John Watson's blank eyes stared at the skull on the mantle. Two years. Two long, lonely years since the day he'd watched his only friend commit suicide. His psychosomatic limp had returned, so had the intermittent tremor in his left hand. He was forced to use his cane once more.
Scattered across the coffee table and the rest of the flat, papers displayed messy diagrams and theories of how Sherlock Holmes could have possibly survived the fall. He hadn't looked at them in weeks. John couldn't deduce any way Sherlock survived. To John's reasonable mind, the only answer was that Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, was dead.
The door to the flat opened. In a moment of hope, John turned, expecting to see the detective saunter in like usual. "Sher—oh, hello, Mrs. Hudson."
"John, I'm sorry, luv. It's just me. I haven't seen you in almost a week. Oh, you poor dear! You look half-starved!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "Have you eaten recently?"
"No, I forgot, Mrs. Hudson," John replied. The motherly older woman walked over to him and patted his hand.
"I miss Sherlock, too," she whispered as she walked to the refrigerator. John remembered when he would open it to discover human body parts. As much as it annoyed him before, he would give anything to see it again. Only Sherlock Holmes stored human extremities, heads, and other various body parts in the fridge. It would mean that he was alive.
The first few months after the great consulting detective's death, John heard Sherlock's violin music in the night. He would spring out of bed, hoping with all his heart to see his friend thinking through a problem. The veteran was disappointed every time.
On other occasions, John would hear Sherlock's voice in his dreams, although each one was about the man's untimely death. Each nightmare sent him bolting out of his bed in a cold sweat. His therapist had offered him medication to rid himself of night terrors, but he'd declined. "It's the only way I can hear his voice," the doctor had said.
Mrs. Hudson brought him over some biscuits and milk. "Eat this, John. You need to nourish your body."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'm much obliged," John said as he gently accepted the small meal.
"Just remember, I'm not your housekeeper."
In spite of himself, John smiled and said, "I know." Mrs. Hudson patted his hand again and left him to his thoughts. 221B Baker Street was silent again.
After John finished his meal, he went back to staring at the walls. What else could he do? He had nothing to write about for his blog, not since Sherlock's suicide. He would not try and figure out some absurd way that Sherlock survived. It only drove him insane. After all, even if Sherlock was alive, John was not clever enough to solve the mystery plaguing his mind.
Sherlock Holmes. The name used to be beloved. Moriarty ruined it all. Now he was vilified by the press and could not even see his own friend. He had to use every ounce of his willpower to refrain from making his existence known to everyone. He was not fully ready to reveal himself and put everyone, especially John, under that amount of stress. It would be better if they believed him dead for now.
In all honesty, even the great Sherlock Holmes could not deduce a way to make this easy on those he knew. They were bound to be angry with him. He'd been "dead" for two years. Two whole years. Things couldn't just return to normal.
Sherlock gazed out at the street below. Irene had offered him a place to stay, but Sherlock had decided that would not be wise considering their history. And anyways, two supposedly dead people under one roof? Those would be grave circumstances indeed.
Instead, the world's only consulting detective had found a new flat to lease until he returned to 221B Baker Street. He hoped it wouldn't be too much longer until he was able to return.