"John."

"John."

John looked up, surprised to see the petite figure of Molly Hooper standing in the doorway. She looked so out of place, in the centre of Scotland Yard and not wearing her white lab coat, that he had to do a double take. But lo and behold, it was definitely her.

"God, sorry. Hi, Molly, hi."

"I've just come fromthe morgue..." she began, fiddling with the edge of her cardigan as she spoke.

"Is it Sherlock? Can I see the body?" John questioned, putting his cup of undrunk watery coffee down and standing up.

"John I'm so sorry." Molly said, before swallowing nervously. She looked close to tears, he thought. Well, yes, he supposed that made sense. He wasn't the only person in the world who cared about Sherlock Holmes after all, he reprimanded himself. "I wish I could help, but he's already gone through. You have to understand, this is way above my head."

He gave her a small, defeated smile. "No, I do, I know. I don't blame you."

She nodded, biting her bottom lip.

"Hold on. If I cant go, then...why are you here?" It probably sounded rude but honestly at this point he was past caring.

Molly motioned to a plastic carrier bag John hadn't noticed she was carrying before (unobservant, so unobservant. He could hear Sherlock's mockery at the edges of his mind.)
"I thought you should have it. But um...could you...could you do me a favour? You don't need to do if you don't want to but…just keep it, would you? Just...don't let him go."

John's eyebrows furrowed as she cast her gaze down at her shoes, before shoving the bag into his hand and hurrying out the way she came in. He sat back down in his chair, and, curious as to the contents of the bag, looked inside. What he saw made his heart stop.

It was the coat. His coat.

Biting down hard on his lip, John carefully pulled it out and unfolded it. He noticed a blood stain on the edge of the collar, and after running his fingers lightly across it, found a damp spot near the shoulder, undoubtedly from a tear that hadn't fully dried yet. He clenched his jaw, blinked hard, and no tears fell.

As he looked at the coat in front of him, something occured to him that he'd never thought about before. From the sharp, angular lines, to the ridiculous length, to the unnecessary drama that accompanied it wherever it went - the coat was just so inherently Sherlock.

He knew that Sherlock's possessions would no doubt be passed on to Mycroft (as if he needed, wanted or deserved them), but realisation began to dawn on him that this was the last part of Sherlock he would ever have. All the texts, all the endless days and nights without food or sleep on cases, all the jokes and the arguments, all the body parts in the fridge and violin in the early hours of the morning, all the inappropriate enjoyment of crime scenes and inventive methods they'd employed to keep Sherlock's boredom at bay, all the ridiculous codewords he'd been forced to learn (and would never admit he was secretly thankful for) and the brilliant deductions that never failed to amaze him, all the lazy mornings spent silently enjoying eachothers company and the nights of crap telly and take-away - it had all come down to this.

A coat. Just one coat, and yet (as cliché as it sounded) so much more.

He clutched the coat tightly to his heart, and sobbed and sobbed.