It’s just after the funeral. And John Watson hasn’t shed a tear, not yet. He waits until he’s by himself, alone in 221B and looks at Sherlock’s chair, looks at the only fragments of Sherlock he has left. The violin, the skull, untouched because John can’t bring himself to move them; and so they’re there as John bites back tears and chokes down sobs. They’re there when he finally breaks down, silent tears and shuddering breaths and rhetorical questions. They’re there when John realises his heart has undeniably shattered, all over the floor, broken shards piercing his chest.
Everything is there, nothing has changed, nothing has moved, 221B is still 221B. Nothing has changed- except that Sherlock is gone now.
Sherlock Holmes is gone and John Watson is alone again.