Three years ago, Sherlock jumped. Three years ago, Moriarty shot. Three years ago, John carried Sherlock's casket. At first, John had been in denial, believing that Sherlock hadn't really died, and that he was out there somewhere, that this was all just a clever ruse. That he was playing along with Moriarty's game. He had texted Sherlock's phone, and gotten a number no longer in service text back. It hurt. So much. Despite the void in his heart and life, despite everything Sherlock had said before he jumped, he believed that his friend had been no fake. How could he have been?! John just couldn't believe it was all a lie.
After the worst of the pain passed, he was constantly worried and depressed. He was worried about his money and where he was going to find work and what his plan was if he ran out of money. He did find work, eventually. He was able to pay his rent and all the bills and payments. The months and weeks drug on, a mundane job, and an even more mundane life. Without Sherlock, time seemed to have slowed down, and life just wasn't as exciting. Then it happened.
John was laying in bed one night, his phone laying in the night stand. It buzzed and lit up. He picked it up and looked at the caller I.D. An unknown number. He answered it, "Hello?" He asked. "John, I'm going to be at the flat in five minutes. Unlock the door, I don't have a key." Said a voice. "Wait, hold on, who are you?!" John asked, jumping up. There was no answer, the person had hung up the phone. John froze, he knew that voice. That deep, icy voice. It belonged to a certain dark haired, blue-eyed consulting detective. It had to be him, no one else had that voice. He sat back down in bed for a few moment, trying to gather his thoughts, then dressed as fast as he could and walked down the stairs quickly, just as someone tried to open the door. He swung it open quickly, the doorknob hitting the wall.
On the other side of the door stood Sherlock Holmes, not dressed in the nice, clean, fancy clothes he used to wear three years ago but much less noticeable jeans and t-shirt. John's first reaction was just overwhelming joy; he jumped on the other man, pressing his lips to Sherlock's. The other man tottered back and forth before steadying himself and hugging John against him. The smaller man pulled away, another emotion overcoming him: rage. He stepped back from Sherlock, took a deep breath and hit the other man, right on the nose. Sherlock jumped back, slightly surprised. Before John could hit him again though, he grabbed the other man's wrists, a smile on his face. "It's been three years, Sherlock." John snapped. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry." Sherlock said, squeezing his friend's wrist. John opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. He took a deep breath and smiled, tears in his eyes. "Welcome back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."