The Return Of Sherlock Holmes
John took off his jacket and hung on the hook at the bottom of the stairs. He picked his cane back and limped up the stairs to the kitchen. It had been three years since Sherlock had died, falling off the roof of St. Bart's, taking Moriarty with him. Mrs. Hudson had been kind and had let John stay in the flat, making it so his rent was only a little more than it was when Sherlock was sharing with him.
Today was another bad day. They had been becoming more frequent as of late and it was getting to the point of driving John mad. He and Sherlock had only known each other for year but to John it felt like a lifetime. During the time he had known Sherlock, his limp had disappeared, and he had felt more alive than ever before, and when Sherlock died, so did a part of John. A part of him he hadn't known existed until he met the sociopath. Since Sherlock's death, his limp had returned and his gun became more and more tempting.
John sighed and rubbed his leg as he waited for the water in the kettle to boil. When he had finished making himself a cream tea, he went to the living room and sat down on the couch, throwing is head back against the couch and shutting his eyes. He stayed there for a minute before taking a sip of his tea and reaching for his laptop. When he looked on the side table however, it was empty. John cocked his head to the side confused, and began looking around the flat. For some reason he couldn't find his laptop.
God am I going senile now too? John thought trying to quell the tremors in his left hand. He sat back down on the couch and tried to concentrate on where he had last left his laptop. The flat was silent, but the longer John sat thinking, the more he realized there was a sound in the background. It sounded like tapping on a keyboard, a laptop keyboard. John listened closer and froze. He stood up quickly and walked slowly to the door of Sherlock's room, momentarily forgetting his limp. No one had been in there in at least two years. No one had wanted any of the things in Sherlock's bedroom and John had no idea what to do with it so he had just left the room the same.
John put his ear to the door, holding his breath. He could hear it clearly now. Fingers tapping away purposely, pausing every now and then, but starting up again after long. John stood there just listening for what must have been ten minutes it felt like. John went and got his gun from his hiding spot in the living room, in an old hollowed out book. (He had decided that it was safer to keep his gun downstairs than have it close to him at night.) John went back to the door, once again listening. John opened the door pointing his gun towards the bed at what he expected to be an intruder. John froze. There on the bed, using his laptop, was Sherlock.
"Ah, John. There you are," said Sherlock only barely glancing up from the screen. "Fetch me a tea if you would please."
John stared. It was Sherlock, looking no different than he had three years ago, except for a very prominent white scar across his forehead. John felt his knees buckle underneath him. When John regained consciousness he was looking up at the ceiling of Sherlock's room. He felt soft covers and a mattress beneath him. He could also hear tinkering in the kitchen, like someone was making tea. A moment later Sherlock entered with two piping hot cups of tea. He set one on the side table next to John as he sat up and just stared at Sherlock.
"Are you going to say something or are you just going to continue gaping at me John? " Sherlock said looking at John. All John did was keep staring his mouth agape and his head spinning, dizzy with confusion and strange emotions. Sherlock sat on the bed next to John and opened up the laptop and resumed whatever he was up to before John had entered and fainted at the sight of his flat mate.
"But…..you're dead," John managed to finally whisper still watching Sherlock.
"You're powers of deduction have greatly decreased if that is your conclusion," said Sherlock not looking up from the laptop. He was just about to say something when John's fist came flying hitting Sherlock square in the jaw causing Sherlock and the laptop to tumble off the bed. John followed sitting on top of Sherlock holding him down. Then he started to yell.
"You were dead! I thought you were dead! I have been close to suicide since you died and you come here acting like you never left? Three years Sherlock! I have been sitting here, living without a purpose I was going to," John stopped abruptly looking in to the eyes of his long lost friend. Sherlock was crying. There were tears in Sherlock's eyes, and he just now noticed the sensation of tears sliding down his cheeks. The two sat there, John straddling Sherlock as he lied on the floor, a bruise already forming on the right side of Sherlock's jaw. Before John could say another word Sherlock sat up and grabbed John's face, and placed his lips on John's.