John came out of the room, barefoot and empty handed, putting a striped shirt on, that fit too loosely when weeks before felt too tight. The sun was setting and, as he passed the living room to the kitchen, his shadow danced among the papers and the disorganization.
He put the kettle on, tugging at the shirt, unaware of the time. The last couple of shifts at the hospital had exhausted him, but it also seemed to be the only thing able to make him forget. He had kept the photographs away – he had learned with time it was part of his own therapy – but still the memories came dashing in, like a flood, taking control of his thoughts and of his actions. Sometimes, as he wandered through the house alone, he had to stop and grab something, anything, to keep himself steady. He knew the pain wasn't exactly physical, but it seemed to take hold of him in such a way. Working had been like an emergency exit, the only thing he could do to keep himself at least a little bit sane. Who knew he would be here, back at the apartment, mourning for someone else? And just months after moving out. It had been luck that Mrs. Hudson had taken him back, though he was almost certain Mycroft had had a role on that decision. He wasn't a bad tenant, but he wasn't a good one either. The flat was always silent, morbid, and void. His presence had never added much to it. The yellow smiley face was still on the wall, as if mocking him and his pain. Pain. What a strange paralytic. The limp had come back, but he was surely crippled in many different ways.
He picked up the mug, the tea steaming, no sugar. As he walked in the living room he looked at the two chairs, as if seeing them for the first time. The green chair – his chair – seemed to be inviting him to sit. John stared at it for a while longer and finally complied. Why not? The ghost of Sherlock always seemed to follow him no matter where he went. It was time to make some changes. Ghosts can become dangerous, if we make our lives revolve around them for too long.
He sipped the tea slowly, enjoying the way the hot water burned his tongue and he allowed himself to think of her. Just today. Only today. Her dark hair was straight and thick, and fell perfectly at any times, even when she woke up in the morning. Her hands were small and warm and inviting. Her smile was sincere and the first one to make him feel alive after Sherlock had died. As a safe haven, her smile presented him with a new world. A world where friends see friends die and can move on. A world where pain is bearable and hope exists. That was what she had given him. Hope. A new start. She was fierce and he was thankful she had entered his life. But now she was gone too. His Mary. His wife. The light in the darkness and the guiding hand.
John tried to swallow the lump on his throat, feeling guilty again. Guilt always seemed to make him company, no matter what. Guilt for his sister, for Sherlock and now for Mary. He knew it wasn't his fault, he knew there was nothing his human abilities could have done to save her. Still, acknowledging that didn't make it any better. Maybe he was doomed to suffer.
As the thoughts filled his mind, with no way for him to stop them, he finally saw the floor. He was looking at it before, but he wasn't really seeing it. But now he did. There was a shadow. And one he knew well. His lips parted and the mug he was holding fell to the floor making no sound, the tea spilled over the red carpet. He couldn't make himself look up. But he had to. He had to. As his eyes finally faced the door his first thought was that he had gone mad. Being the only survivor had finally gotten to him. It couldn't be. But the man, not just the shadow, was there, standing by the door, hands behind his back and an apprehensive look. Staring at him.
"Hello, John." The dark-haired man said, stepping into the apartment.
John was afraid of moving, afraid that the moment might vanish. He didn't care if he was imagining it anymore. Right now, the one he needed the most, the only one who would be able to offer him comfort at a time like this, even with erratic words, was there.
Sherlock came closer, kneeling next to John, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"I am sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral."
And remembering something Molly had taught him a long time ago, he pushed John closer and embraced him, realising it wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. John grabbed him tight, finally accepting that it was not a dream. That he was there and alive. Sherlock tried to pull away, but the grip was too tight. John asked.
"How?"
Sherlock knew what he meant.
"I wasn't dead." he said. "I was never dead. It was all like a magic trick."
John took a moment to consider it. Then, he whispered, holding tighter, tears falling down his face, knowing which trail to run, accustomed to it.
"Can you make that magic trick again? Can you bring my Mary back?"
Sherlock's eyes flickered, not expecting that. And for the second time in his life he felt powerless. For the second time in his life he would disappoint his only friend. And now he knew. Now he knew what it felt like to be the one left behind.