"It's been three years…"
John Watson was blogging again. For the first time since Sherlock took his life, John Watson was actually blogging, though perhaps the term "blogging" described more than he was actually doing. For the last hour, John Watson had been staring at his computer screen, a blank blog post pulled up, unable to type more than the phrase, "It's been three years since he died."
If asked to describe himself at any time during those three years, John Watson would have told you he was "pathetic". He had been unable to cope with the death of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes and he slowly found himself reduced to that of a couch potato, never leaving the flat unless he needed food, so in his eyes, yes, he was pathetic.
However, something about today was different. John Watson woke up that morning with a burning desire to tell the world his side of the story. He wanted, no he needed, to make the public grasp the fact that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud, that James Moriarty was real, and that the world needed Sherlock Holmes to come back. Most of all, he hoped his blog would prove to Sherlock the world wasn't happy without him. (Late at night, when John Watson was on the brink of another breakdown, he would try to convince himself that Sherlock probably thought he was doing the world a favor by killing himself. He probably figured if he wasn't around, then the crime would die down, people would be happy. John Watson would laugh at that point. "Happy?" he'd ask himself aloud. "If this is what you consider happy, Sherlock, then I really don't wanna see what you consider sad to be.")
John Watson stared at his laptop screen. The words refused to come to him, the curser continued to blink, awaiting orders from the keyboard which never came. Watson closed the laptop, trying to contain his rage. He rose, and entered the kitchen, where an opened bottle of vodka lay on the counter. He poured himself a shot, and noticed a small folded up paper sitting next to the glass. He set the glass down, picked up the paper, and began to unfold it. He caught glimpse of a small amount of the writing the paper contained, and abruptly dropped it to the floor.
The handwriting belonged to Sherlock Holmes. John Watson was sure of it. He hesitantly bent down, retrieved the paper, and continued unfolding it. As he began to read the note, his knees went wobbly. He knew he could no longer stand, so he quickly sat at the table, resting his head in his hand.
"John," the letter began, "I was on your porch."
The first sentence alone took all the breath away from John Watson. A million thoughts went racing through his head. How could Sherlock have written this?! How could he have been on my porch?! We don't even HAVE a porch! He continued reading.
"The smoke sank into my skin, so I came inside to be with you. And we talked all night about everything we could imagine, because come the morning, I'll be gone."
Watson tossed the letter aside and raced to the door, looking, hoping, for some trace that Sherlock had really been inside the flat. John Watson raced around the room, tossing things around, looking for any evidence. Predictably, he found none and returned to the letter.
"And as our eyes start to close, I turn to you and I let you know that I love you. I told you once that I had no friends. I wasn't lying at that moment, because I don't have any friends. I just have one best friend."
John Watson couldn't stop the tears from coming. He clutched his chest, feeling his heart breaking all over again. Knowing this was too much for him to handle, John Watson continued reading the letter once more.
"I'm not coming back, John. I did my time. It's over now. The times we had were the best of my life, but nothing lasts forever, even heroes. But you've got to move on, John. You can't do this to yourself."
"I'll do whatever I bloody well want to myself, Sherlock!" John yelled without thinking. He could feel the rage inside him boiling. You have the nerve to come back here AFTER YOU DIED and try and tell me how to live my life?!
"John you have to live. 'Cause what's left to lose. I've done enough. You have to try. And if you fail, well then you fail. But at least you gave it a shot."
John Watson rose, and downed the shot of vodka he'd poured. He quickly poured himself another shot, downed it, another, downed, and one more just for safe keeping.
"And these last three years, I know they've been hard. But John, now it's time to get out of the desert and back into the sun. Even if it means you're alone."
He drank another shot.
"Please John. Live.
And another.
"For me.
He took a large swig of the bottle and slammed it on the table.
"-SH."
He couldn't stop himself any longer. He just let himself cry. And cry. And cry. All night long, John Watson cried. But when he awoke the next day, to his surprise, he dressed himself, and he went outside. On that day, the world regained the great John Watson.