Chapter 1
The rain hissed outside of 221B, the only sound beyond his pulse that dare interrupt the silence that had fallen on the flat. John had only been able to bear the sight of the flat for a week and a half before making the decision to leave. He would be shipped out in two more, having requested a longer stay.
He told himself it was to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and all of the comforts of home he'd had here. But that wasn't the full truth.
In a way, he knew he was still waiting for Sherlock to come back. He had seen the blood, felt his wrist, and touched skin whose warmth he could feel as it left. But Sherlock shouldn't be dead. Sherlock should be whisking himself into the flat at any moment with his collar popped, ready to fire off into an explanation of how this had given him the one-up on Moriarty. Just five more minutes until it happened.
Ten more.
Another hour and surely he would be playing his violin next to the window where John stood, staring out at the sidewalk as if on watch for him. He had been there since he'd woken up, four hours ago.
One more hour and Sherlock would come back.
John felt a twinge in his leg and kicked the wall pointedly to "fix" it before turning around and half-limping into the kitchen. Sherlock would like some tea when he came back. John would brew it strong the way he used to take it, and maybe that would make time go faster. The kettle made it halfway to the stove before he lost track of his motivation and went to go sit down in his chair, but stopped to stare at the violin that laid in the chair across from him. There was sheet music tucked under it, crumpled and printed out, probably using John's laptop. He wandered towards it tentatively, and pulled the paper out.
He couldn't have tried to read the music if he tried- he had no musical training. But the top of the page read "Chanson Hindou; Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov". There was a note at the bottom, scribbled on with black pen. "John's favorite".
John's chest started to hurt, and he felt himself choking up. He had to sit down to bear the pain of that very simple little note. Which one of his favorites was this? The one that he had told Sherlock about, or one the detective had figured out on his own?
Hand shaking, he laid the paper down on a side table and rushed on weak legs to go fetch his laptop. When he came back to sit down, he looked it up, finger hovering above the track pad before tapping play.
The piano intro was new, but when the violin came in, he recognized it immediately. No words, of course- it was a classical piece. He remembered asking Sherlock to record it, and of course he obliged, and when John asked him to dance, so did he dance. Sherlock had pretended not to enjoy himself, but truth be told, when not in public, Sherlock was somewhat fond of dancing.
The gentle serenade of not-Sherlock's-violin went on for hours. John refused to stop clicking repeat, and at some point Mrs. Hudson tapped on his door and entered.
"Oh, dear," she said, voice cracking. John knew immediately that she recognized it too, at least as one that Sherlock played often. "John..."
She stepped further into the flat and grabbed John's hand in hers, looking at him with those cute, round old lady eyes that begged to be comforted. It was funny how Mrs. Hudson had a way of doing that to people. Even Sherlock hadn't been able to resist her delicate motherly charms, and treated her like a queen. Actually, he treated her much better than he had the queen.
John tried not to look too lifeless as he looked down to her, but the look she returned told him he'd failed. Her eyes watered, and John felt his sting, but he refused to cry. Not in front of Mrs. Hudson.
"Come here," he said, and pulled her in for a hug.
Mrs. Hudson sniffled and wept into his shirt, leaving splotches of mascara on the clean white cloth. John didn't bother trying to clean it. There were plenty more white shirts in the world, and only one Mrs. Hudson.
No more Sherlocks, though.
His grasp tightened for a moment until Mrs. Hudson was done and pulled away, immediately starting to fret over his shirt.
"Good grief look at what I've done to your poor shirt," she said, "It's stained, oh dear let me try and..."
She rubbed it with a thumb, but mostly just managed to smear it.
"Don't worry about it, Mrs. Hudson," he insisted and plucked a tissue to gently wipe a tear off her cheek. She sniffled at him.
"What am I going to do without you two boys?"
John smiled sadly, brushing his nose with a thumb in his own way of showing hesitation.
"Oh, I imagine you'll have nice quiet lunches down in Speedy's, and sleep perfectly through the night without any gunshots," he said, rocking back on his heels and looking down at the intricate carpet.
"Where's the fun?" She said, laughing.
John sniffed unconvincingly as she excused herself and then lingered at the door.
"Sherlock would want you to be happy, John," she advised. "He did love you."
"Mrs. Hudson, we were not... I was not his boyfriend," John insisted, looking dubious. But when Mrs. Hudson closed the door to leave, he leaned his forehead against the wall and let a tear fall.
John was not Sherlock's boyfriend because Sherlock always used the term lover. It was one of those endearing things about his partner that was intriguing and amusing at first but quickly became another one of his quirks to love.
The song ended and John tapped the repeat button, hot tears leaking from his eyes sparingly as he tried to keep his personal dignity.
The violins sang woefully, and John closed his eyes. It didn't sound like Sherlocks playing, but for just a moment, John could pretend it was that same familiar bow being drawn over sweet strings by the same hands that, just last week, would run through his hair to wake him up from his fitful dreams every morning.
For just half a second, Sherlock Holmes was back in 221B playing John's favorite song for him.