Hey everyone! This is the first chapter of my new story. It's about Sherlock, or to be more exact about John and Mycroft. What would have happened if Mycroft had been there for John after Sherlock's death? Would they have become friends or even more than that? Of course Sherlock will also play an important role in this, as you all know. I hope you like the first part, I'll try to continue as soon as possible. And please let me know what you think!


John didn't know how many times the phone had been ringing by now. Maybe three times? Or ten? Even more often? He also couldn't tell how long he'd just been sitting there, staring at the empty armchair in front of him. It had to be many hours by now. Or days?

After the funeral, he hadn't left 221 B Baker Street. He'd told the others at work that he was sick and he was told to stay at home for a few days. He'd been told that they understood how he was feeling right now.

As if anyone could understand him.

No one knew what it was like. To see your best friend jump to his death. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note. John closed his eyes and pressed his hands on his ears. However, the voice inside of his head wouldn't shut up. Goodbye, John.

He groaned, hoping that it would all just stop. He couldn't stand it anymore, those thoughts. Sherlock Holmes… dead. Sherlock, his best friend. His annoying, brilliant best friend who had no idea how to interact with people. Who always got himself in trouble, not once thinking about the consequences of his actions. But until now, it always ended well… Normally, John was there when Sherlock needed him. They had each other's back, always protecting each other. They were a team. This time, John hadn't been there in time. He hadn't been able to stop him. His best friend wouldn't come back.

He wouldn't close the door in annoyance when a client and his or her story was boring. He also wouldn't shoot at the wall anymore, making Mrs. Hudson look at him accusingly. He even wouldn't be able to call Greg Lestrade wrong names. There also wouldn't be times when Sherlock and John were at Baker Street, talking about cases they'd solved in the past. Those times when everything was so easy, when they could laugh together. Or when Sherlock complained about the names John gave their cases in his blog. Even those times when Mycroft visited would be gone, when Sherlock was acting like an annoyed child because his brother was there, drinking tea with John even if he actually wanted to talk to Sherlock.

Mycroft… Would he visit again, now that Sherlock was gone? John wasn't so sure about that. Yes, he liked Mycroft. And in the past months, John had the feeling that Mycroft might like him too. If there were people who Mycroft liked and not just tolerated, how Sherlock had said it once. Nevertheless, Sherlock's brother had been at Baker Street more often than usual lately, sometimes even when Sherlock wasn't there. Of course he'd told John that he didn't know that his brother was gone, but he didn't believe him. Mycroft always knew where Sherlock was. So why had he been there then…?

Slowly, John opened his eyes again and glanced at his phone on the table next to him. He had ignored the calls which had started soon after the funeral. Or right after he'd entered the house, to be exact. There, Mycroft had just told him how sorry he was. But John didn't expect anything else, Mycroft always held himself back when others were around. However, the phone calls were unexpected. A first glance had told him that it was Mycroft Holmes who tried to call him. Why? John wasn't so sure, but he'd decided to ignore the phone calls. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now. Not even to Mycroft. Who was feeling bad himself, wasn't he? After all, his brother…

John forced the thought aside and concentrated on something else. The sound of the traffic outside wasn't calming him down. He sighed in frustration when he heard footsteps on the stairs and a soft knock on the door. "John, is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded insecure, as if she feared that nothing was alright. Which was true, to be honest.

"You can come in, Mrs. Hudson." John called and was surprised at how rough his own voice sounded.

Slowly, the door opened and he saw the face of a very concerned Mrs. Hudson. "John, are you really alright?" She asked when she entered. She was carrying a tablet in her hands, with sandwiches and two cups of tea. "I made you some food, I thought you might need it. It's been two days since the funeral and I didn't hear a single word from you. I was worried. First Sherlock, and then you…" Her hands were shaking when she put the tablet down on the kitchen table.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson." John stood up and joined her in the kitchen. His legs were stiff and his back was hurting. Did he really sit there for two days? Two days since that funeral… And he hadn't been able to sleep. Was he feeling tired? It was hard to tell. He wasn't so sure if he felt anything else than hollow at the moment. "I just needed some time alone."

Mrs. Hudson nodded slowly and sighed. "It's terrible, isn't it? I miss him very much. Even the times when he would run around here and yell things. Or when he shot at the wall with his pistol. And the times he attacked my mantelpiece with a knife…" She inhaled shakily and John could just take her into his arms when she began to cry. "He will never come back." She sobbed.

"I miss him too." John whispered while she was crying. And he didn't know if it was Mrs. Hudson crying in his arms or just the fact that he wasn't alone anymore, but now he also felt tears running down his cheeks. The tears that had refused to come out those past days.

The sound of his phone ringing on the table interrupted them. Mrs. Hudson looked up with raised eyebrows. "Is someone trying to call you, John? I thought that I've heard that sound before in the past days. Many times, to be exact. Did you never answer?"

"It's Mycroft." John explained. "And no, I didn't answer the call yet."

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows. "But why? He certainly just wants to make sure that you are alright."

John shrugged. "I just don't want to talk to him. At least not yet."

He wasn't prepared for the accusing look on her face. "John Watson, now let me tell you something. Yes, your best friend is gone. It hurts me to say it like this, but it is true. And you are not going to withdraw from everyone who cares for you, do you understand? If you don't answer those calls in the next 24 hours, I'll talk to him myself. And then I am going to tell him to drag you out of here. Because you really need it." She sighed and suddenly, Mrs. Hudson looked incredibly tired. "I can't lose both of you, John. You have to promise me to look after yourself."

For a few moments, John just stared at her silently. Then he nodded slowly. "Alright, Mrs. Hudson. Of course I'll do it. And I'll talk to him. And then I'll see what Mycroft wants."

All of the sudden, her face light up again. "That's fine, John. You really need to talk to someone. And not just to me, also to someone else. You can't shut yourself away from the world. And now sit down and eat something. You should also get some sleep, you look tired."

"Yeah, maybe I should…" John muttered while he sipped at his tea. To be honest, he didn't want to sleep. He was afraid that he'd have nightmares. And he knew that they would come. He already saw images when he just closed his eyes.

They sat there in silence, both drinking their tea and eating sandwiches. None of them wanted to be alone by now. A look at the clock told John that it was five in the afternoon. So it's been two and a half days since the funeral. It didn't feel like that much time. When he thought of Sherlock on that building again…

"I think of him too." Mrs. Hudson whispered. "He would have said that we are far too sentimental."

"He would have told us to do something useful for once." John muttered. "Because obviously, he was the only one who's been able to think in this house."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly. "He thought that, didn't he?"

Joh sighed. "He emphasized it many times."

That evening, his phone didn't ring again. A look told him that he had 14 missed calls from Mycroft Holmes in the past two days. He planned to call him back next morning. And then John would hear what Mycroft wanted to tell him. And of course he would also have to leave the house to get some food. His fridge was empty – except for a bottle with a dark, undefined liquid Sherlock had placed there some time ago.

John was already lying in bed and staring at the ceiling when the sound of his ringing phone echoed through the silence. 'Mycroft Holmes' it said when he looked at the display. He took a deep breath and answered the call.