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Three month. It's been three month since the fall. Three month since Sherlock's death.
Not once has John been to the flat, until today.
He spent some nights at Harry's because he knew she wouldn't ask questions, but he couldn't live with her for an extended period of time, god knows they don't get along, so he then moved into the cheapest motel he could find.
He couldn't sleep at night, but when he did he had nightmares, seeing Sherlock jump. Seeing his bloody body laying on the pavement.
But one night, while he was staring at the ceiling, he remembered something Sherlock had told him once: 'I am known to be indestructible' and then he had the stupidest idea one could have.
What if Sherlock is still alive? What if he faked his death?
Ridiculous. But the thought wouldn't leave Johns head. And what if Sherlock hid something in the flat, what if he left clues for John to find?
So after a few days after he had gotten that idea, he went back to the flat 221b.
Standing in front of the green door he took a deep breath.
He tried to be as quiet as possible going in, he didn't want Mrs. Hudson to see him, not like that.
Slowly he walked up the croaking stairs and his heart starting beating faster, he was nervous for some reason. Somehow he expected Sherlock to be there, sitting in his chair.
But when he went in, he wasn't there. Of course he wasn't.
John intended to take the flat apart, look in every nook and cranny. If Sherlock did hide something in here, he was going to find it.
He started in one corner, where all the shelves with the books were, he took all of them out and looked through them, it was a lot of work, but John knew it would be worth it.
But when he didn't find anything in all those, he went over to the table and the little cabinet with all the drawers. Maybe there was something in there.
But then he stumbled upon something different, Sherlock kept files of all the cases they had solved, he never knew about those. He took them out the drawer, sat down on the couch and started flicking through the folders.
One especially caught his attention. The one from their very first case. A study in pink.
The thing catching his attention was a little see through plastic bag stapled to one corner of a paper and in it were two pills.
“This can't be...”, John whispered to himself as he ripped the bag from the staple. He closed the folder and threw it on the table in front of him, now only holding the little bag in his hand. Sherlock must have picked them up and took them with him to examine them later, he thought.
He took one of the pills out and held it up against the light, there was definitely something in there. But John didn't know which was the toxic one and which the placebo.
He put it back into the bag and closed his hand around it, then he just stared across the room. The chairs they used to sit in was in his view and he couldn't help himself to think how many times they sat there, together. They laughed together, sometimes they fought, but most of the time they just sat opposite of each other, neither one saying a word, just enjoying the company.
John felt the tears coming up, he tried to blink them away, but that only made the tear fall down. It was the first time John cried since Sherlock died, usually he could always prevent it, swallow it down. But it all has to come out somewhen and that moment was now. And now those tears were a consistent stream and he was silently sobbing. It was the first time he allowed himself to grief.
Suddenly his phone made a sound, text alert. “Bloody phone.”, he managed to say between sobs. Angry he took his phone out of the pocket of his jacket and threw it across the room, probably Harry who wanted to check up on him, he thought.
After a few more minutes John had calmed down and was now looking at the pills again. For a second time he opened the bag, but this time he took out both the pills and put them in the palm of his hand.
Taking one deep breath he put the pills in his mouth and before he could think about it a second time, he swallowed them.
He couldn't feel anything immediately, so he decided to lay down on the couch, the way Sherlock always laid there. His hands were balled into fists and he closed his eyes.
Everything around him started to fade away, his fists start to get loser and he lost consciousness. The last thing he perceived was another ringing of his phone.
Yet another text. Not from Harry though.
(rec. 21:32)
John.
(rec. 21:54)
Not dead.
-SH