It was a rather dreary, mist-filled April midday in London, United Kingdom.
John Watson was taking a stroll down the cobblestone-made street, not really aiming at doing anything "important" for the day. Today was dismal, today was unimportant. No need to do anything unusual on such a boring, normal day.
He wasn't really thinking about anything in particular, either. He was hungry, but that was about it. Sometimes a thought or two of his old friend would drift in and out of his mind, but that was usual. It was highly expected. Earlier, he'd spent a great deal of time thinking about the man, the man he once was acquainted with, but it wasn't something to dwell on now. John didn't want to make himself feel too bad; the weather was doing its job with that just fine. Wet, cold, rainy weather had always made him feel a little on the downside of things. It wasn't something he was too fond of in fact, it was just the opposite. Rainy weather seemed to be fond of him. He loathed that thought.
Turning onto Baker Street and into the house labeled No. 221B, John frowned, feeling something utterly unusual about his presence or, was it the presence of someone else? He hadn't known at that point in time. Shrugging the feeling off, he shed his winter's coat and hung it gingerly in the closet, then proceeded to remove his shoes. They were set on the door's mat. Upon entering the kitchen, John prepared to make tea he hadn't had any since yesterday and, quite frankly, was starting to 'crave' it, in a sense. He did as he wanted and made the tea.
After the tea was finished, John stepped into the den. The clouds had parted and the midday sun was shining through the windows, leaving a hazel glow upon the room and objects in it. It made the place feel all the more like home, and he liked that. It made him think of his old friend. Such a daily subject, it was; Sherlock. He'd really come to miss his friend, his partner. He hadn't cried over him nor would he ever; in a sense, John felt like it was his own funeral, his own death. You do not cry in that case. It was a dismal, dreary thing to think about, and to feel, but it was all too true. John had genuinely felt like he was the dead one here, and Sherlock was still living and breathing upon everybody else in the known world. But, him and everybody else knew it wasn't true. John took a sip of his tea, smiling softly. Today was a nice day, a sickeningly depressingly nice day, and he'd make the best out of it, much as he has in the days and months preceding Sherlock's passing. It was the most he could do for his friend.
Behind him, John heard a creak, almost like a footstep on a loose floorboard he'd turned in its direction but hadn't seen the sound's maker. Twas an unusual thing, John had decided, but nonetheless normal as well. Odd things happened in the world, in this universe, but that's what made it normal for everybody. Something odd has to happen every day for it to feel right.
The sound happened again, only this time when John turned, he'd seen a shadow. Cocking his brow, he followed the object's shadow into the kitchen, only to see that it was unoccupied. John furrowed his brow deeply, setting his tea down on the kitchen's counter, crossing his arms. Now, he knew, somebody or some thing was in the house. And he would find them/it.
John crossed the kitchen in the opposite direction and stepped into the library room, its windows shone through the same hazel-orange hue as in the den. Only then did his face fall flush of emotions, his heart nearly stopping.
Sherlock smiled at the sight of John, even though his face was white with a nearly frightened-to-death feeling. "Hello, John," he said, taking a sip of his own tea out of his own cup. "Where have you been? I've been searching for you, you know."
John was almost speechless. "I- I've been, out..." he stammered, stepping into the room. "Where have you been?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. Sherlock smiled again. "I've been here," he started. "Don't look so frightened on edge, John. There's no reason, is there?"
"No, none at all." John shook his head. "None." his tone was quiet, almost a whisper. Sherlock stood, passing John into the den. "Good, then. Tell me, John," he turned his head, looking at his friend who was following in close pace behind. "Where did you go for the morning? All morning?" he sat down in one of the chairs, facing John. John sat across from him. "Around town," he said, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees, looking at Sherlock, who was now looking out the window. "It's a beautiful day out, isn't it?" Sherlock said, changed the subject abruptly. John nodded in agreement, responding, "Yes, it is..." he smiled. "Very much so, now."
Weeks passed, and life slowly turned back to its usual normal from the months before Sherlock left. John noticed of how much he Sherlock didn't leave the house much at all, and when he did, it was only for a few minutes. Before, he'd been almost a busybody; rushing around town doing things of great importance, or, simply taking care of everyday needs and necessities. Now, John did most of the things for him. Nobody brought up Sherlock, either. John had figured that they hadn't seen him so they didn't know, but things happened the way they happened.
In early June, John had gone out to take care of an errand for Sherlock. It was a usual affair; just getting something from down the street. Sherlock could have probably done it himself, but after a small debate on why he couldn't or why he didn't want to John decided to take it upon himself, once again. Not that he didn't want to, he'd do anything for his friend. It was just that Sherlock could have done something for himself for once recently, because he certainly had not been doing much of anything for anybody at all. It was quite unusual of him to be so unmotivated, but John didn't mind about it anymore. As long as Sherlock was there, John was fine.
Upon returning to their place of dwelling, the one-and-only Mr. Hudson decided to show up as soon as the door had been shut.
"Well hello there, John!" Mr. Hudson said rather cheekily as John pulled the door open. "Mr. Hudson," John said with a smile. "How have you been?"
"Good, good." he nodded. "Yourself? Everything been fairing well recently, I suppose?"
John nodded as well. "Yes, everything is fairing certainly well, thank you."
"You don't mind if I come in, do you?" Mr. Hudson asked, glancing past John momentarily. John shook his head, stepping aside. "Not at all, Mr. Hudson. I don't mind at all." he said, shutting the door as Mr. Hudson stepped inside, hanging his coat on the rack. He grinned, strolling into the den as he spoke. "I've always been fond of this house, you know, it's-" Mr. Hudson paused as his gaze fell upon Sherlock, whom of which was sitting in the den upon their entering.
"Hello, Sherlock!" he grinned. "How have you been, my friend?"
Sherlock had opened his mouth to speak, but upon glancing at John, he fell silent before even making a noise. John glanced at Sherlock then at Mr. Hudson, his own face flushed white with astonishment.
"You can see him, too?"