Mycroft take one hesitant step and pause. In the mirror, John could see that Mycroft remained facing the doorway as he spoke. "Sherlock cared for you very deeply."

John uttered a small, strangled sound. He had been aiming for a snort of derision, but even to him it sounded more like a sob.

Being possibly even less capable of handling emotional displays than his brother, Mycroft remained frozen in place for a fraction of a second before quietly walking down the stairs and softly closing the door behind him.