No.

(What a strange word to start to start a story with, but indeed it was the only thought that floated within John Watson's mind).

He had seen the remnants of brain splattered across the pavement, the small swirl of blood that sunk within the gravel. John was a medical man, he'd seen countless bodies out on the desert sand... with everything from their cracked skulls swelling tight against their skin to their stomachs blown clean open by machine gun fire.

But he never though it would be his best friend's dead eyes looking up at him. The cold blue irises that had once been full of life and energy were staring blankly up at the sky. John felt his breath catching in his throat, as the world began to blur.

No.

Days later that word was still in his brain, as he approached the door of 221B Baker Street. He walked up the hollow steps and traced his fingers against the walls as if he could touch the memories that had once been there. There was the spot where he and Sherlock had laid the back of their skulls (skull cracked on cold pavement face bloody body dead) against the cold wood and laughed till their sides were numb. Or there, the doorway where John had hobbled on his cane to greet Mrs. Hudson.

No.

John sunk into the old armchair for what seemed like forever. He closed his eyes and slept, memories swirling beneath the trembling lids. For now he could sleep and recount the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

(But to spare him the trouble... I'll do it myself).