John Watson picked up his cup of tea and headed to his favourite couch. It was a new day, and the sun was faintly shining through the window looking out onto Baker Street.
The sun shouldn't be shining, he thought as he sank into his chair, taking care not to spill his drink. It should be a dark, dreary day. For this was the day marked the one year passing of Sherlock Holmes.
John took a sip of his tea and looked out the window. Cars were driving by on the grey road and people were bustling around. Just another average day.
"Hello, John," a familiar voice said. He turned around and greeted Mrs Hudson.
"Bit of a nice day, huh?" the woman said as she started to clean up the table that was always so messy.
"Yeah, a little," he agreed, and he took another sip.
"I'm just going to nick down to the shops. Do you need anything?" Mrs Hudson asked.
"No, thank you," he said politely. "But could you get me a biscuit from the cupboard, if you don't mind?"
"I'm not your housekeeper, dear," she reminded him for the thousandth time, but she obediently made her way to the cupboard.
John sighed. His life was so dull. He wished he could be running alongside Sherlock again, trying to catch some bad guy who was working for Moriarty.
Jim Moriarty. How he hated that name. It was forever tainted to John. He must be half-way across the world now, laughing at the fact that Sherlock was dead.
John squinted his eyes shut. He should not have thought that. Now his mind was flooding with memories of the man of mystery.
The picture of him first meeting Sherlock briefly flashed in his head. The time when he asked Afghanistan or Iraq. That was the time his life changed dramatically.
Another scene flashed into his head. This time it was when Sherlock and he were running across the streets of London, chasing after a cab.
He thought about the time where he had to shoot the cabbie to save Sherlock's life because he was being an idiot, like usual. The time when the car took him to Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. How he was his brother, John knew not, as the similarities between them were almost zero.
John thought about the pool, where he thought he was going to die, either by the sniper or the explosives. He was saved by the song 'Staying Alive', which John thought was a huge coincidence.
Then he thought about Irene Adler, or 'the woman' as Sherlock referred her to. One time he caught Sherlock on her Twitter account.
"What are you doing?" John asked Sherlock.
"Research," was the man's response.
John opened his mouth to say something, but then decided it was better not to ask. Instead, he shook his head and walked away.
"John," Mrs Hudson cut into his day-dream.
He looked up and saw that she was offering him a biscuit.
"Ahh, thank you," he said, and he took it from her fingers.
She smiled and said goodbye. John farewelled her as she headed out the door, shutting it gently behind her.
John took a bite of his biscuit and another sip of tea. A few drops of it split down his shirt. His favourite shirt.
He cursed to himself and set down the tea on the table in front of him. That's when he noticed his hand was quivering slightly.
"John Watson, what is the matter with you?" he mumbled to himself. He was an army doctor. His hands never shake.
It's because of Sherlock, a small voice nagged in his mind. You miss him, John.
Shut up, he told the voice, and he looked at his reflection in the cabinet mirror. He looked at his shirt and groaned when he saw the liquid had settled in, staining his shirt.
He turned around to get changed when he noticed that the skull had changed position.
That's a little odd, John thought, and he examined the object. It didn't look like it had been tampered with, just that it changed position. It was on the other side of the cabinet, and it faced the front door.
I haven't touched it, John thought. Mrs Hudson would never touch it. What was going on here?
Suddenly he felt a vibration in his pocket, and he reached into it. He bought out his phone and checked it. It was a text from an unknown number.
Thinking this was strange, he opened it.
I knew you'd notice. SH.
SH? Was he seeing things?
He closed the message and opened it again. It read the exact same thing.
It could be a trick. Someone could be taunting him. But they sent it right after John noticed the changed skull?
He got another notification, and he opened the new message.
Don't just kneel there like an idiot, John. Follow the skull.
He looked at the skull. It was facing the door, like he noted before. He slowly tilted his head in the doors direction and looked.
Tall, lean figure in black trousers, white buttoned shirt and a black long sleeved waistcoat. Curly black hair cropped short. A pale face and the pale eyes.
John stared at him in disbelief as Sherlock Holmes tucked his phone into his pocket.
"Hello, John."
"Sh…Sherlock," John stammered.
"Stand up, John. You look stupid kneeling down like that," Sherlock said in his deep voice. It sent shivers down John's spine.
John remembered the hours spent pondering about how Sherlock could've possibly still been alive. He tried to piece together all the little bits of clues and information that stood out clearly. But he never would've thought that he would actually see him, standing right next to the door again.
He suddenly then remembered that Sherlock was staring at him. Stand up, he told himself. John stood up with difficulty. "It's really you?" he asked stupidly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, I'm his evil twin coming to haunt you. Of course it's me, John!"
"But you're dead."
"Well, no."
"You killed yourself. You jumped off that building."
"Yes, I jumped off."
"How did you…how did you survive?"
"Oh, I had help."
John's mind was racing with questions, but only anger burned in his thoughts.
"Are you kidding me? You've been alive for all this time, and you never bothered to tell me?"
"You should be flattered, John! You're one of the only people who know I'm alive!"
"Except for Mycroft."
"No, Mycroft doesn't know."
"You're not telling your own brother you're alive?"
"Not yet."
"Why me? Why not Mycroft?"
"One, I trust you more. Two, I suspected you were the only person who had hope I was still alive."
That's true, John thought. For the past three hundred and sixty-five days he spent hours theorising if Sherlock was still alive.
Sherlock walked over to the couch and sat down. John followed him and he sat too.
They sat in silence for a while until John piped up.
"It's been a year, Sherlock. A bloody year."
"I needed time."
"For what, Sherlock? Chasing Moriarty? What the hell have you been doing for all this time?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"What?" John asked flatly.
"Moriarty's dead," Sherlock said.
John's mouth fell open as Sherlock fixed up his waistcoat.
"Dead?" he asked, stunned.
"He shot himself in front of me, John," Sherlock pointed out.
"When?" John demanded.
"A year ago."
"He was…he was on the roof with you?"
"What do you think I was doing up there? Enjoying the view?"
John sank back in his chair, unable to process what was going on. It was Moriarty that's dead, not Sherlock? John found this extremely hard to believe.
He closed his eyes to gather his thoughts, and when he opened them again, he found that Sherlock was standing in front of the window, looking out onto Baker Street.
"This apartment hasn't changed much," Sherlock noted.
"No, it hasn't. After all, it's only been a year."
Sherlock said nothing. He only turned his head towards the violin, which had been stashed in the corner. He looked at it longingly; eager to play again.
"Would you like some tea, Sherlock?" John offered.
"That would be nice, thank you John," Sherlock said.
John stood up and walked over to the kitchen. As he got out the teabags, he heard the violin being played by Sherlock in the background. He was still very good, as if he never left it.
John smiled and shook his head. He was certainly a man of mystery.