Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or anything to do with Sherlock!

John sat in the flat. He hadn't moved all morning, and made no plans to. He closed his eyes and just listened to the world. He could hear Mrs Hudson moving downstairs, probably making tea. She moved slowly, more of a shuffle than a walk. He heard her set down something on the table and the scraping of a chair. He heard the cars drive down Baker Street. He heard a group of people outside, meeting for lunch at the café. They were laughing with each other. His jaw tightened and he could feel his teeth grinding together. They had no idea, those people, no idea how lucky they were. There was still happiness in their lives, a ray of light that shone through any darkness that was present. They all still had the chance to be happy.

John felt a wave of jealousy run through him. He longed to be happy, to laugh with friends. But he couldn't. It was impossible.

It had been 2 months since he watched his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, fall, or jump – John wasn't sure which word to use in the context.

He opened his eyes and looked around the flat. He spent so much time repeating this action it was a miracle he hadn't gone mad. John hadn't moved a thing in the flat. Everything was exactly how they had left it on the day he lost Sherlock.

His eyes travelled over the chair opposite him, the violin perched beside it, the kitchen, the microscope, and the unfinished experiments. After scanning the entire flat, his eyes rested on the wall. The face that had been sprayed there seemed to be mocking him, the bullet holes sending a new wave of pain, anger and loss through John's body.

He felt hot tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He let them roll down his cheeks. What was the point in trying to cover them up? He was alone, no one was going to see, unless Mrs Hudson decided to pay him a visit, but it seemed unlikely, given the way he had been treating her.

At first, having Mrs Hudson around was a godsend. It left John to his own private mourning, to let him get on with it whilst making sure he didn't starve. She cooked for him, made him sleep and wash. John drew the line at her cleaning the flat though, he wasn't quite ready for that yet. Since then, he hadn't uttered a word to the woman except for thanks where thanks were due.

John closed his eyes again and leaned his head back. She had expected him to get over Sherlock's death by now, but that wasn't going to happen. John was not ready to let go.

A thousand memories coursed through his mind. Walking into St Bart's lab and meeting Sherlock. Running after the cab after their dinner the next evening. Watching Sherlock about to take the pill that could end his life, and then ending that which threatened it. Moriarty in the pool, John telling Sherlock to run, to save himself. Laughing like naughty teenagers in Buckingham Palace, stealing the ash tray. He heard Mycroft's voice.

"For once can you two behave like grown ups?"

A small laugh escaped John's lips. He opened his eyes and found that he couldn't stop laughing. That ridiculous ash tray must still be in the flat. He stood up, the first real movement he had made that day, and hunted around the flat for it. He found it under a stash of old newspapers which Sherlock used to find evidence or for new cases. He set it on the small table that separated the two armchairs. He spent a while just looking at it, remembering the sheer ridiculousness of how it was acquired. That was the first time John had felt close to happiness since the fall, but he didn't register it at the time.

After the brief moment, he returned to his default position, just sat in the chair, thinking, wishing that he could be happy, for the pain to end. There had been nights where the pain was so great that he has tried to swallow all of the sleeping tablets he could find. Mrs Hudson had arrived just in time, and had forced the bottles out of his hands. One night, he blacked out and woke up the next morning to the clean smell that accompanied hospitals, with a tear-stained Harry beside his bed. He'd promised her then that he wouldn't try again. They might not get along, but since their parents rejected her, John was the only thing she had left.

He could hear more movement from downstairs, for whilst he was thinking, there had been a small knock at the door. He heard the smash of a cup. John's eyebrows knitted together as his eyes moved toward the door. It was very unlike Mrs Hudson to drop anything, too much mess! He focused on the noise coming from below, trying to figure out what was happening.

He could hear her voice, muffled through the floorboard but unmistakably hers. She sounded as if she was crying, her voice shaking more than usual and long pauses where she stopped to take breath, more frequently than usual. Not a deduction to the standard of Sherlock Holmes, but enough for John Watson to know that something out of the ordinary was happening in the flat below him.

Before, John's natural reaction would have been to go and check on Mrs Hudson, to see if she was okay, to let the army doctor side of him take over. But now, consumed by grief and confusion, he let her be. She was tough, Mrs Hudson, although she may not look it. She's been able to take care of herself before, and John was certain that she could cope now.

A deep voice could be heard over Mrs Hudson's. John couldn't make it out clearly enough to know who the person was, a feat that was too often achieved by Sherlock, only that he was a man. The tears spilled over Johns face again as the pain clawed at his insides at the memories.

The conversation between the muffled voices continued for a few minutes longer, during which John could hear Mrs Hudson clearing up the mess that the smashed cup probably made. The deeper voice said something and there was a pause. John waited, not moving, waiting absolutely silently. It could have been seconds, or minutes, or hours, but eventually, Mrs Hudson replied monosyllabically. John could hear the man raise his voice slightly. Obviously this had not been the reply he had expected. Mrs Hudson was quick to retort. John wished he could hear more than just the muffled sounds, he longed to hear the words, to find out who the voice belonged to.

He didn't have to wait long. Footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs to 221b. Mrs Hudson was shouting up the stairs behind the stranger, who was closing in on the door. John didn't dare move. He listened to Mrs Hudson.

"Now just a minute! You can't just storm up there! He's not ready for this, it'll break him!"

John's pulse began to race. What wasn't he ready for? His whole body tensed as he heard a hand come into contact with the doorknob. He rose from his chair, ready, waiting for his mysterious visitor.

The door opened. John stood there as a familiar figure strode into the flat.

"Sherlock?"