ONE DAY
John arrives in town, expecting to find Sherlock already waiting, wondering what's taken him so long to come back though he rode as fast as he could over such rough terrain. Instead, he arrives to find San Pedro Holmes-less with no sign of him and no word of where he could possibly be.
As soon as he ascertains that Sherlock is nowhere around, John goes to the post office and telegrams Mycroft with the news, explaining that they had to split up in the canyons with the force of men trying to ride them down, and adding that he expects Sherlock to return any day, that he's likely just had to take a longer route home than expected.
And John can almost believe that it's true.
ONE WEEK
Irene disappeared about a month before the affair in the canyons, just upped in the night and took off with the bare amount of supplies and one horse. She left all of her best dresses behind, left a note for Joe to take care of the Comique, and another note for Sherlock saying that she'd taken off for New York, and not to follow her. Sherlock wasn't himself in that month, more withdrawn and less inclined to take cases, smoking and drinking more than he used to but thank God he'd stayed away from the opium dens.
A week after coming back to San Pedro, all of these little details come back to John in a rush. He tries to rationalise, tries to put them aside, but they takes hold of his mind and insist on being considered.
But Sherlock will come back. Of course he'll come back. Why wouldn't he?
ONE MONTH
A month after that race through canyons and ridges, Redbeard walks into town. His hooves are cracked and knees scarred, belly and face rubbed raw thanks to the saddle and bridle which he still wears, ribs showing through his skin he's gotten so thin. John stables him in the livery, and tends to his injuries with comfrey extract – one of Sherlock's careful creations after studying herbs for six weeks - and carbolic acid. The whole town is alive with the news that the horse is back without his rider, and John knows what they all think because he's thinking the same thing, though he tries not to.
(Was it a bullet? Or a fall? Surely neither. Surely he'll be back. Surely he'll walk into town someday, tired and worn and cursing the last month for the utter waste it's been.)
ONE YEAR
Sherlock. Face pale, eyes blank, skull cracked open so that blood runs over his skin like a delicate painting. Utterly lifeless.
John wakes in a sweat, the same horrible dream which has plagued him since he came into town without Sherlock still lingering. He never saw a body, the only evidence for Sherlock to be suspected dead was Redbeard coming back alone, compounded by the amount of time which has passed without a word.
He's long since come to the conclusion that they were Moriarty's men following them, has deep down known that ever since it happened. He would have made a stand, no matter how hopeless it looked, if Sherlock had deemed it worthwhile. Would have taken shelter behind the rocks and cut down as many men as he could. It was Sherlock's idea to split up, and even now John often finds himself wondering if there was something else at play which he didn't know about. Was it related to Irene? Did Sherlock have a death wish? Or was he trying to save John's life by sacrificing himself?
But how could he be dead? How could he go like that? It was dramatic, and that certainly was his style (and it aches to think of "was", but he has to be logical about this no matter how much that hurts), but John knows there's something missing from the picture that he doesn't have, something that was going around in Sherlock's head that made him favour splitting up over fighting. And it's that missing piece of the puzzle which allows John to consider that he might be still alive, might still come back. Somehow.