Author's Note: Thank you for choosing to read this. I am extremely grateful and I hope you enjoy it. This is my first fanfic so feel free to leave reviews, I could certainly use the help because I'm new her. Thanks everyone. Enjoy. :)
John sits in 221B wondering what on earth he is now going to do with his life. His life now seems so empty and well dull as Sherlock would have put it. Oh God, Sherlock. Almost instantly painful images of Sherlock throwing himself of the roof of Saint Bart's flood his mind. Sobs rack John to the core. How is he going to carry on without him? It is all just too painful. He could always go back to the surgery, he supposes. He had no choice Sherlock was gone. Dead, he had seen it happen with his own eyes, been to his funeral but somehow he still couldn't bring himself to believe it.
Sherlock hails a cab. "Baker Street. Do be quick about it." he said in a sharp tone. He definitely doesn't know how John was going to handle his being alive. How should he reveal himself to John? Should he just waltz into the flat and pretend nothing had happened? Should he txt John before he arrives? He was certainly expecting a punch in the face. Would John be angry or relieved? Perhaps both but which emotion would outweigh the other. The fact that he didn't know made him highly uncomfortable. But that isn't the only thing unsettling the detective. He misses John. Badly. The past six months have been torture without his short, blonde doctor by his side. Wait. When did John suddenly become his? When did he become so possessive? Sherlock stares out of the cab window thinking about these things while the unfamiliar feeling of dread makes a pit in his stomach. Once he returned to the flat things would be fine and everything would go back to normal. Right?
