Watson had been endeavouring to pack up a few of Holmes's things to send to his brother, though at just that moment he had been lost in thought, remembering. He hated being in this position, hated having to clear up after a dead man, hated that he hadn't any idea of what to do with himself. The funeral -- more a memorial, without a body, really -- had been unbearable. But then, he supposed most widowed spouses felt like that. He wasn't far off.

Always. If he had belonged to Holmes, then perhaps Holmes had taken that part of him with him to the grave.

And it was strange, now, to be in Baker Street. He hadn't yet worked out if he ought to leave, even if he could afford to stay.

Hearing Lestrade's voice, Watson wiped hastily at his face to hide any hint of tears. Replacing what he held in the box in front of him, he rose from where he was kneeling on the ground. "Yes, come in," he said, clearing his throat.