John stopped seeing the psychiatrist again six months after the funeral. There was no point. He still heard the violin playing at three in the morning, still saw black coattails flailing in his peripheral vision, still smelled tea and chemicals and human decay when none of it was there. He had nightmares again. He limped again.
A year after the funeral, he stopped pretending. He was a soldier. He'd learned to carry on in the face of a lost comrade, and he did. He would eat and sleep, grab a beer with Lestrade, get lunch with Molly, have tea with Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft stopped by occasionally, seemingly to check up on him. Irene Adler actually texted him once, saying she was fine and Sherlock probably was too. John knew anything was possible, but he still wouldn't get his hopes up. He was living, he was even happy sometimes, but it wasn't as easy as before.
Two years after the funeral, John met Mary, and if it hadn't been for Molly and Lestrade, he would have let her go. After three dates, he told her about Sherlock, but she already knew. She had read the blog from the beginning. She believed in him too.
Three years after the funeral, it wasn't as hard to be happy. He had Mary. He had friends in Molly and Greg, and even, to an extent, Mycroft. He still felt a longing, almost empty ache in his chest, but it had dulled. He felt a stronger pain that hit him like a bullet whenever he was alone, but for the most part, he was healing.
Three years and one day after the funeral, he wasn't so sure.
As soon as he opened the door, he smelled tea again. He would have attributed it to Mrs. Hudson if the violin wasn't whining too.
He groaned as he struggled up the stairs. Instead of fading away, the smells and sounds grew stronger as he entered the living room. The tea was really there, and he smiled at his landlady's thoughtfulness.
"Hello John."
The cup slipped from his fingers, because that voice wasn't Mrs. Hudson at all. This voice was deep and smooth, with just a hint of gravel on the edges like he hadn't used it in a while.
He hadn't heard that voice so clearly in three years.
His mind felt sluggish ("Think, John," he heard in his head, but wasn't that voice always in his head?) and the arm thrown out to catch the cup was moving too quickly for him to name it.
But he knew it.
His wide eyes trailed up the long, slender arm clothed in black. They fixated on the pale face with the high cheekbones.
John fainted.
When he came too, he was staring into gray eyes. He sat up so quickly, his head collided with Sherlock's. The detective sprang backwards, rubbing the spot.
"John, you really should—"
The doctor swung his fist at the man's jaw. They both remained perfectly still, John in the chair he'd woken up in, Sherlock standing a few feet away, rubbing his jaw.
"What the hell—"
John was breathing heavily, sitting otherwise completely still. Then he sprung up, swinging his fists frantically at his companion, who skillfully avoided each blow. He stopped when he began trembling. He gripped Sherlock's shoulders and hung his head.
He laughed. He shook his head. He sobbed.
"Well, if you're that upset to see me…"
John laughed again before sniffling and looking up, patting Sherlock's right shoulder.
"You're back," he whispered in awe.
The corner of the detective's lips twitched upwards.
"Obviously."
Dr. Watson coughed and stepped back, nodding absent-mindedly.
"Dinner?"
"Love some."
"Great. You can explain exactly how it is that you aren't dead."
"It's obvious, really, John. You can tell me about this Mary woman."
"You don't know?"
"I know she works as a nanny."
John grinned as he retrieved his coat. Sherlock was still talking about Mary, but John was no longer listening. He all but ran to catch up with Sherlock at the bottom of the steps.
He had no problem keeping up with him on the way to Angelo's.