Mrs Hudson had first noticed the smell a couple of days ago, it was mild at first but was now almost unbearable.
She supposed it was all the empty takeaway cartons and un-emptied bins… Sure enough the body parts Sherlock had kept in the fridge must still have been there.
Yes, that was it she told herself as the lights in the hallway flickered.
She shuddered to think the state that fridge must've been in, resolving to check on John in the morning.
Six weeks previous.
John felt his heart break as his fingers clutched desperately at Sherlock's wrist. Please, please his mind had repeated fanatically in the vain hope that mere denial of the facts would bring him back.
The facts were he'd just seen his friend, his best friend throw himself off of the roof at St Barts' hospital. His legs had buckled and near gave way on the run… Please, please. His mantra now.
He'd been shoved by a cyclist, knocked clean over, still he stumbled on.
Tears and fear building in his chest.
He'd come against a barricade of people surrounding the body, not body he'd admonished himself, Sherlock they're helping Sherlock… His hands had groped blindly through the tears, reaching for a wrist. His legs had finally given way as he'd sunk to the floor in an effort to get past the crowd and to his friend.
He'd held Sherlock's already cooling wrist, breathing out deeply and trying to steady his breathing enough to clear his head and focus on finding a flicker or stutter of a pulse.
Feeling nothing but the emergency crews lifting, pulling Sherlock onto the gurney and away from him.
He'd tried to scream, to shout "but he's my friend" to keep him close but they were gone and John was left on the ground beside the scarlet pool of blood, surrounded by people and so utterly alone.
Everything went dark.