Whatever you do, don't think about the night Sherlock told John that he was "not dead." Don't think about Sherlock going home after all is said and done that night.

Don't think about the red tinted water swirling down the drain as too-cold water washes blood from wounds both fresh and half-healed away.

Don't think about the books and papers that John and Mrs. Hudson never bothered to tidy up, swept violently off the desk and scattered across the room.

Don't think about fists pressed against the window, sliding down the panes of glass as their owner sags defeatedly to the floor.

And don't think about the shuddering gasps and sobs that finally free themselves in the dark, quiet solitude of a flat that was once home.