The Fall Of Sherlock

Into Battle.

The rest of the night was simply tossing and turning, trying to not think of the inevitable. It felt like John would just spend the rest of eternity in his run-down little room, never quite being able to lay his friend to rest or get any rest himself, but always having the impending sense of despair.

Finally, his alarm rang out anyway, and he rolled over with a groan to turn it off as he thread his hand through his hair. Without bothering to change out of his pyjamas just yet, he clambered down the stairs back to the flat like previous night, sitting in his chair once more and staring at the absence in the room with a defeated reluctance. No Sherlock Holmes. Not anymore.

"John?"
Mrs Hudson's voice rang from the doorway, as she entered with a pot of tea and a plate of toast on a tray.
"Oh- morning, Mrs Hudson... oh, you didn't have to do all this..."
"It was no trouble. It's going to be a hard day, John, and we can all do with a bit of fuel to get through it. I just wish Sherlock was here to-" her eyes flicked to something nearby, and she paused abruptly and looked back at the doctor, "-oh, John, tell me you haven't."
He looked at her, confused and slightly embarrassed, and yet he didn't know quite why.
"Pardon?" He asked.
Mrs Hudson nodded towards the side of Sherlock's old chair, with a single cigarette discarded in a porcelain plate. John's brow arched in confusion, and he swallowed, trying to grapple how it could have ended up there.
"I... I swear I didn't..."
"I know it was a coping habit of his, John, but I am going to intervene before this escalates for you. You are a doctor, John, you know the dangers."
"Mrs Hudson, I don't... I did not smoke that cigarette, I..." his breath grew shorter, his confusion mounting. John started shaking his head, hiding his eyes behind his hands in a desperate attempt to gather his thoughts. How could there be a cigarette there? John was sure he hadn't smoked it. He didn't smoke. He wouldn't. But he'd been all over the place lately. Could it have just slipped into his hand? In an attempt to remind himself of his deceased friend?

"I... I don't think I can stay here, Mrs Hudson... this... being here, it isn't..."
Mrs Hudson paused, hovering over the doctor. Part of her had expected this admission, and yet all of her had hoped it wouldn't happen.
"You need to get away?"
"Yes, I... I'm sorry, I just... don't think I can stay. This isn't-" he glanced at the cigarette again, and then at the floor, tapping nervously on the arms of the chair, "-I... think I need to move. Away. I can... stay in my room for now, but I can't... keep coming back to the main body of the flat. He's just... it's..."
Mrs Hudson placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, gripping him tightly and grounding him.
"I understand, John. I understand. You don't need to justify it to me. It's horrible. Just horrible. And whatever you need to do, you should. You need to look after yourself right now, it's what he would have wanted. Now, come on, we'll move to the sofa and eat there. That way I won't have to disturb his chair."
Murmuring words of thanks, he still couldn't bring himself to look up as he shuffled over to the sofa, heavily dropping on it with a strained exhale. Mrs Hudson followed and poured a cup of tea and slowly passed it towards him, inviting him to take it, coupling it with a slice of toast on a plate in front of him - not that he felt hungry. He was not entirely sure he'd be able to stomach anything at all.
"You have to eat something, dear. I know you won't feel like it, but he wouldn't want you to start neglecting yourself just because he's not here." She smiled, sadly, and he obeyed reluctantly.
"What should I wear?" He asked after a moment, reminiscent of a small child asking for advice from his mother.
"Anything, love. You don't have to wear all black, he was never that traditional. Just... something respectful, probably. Something warm. It's chilly."

That's what he did, after he had been made to eat a few pieces of toast and partake in some tea, for his well-being. He wrapped up warm, his hands fumbling as he did up his buttons. He had buried plenty of friends before, but none had ever hit him quite like this. None quite this close to home. A shiver danced down his spine as he passed the door of the flat, and he looked in to find it empty once more. Closing the door, he was determined to never have to open it again.
Mrs Hudson was already waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs in the hall, patting his back as he headed out onto the street before her.
"And remember, dear, we're all here for you."