One more miracle for you, John
It had been three years already. Three years since Sherlock Holmes died and John was still not over it. He guessed he would never really be.
After the incident, he had met his therapist couple of times, but he didn't find the resolution he had hoped from the sessions. He was told to accept that Sherlock was gone, and to continue his life. And he really tried. But he couldn't acknowledge the fact that Sherlock Holmes had committed a suicide for something he did not do. There was something more behind it, but what it was, John had no idea.
It actually surprised him how much he missed Sherlock. The consulting detective – as he had liked to call himself – had thought of everyone else stupid, he had been arrogant show-off and a dick. But John had cared for him, cared deeply. Sherlock had been his best friend.
He shook his head trying to shake off all the haunting thoughts, as he walked down the street. He had once again spent a meaningless night in the nearby pub. It's not like he attempted to drown his sorrow to alcohol, he just tried to do at least one thing Mrs. Thompson had told him to. Not to stay home staring the wall, but to be around other people. Though he did not enjoy it and he mostly avoided making contact with anyone. So he guessed it was after all the alcohol he went there for.
John hurried his steps before the drizzle would escalate to rain shower. Still deep in his thoughts, he opened the lower door and entered the building. He hadn't entered the flat he had shared with Sherlock more than once after the funeral. And once only so he could get some of his stuff to his new apartment. Not even close to everything he had, just the ones he needed to live everyday life. And the skull from the mantelpiece where he had once hid Sherlock's cigarettes.
Smiling to the memory, John put his key in the lock of his second floor apartment, just to notice that the door was already open. He frowned as he carefully stepped into his twenty squares. The whole flat was dark and John came to a conclusion that the fuse had burned, as he tried to turn the switch and nothing happened. If he remembered correct, he had a flashlight on the top drawer of his desk so that's where he headed.
Carefully John found his way past the armchair, the only chair he had, and next to his bed. He opened the desk drawer and started to look for the flashlight, but he couldn't find it, no matter how hard he searched. Then suddenly he heard a low voice from his left and someone lit the floor lamp. John's heart jumped to his throat first as he squinted his eyes to the sudden light, but then it started to beat faster than ever as the three years vanished from his mind.
"Are you looking for this?" asked the so familiar voice.
The first thing John's blinded eyes could perceive, was the hand holding his flashlight, but soon he got used to brightness and saw who was the owner of the hand, though he already knew.
Sherlock stood up from the armchair he had been sitting on and tossed the small device in his hand. "I must say, I'm a bit disappointed in you, John. I was waiting you to arrive exactly", he checked his watch, "seventeen minutes ago. But since it seems you met someone, a tall blond woman, according to those hairs on your shoulder and how her lipstick is pressed on your ear, I forgive you. Especially when you did not leave with her, as she must have proposed."
All that John was able to get out of his mouth was a silent 'what', but Sherlock didn't note that in any way. He just kept blabbering about the usual stuff, the things he could notice with one glance from John's appearance. In any other time it would had amazed the old soldier, but right now he couldn't hear a thing his friend said. Sherlock was alive. He was standing there, in his apartment.
"But that's not relevant", Sherlock suddenly said clapping his hands together after finally ending his analysis. "I need your help, John. Follow me."
Sherlock turned to leave the flat, but John stopped him with one word, "wait". Slowly Sherlock shifted himself so he was facing the shorter man. John had almost convinced himself that this was a dream, but he couldn't make up his mind, if he hoped it to never end or that he would wake up immediately. Either way there was something he had promised to do if he ever met Sherlock again.
"We don't really have time for this, John", Sherlock started, but was cut off by John who took two steps towards him and hit his fist hard in Sherlock's jaw, sending the taller man on the floor. Baffled Sherlock rubbed his aching jaw and looked at the man who was now offering a hand to him. Sherlock took the offer still quite puzzled and John helped him up. When the taller one was standing again, John closed him in a tight hug.
"You bastard", he said smiling widely as he let go of the other one, "I don't know how you did it and I'm not sure if I even want to, I'm just glad you're alive."
Sherlock answered the smile and nodded his head. "Me too."