"John?" Mrs. Hudson asked softly.
John blinked, and slowly came out of his daydream. He had been sitting at the kitchen table (the only place he could sit without being haunted by memories of...no. He couldn't say the name again. It was too painful.) and "reading" the adverts about new flats. It was his therapist's idea of moving out. She said it would help John move on (As if that was even possible). In any case, John had slowly drifted into his usual fantasy, where HE (that name...why did it hurt so much to say it?) came back, alive and well. John imagined hugging him fiercely, being able to smell that stupid black coat with the bloody collar turned up, as always and that blue scarf. Naturally, the man would have a perfectly logical reason for disappearing all those years ago, and would tell John how he should have been able to deduce...
Mrs. Hudson was looming over him with a rather odd expression. "John? I was just saying that perhaps today might be a good time to go through Sher-through his things."
"Right. Yes, of course." John replied absently.
Mrs. Hudson looked at John, seeing the desperation in his eyes. "It's not just you, dear. We all miss him."
"I-I know." John said. How could he tell Mrs. Hudson that they didn't miss him the same way? How could he possibly articulate all the jumbled up feelings John had for him? John had tried to push those feelings away, and now he would never get to express them. How could he explain all the guilt, shame, anger, sadness, and regret he felt?
Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder. "You should start in his room."
John slowly walked into the room and flicked on the light switch, shutting the door behind him. Oh, god. Memories flooded into John like a tidal wave. He leaned against the wall for a moment, reluctant to do anything. Sorting through all of his things, wouldn't that be akin to admitting he was gone? John mustered his strength and, grabbing Mrs. Hudson's garbage bags, went to the dresser drawers. He opened the first one, and nearly fell when he saw what it was.
John slowly, gingerly, picked up the violin. He held it delicately, almost like a baby. John stared at it for a moment, drifting off into more memories. John remembered the time HE had played John's favorite tune just as a thank-you for breakfast one day. Oh god, John thought. He wobbled to his knees, his arms snaked around the violin like vines, and he sobbed.
"Sherlock, please. Please come back and play this." He whispered between tears. "Please. One more time. Just once, oh god, come back and play your violin. Please don't be dead. Please Sherlock. I need you. Oh, god, please."
John continued crying, unaware that a certain consulting detective was behind him, crying too.