A/N: So, this is a one-shot I managed to write sneakily at work (I had done all my jobs, to be fair.) This charts the thought processes that go through John's head when Sherlock returns. WARNINGS: Swearing (thought I should say it) and implied pre-anything one-sided Johnlock. Don't like, don't read. Reviews are welcome, of course.

Obviously I don't own Sherlock, or any of the wonderful work of the BBC, Steven Moffatt, Sue Vertue, Mark Gattiss etc etc.

My grandmother used to say "you could have knocked me over with a feather, I was that surprised!"

It wouldn't even take a feather to knock me over. It's all I can do not collapse, heart beating an irregular rhythm, eyes shut tight against the sight of you, my explosive words held back behind closed lips.

I've played this moment over and over in my head for so long that what I thought would happen and what is actually happening are two very, very different things.

The nightmares were awful; visions of you falling, from buildings tall and dark, monstrous entities that went on forever. I pictured you stood there, framed by the clouds in the sky, talking into the phone that delivered the most hated of phrases.

Goodbye.

You wouldn't believe how kind people are. Everyone treated me like your best friend, or your lover, or something. We weren't though, were we? Lovers, that is. Maybe because I thought you didn't have it in you to care that much about another person, or maybe because I didn't know, or hadn't realised. Something.

Sarah came and fetched me from the waiting room at the hospital, when I hadn't moved for three hours, and apparently had sat, staring at the vending machine opposite me. She was so, so…kind. She didn't say anything trite, or sympathetic, just led me to her car and helped me in, driving me back to her place and getting me a glass of whiskey. Awful stuff, my father would have a fit if he knew I'd drunk a blend instead of a malt. In my defence, I wasn't exactly what you'd call aware at that point.

The days after were abysmal. I couldn't bring myself to go to work, or talk to anybody. I went back to the flat the next day; Sarah said perhaps I should wait, but how could I? You hated idleness and sloth. Being bored was worse to you than being overworked. The rest of us crave holidays and rest – you thrived on action.

Lestrade patted me on the back at the funeral, looked at me with such an awful expression of sadness on his face I could barely meet his eye. You'd have died (again) at the very thought of him expressing remorse over you. He spoke about you in a different way than he used to.

We got really, really drunk one night. I met him at the pub after work, and we started on the beer. By kicking out time I'd had god knows how many pints, and probably four or five whiskeys. He helped me into a cab, a little 'blind-leading-the-blind', but there you go. Through the window, as he was saying goodbye, he said, out of the blue; "Complete tosser, but what a fucking genius, eh?" Then he banged his hand on top of the roof like they do in films, and we pulled away.

As the days went by, it felt just a little easier to take. After two months I didn't feel like I had to visit your grave every weekend, and after six months I started seeing Sarah again, sort of. We never made it a regular thing; perhaps that was my mistake. Kept it to the occasional dinner, a drink on a Saturday night, and sometimes even sex. Oldest cliché in the book, but it was the only thing that could keep all the other stuff in my head out. She probably wanted more from me, but it was more than I could give. I had no interest in the crazy, emotional, love thing. Not with her, anyway.

It was eleven months in, when I got the job at the new place, that I had one of those revelations. I'd come back into the flat after a game of darts with the guys at work, and straight away I sat on your sofa, without even thinking about it. I sat there, fingers tracing the places you'd touched time and time again, and I felt so, so comforted. It was like someone had tilted the picture and shown me a different aspect to it.

You can still talk to him, even if he isn't there. You're still allowed to miss him.

Things definitely improved from then on. Even the nagging thought that crept, unbidden into my head three months later that actually, there was something inside my heart that missed you on a different level didn't phase me too much.

What did it matter? Any feelings, whether platonic or…the other kind, were inconsequential. And even if you had been around, what would you have said or done? You wouldn't have realised for a while, and even if you had, you wouldn't have known what to do with it.

Fifteen months after you…went, Lestrade called me, asked if I could give them a hand. I was wary, of course, wary of the pitying looks and tiptoeing round on eggshells. I asked him why he wanted me, and he huffed a laugh;

"Because Donovan's got food poisoning and Anderson is…"

He didn't even need to finish that sentence because I slipped my shoes on and put my coat half on while I told him that yes, I would come.

Canary Wharf, twenty minutes? No problem.

It was difficult when we got there, of course. I expected you to point out at least ten things in quick succession, and when you didn't answer I had a pang of lonliness. You'd have bloody killed me for admitting that. You didn't do lonely. You didn't do friends or colleagues until I came along.

And there I was, staring at this weird looking body, scanning it until something popped out. I'd nearly given up when I saw the earrings; two pearls that at a glance looked identical. I looked again, and realised the right hand one was bigger, if only by two or three millimetres. I checked all her clothing; there was something wrong about it. It all looked similar, but just didn't match properly. She was obviously a woman that cared about her reflection – her eyebrows were plucked perfectly, her skin had the smooth look that only Botox could give, considering she was in her mid to late fifties. Her nails were painted, still intact, aside from three nails on her left hand that were chipped at the ends.

I told Lestrade what I'd seen, and he noted it down, thanking me for coming. I didn't expect to hear any more on the matter, but I had a call two weeks later; she'd been kidnapped under instructions from her husband, who'd tried to make it look as though she'd left him for another man and fallen on hard times when he had dumped her.

Even by my standards it was a poorly thought up plan. It turned out she'd been kept for three months in a basement at a farmhouse near the New Forest. A bit roughed up, but given clothes and other stuff to keep her quiet. One of her captors had confessed that they'd had to do away with her when she went mental one night and tried to escape, injuring one of his colleagues in the process.

It was an almost entirely unsatisfying conclusion, and for the first time I felt a yearning at the back of my mind, like you must have had every day: I actually wanted to go back out on cases.

I asked Greg (Lestrade told me to "stop being so bloody formal all the time!") to let me know if they needed any help, and the calls started trickling in. Turns out you were right about Anderson, and Donovan for that matter. I went in with a no-prisoners attitude, and I didn't leave with any. I think it worked.

It was two years ago yesterday that you died, so I popped to your grave and stood there, telling you all of this. I could almost imagine your face; eyes rolling, brow crinkling.

Work was alright today, but there was this woman, I don't know how to describe it, but it was bloody weird. I came back on that disgusting bus again – it really is time I start biking again – and went to get whiskey from Mr Patel, then came upstairs. I filled the kettle, noticed the cup, rewound the last few seconds, saw you sitting there and dropped it on the floor, smashing it into about fifteen pieces.

Mrs Hudson is going to kill me if I've damaged the floor.