~~John~~
John woke up early that morning. He had fallen asleep. "Grrrunnn," he stretched. He hadn't meant to spend the whole night there, but there he sat in the middle of Baker Street once again. Mrs. Hudson had come at some point and put a blanket over him, it would seem. He and Sarah had had a row the night before, so John had, of course, come to the one place where he could ever find comfort. 221B Baker Street.
` The bloody hell is that?
He could hear something vaguely in the back of his mind. Violin music. That had been happening a lot lately, really. It had been nearly a year since Sherlock had jumped, and John had been marking the day of his death on his calendar every day since then. A day didn't pass when John didn't visit the cemetery. He had even canceled a flight one evening only so he could make it before they closed up for the night.
Still, though, he heard the music. That had been Sherlock's favorite piece. John glanced over to the window, reminiscent of the way the tall, dark man had so frequently stood there. That had been, of course, his favorite place to play. To compose. John sucked in a breath, though, when the music stopped abruptly and a figure standing at the window with its back to him turned around.
"Hello, John."
~~Sherlock~~
Two simple words. That was all it had taken, and John had hit the floor. Sherlock rolled his eyes and set the violin back on its stand and walked over, hoisting the unconscious man off the floor and lying him on the couch. Sherlock had known that John would be here tonight. After his fight with Sarah, John would have no where else to go. No one else to run to.
John was back to himself in a few moments, but this time Sherlock sat in his old favorite chair and waited for him to come to his senses. Wouldn't want to have another reaction like that.
~~John~~
I must be mad, John thought. I'm going insane. John had just seen his best mate, Sherlock – his Sherlock – back in Baker Street. He had been right there. John looked up and around Baker Street, trying to decide if he was truly mad or not, and still. There sat Sherlock Holmes, staring back at him with those sad eyes of his. There was something different in those eyes now than before, though. A twinge of sadness. Whether he realized it or not, this had changed Sherlock. "Sherlock." it came as a breathless whisper from John. Sherlock was back. He stood and staggered over to him, laying his hands on the other man's face. He felt across his face then down his arms and stopped at his hands. Only then did he go back and check man's pulse. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Yes. This man was, most definitely, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was back. Sherlock is back. John stood up, staring at the silent man in slight confusion for a second, then looked even more confused than before, if possible, when Sherlock's body tensed up as though ready for some sort of impact. Before he even realized what he was doing, though, John drew back his arm and punched the man in the face. ...I get it now. Blood. There was real blood. This was real. He knew it was real because not only was there blood on the man's face, there was blood on John's fist. Blood on his hands. This was definitely Sherlock's blood, and there it rested, mixing with his own. Sherlock tensed up again for a second, then relaxed into the chair. Yes...yes I suppose I am done. This man, somehow, knew John better than he knew himself.
"Sherlock...why?" It was feeble, but it was all he thought he could manage to choke out before resolving into a crying, bumbling mess. He had to know why Sherlock had done it, though he wasn't truly sure if he wanted to. Not yet.
"You don't really want to know yet."
It was music to his ears, really. That cold, hard voice. He had missed it.
"I still remember, Sherlock." His voice was shaking. "I remember the last thing I ever said to you face to face." The tears started to stream down his face. "I think about it every day. I have every day since last year when I saw you on top of the hospital, wondering if there was really anything I could have done. Anything I could have said."
"Do you remember?"
"OF COURSE I BLOODY REMEMBER, SHERLOCK. I CALLED YOU A DAMN MACHINE."
With that, John collapsed into body-wracking, gut-wrenching sobs. Sherlock reached forward and caught him, leading him back over to the couch. It was sad, really, watching John react to simply seeing him this way.
"I was there," Sherlock started. He assumed he would have to explain himself to John. "Every time. Every day." John watched him in confusion. "I saved your life once." Blink. "I've been following you, John. Whenever something happened in your life, I knew about it. I was there when you ran back to Sarah. How do you think I knew you would be here tonight?" John sat there for a moment, taking it all in. "Forgive me, John."
And with that, John sat straight up in his bed.
"John, love," he looked down. There lied Sarah next to him. "What's the matter?" John rubbed his face. It was always the same. He spent every night just hoping that, for once, it would be real. That, for once in his life, things could just go the way he wanted them to. They never would, though. Not with Sherlock dead. His best mate was gone, and he could never be truly happy until he got back.