A/N: welcome to this story. This is my first story. I wrote it quickly, it's not that special, but if you choose to read it go right ahead. Minor Johnlock slash, so if that's not your thing, don't read, it's pretty simple
disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock as awesome as that would be, I am only an insane fan
John groaned as he heard a knock on the door. Lestrade never seemed to listen when he said he was fine. He kept stopping by to talk to John and ask for his help on cases. He told John it would help his grieving process. But John wasn't grieving.
No, John was absolutely totally fine. Except for the fact that he still thought of Sherlock every single time he opened the fridge and didn't see a body part. Or every time he saw the microscope still on the table. And even when he typed in his laptop password, knowing that Sherlock would have figured it out in under ten seconds. And for some reason whenever he was in the living room he kept glancing at the couch expecting Sherlock to be curled up there moping.
John tried to avoid these moments as much as possible. He hardly left his room, save for eating and using the loo. This still wasn't often however, as he seemed to have picked up Sherlock's eating habits.
Mrs. Hudson has been doing her best. She came in every once in awhile to clean, and drop off some necessary living items such as food. She can't do it forever, and with no money coming in from John she was afraid she would have to kick him out.
John ignored the door, hoping that Lestrade would just go away. The door opened and John sighed as he heard footsteps on the stairs.
"How many times do I have to tell you Greg, I'm fine, I don't want to help, and would you just leave me alone?" John said as he got up out of where he was sitting on his bed, and moved over to the door. John stopped abruptly as he noticed the figure in the doorway.
"Hello John."
No, no no no no no. He was not supposed to be here. As a matter of fact, he was supposed to be dead. You know, the whole stuck in the ground not
moving, not breathing type of dead. John saw him fall, he saw the blood spread across his face. John was there, he heard his last words.
John's heart started to race, his head pounded, and he wasn't sure he was breathing.
He stared into Sherlock's eyes, his hand slowly reached up to touch Sherlock's chest. As his hand rested there, he could feel Sherlock's heartbeat. John moved closer and moved his hand to Sherlock's neck.
"Is it really you?"
Sherlock didn't answer, he just stared unblinkingly back at him. In the nine months that Sherlock was gone, he had aged. Sherlock's eyes looked worn, his hair looked as messy as ever, and though he once held himself tall, his posture was slouched and beaten.
They stood there for what seemed like hours, just looking into each other's eyes, Johns hand around Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock closed his eyes and brought John closer, his hand resting on his hip.
"I'm home John." He said, before slowing bringing him in for a kiss.