Hello, I am Quinn, and this is my first story. If you read this, please leave a comment, it would really help out a lot. ;)
In the cold living room of 221B Baker Street, John Watson curled up on the couch, neither sleeping nor awake. He was going through the memory cycle again; it was like nightmares, but worse. John didn't had enough sleep ever since Sherlock's death, when he did, Sherlock always haunt him. Made John woke up soaked in sweat countless times.
John finally managed to pull himself out from the memory (Sherlock felling from the roof), and decided to get himself some food. He was out of those for a long time, but he did not exactly felt like eating these days, so he lived on his remained supplies of milk and tea, until he ran out of those yesterday, "We ran out of milk again," the consultant detective's voice whispered in John's head.
John found the coat in his room and readied to head out. He went down the hallway and pasted Sherlock's closed room, the doctor could not resist going in again. He opened the door, the scent of the detective still lingered in the room. John closed his eyes and stood there, for what felt like an hour, just smelled him. Then he remembered if he does not head for the market now, it would be closed.
To the door he went, and he was almost tripped over by something, he looked down and saw a huge paper box. "To John" was written with an elegant handwriting on the cover. The doctor carried the heavy box into the kitchen. And carefully, he opened it.
Inside the box, there were two loaves of bread, four jars of jam (two in strawberry flavour and two in blueberry flavour), and two bottles of milk, tons of tea, some toothpaste and Raspberry Kiss shower gel. There was no card or anything that indicates where was it came from and who sent it. John assumed Mrs. Hudson noticed he was running out of supplies so she bought some for him.
So the army doctor called the landlady to thank you for her concern and kindness to get him the food and supplies.
"Hello?" said the landlady.
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. It's John, John Watson," replied the doctor. "I just want to thank you for the food and supplies you kindly sent me. It's really considerate of you."
"It must be some kind of mistake, my dear. I did not send anything to you. It might be other friends of yours who sent it to you," said Mrs. Hudson.
John was surprised. If it was not Mrs. Hudson who sent the box, who might it be? The person who sent the package must know him very well, someone who knows John's favourite flavour of jam (blueberry) and his choice of shower gel. But the strawberry flavoured jam, was Sherlock's favourite, he required it almost every month. So the sender must know Sherlock too. Or he just knew what the army doctor bought in his usual market run.
Days passing, the "To John" packages kept coming, whenever John ran out of food or anything, it would be provided, some sweaters was in the boxes a couple of times too, they were soft and warm, with beautiful patterns. Finally, the fridge was filled again, even without the body parts and dangerous acids; it almost felt like its going to be alright.
But now and then, when John walked into Sherlock's room and smell, the scent of the detective is fading, even the coat that John hanged on to when he was having his worst nightmares started to smell like himself instead of the detective's.
So he started to hide in Sherlock's closet, and fell asleep in it. Those nights, no nightmares would haunt him; those nights, he can rest well.
Ever since the consulting detective's funeral, John did not have any contact with anyone that they knew, except for Mrs. Hudson. He went to work as usual and did not make friends, so he spent most of his time alone, including Christmas ("Merry Christmas, John" was written on the box, a purple shirt was inside). Without his noticed, the New Year was approaching; it was already the last day of the year. John took no notice of it and hid in the closet, hoping for a nice nap. With a ring of the bell, it was the New Year, fireworks exploding in the sky, couples kissing each other. Buzz, John got a new message.
"Happy New Year. ~unknown number"
Buzz, another message.
"Come out. ~unknown number"
Come out? What does it mean? Out to the street? Who is it anyway?
"Who are you? ~JW"
"Come out and see, I prefer to talk about it in person. ~unknown number"
With confusion, John decided to go and get ready to head out to the street. But when he opened the door, a tall dark figure was in front of him, the light was too low for him to see. With panic, John stood up and got ready to fight, it was impossible to get to the door without the figure getting in the way.
"Relax, John. It's me." said a low clam voice.
The voice was Sherlock's, even John did not hear it for two years, he can still recognize it, undoubting. But Sherlock was dead! For God sake, the person standing before him is either a ghost or a burglar with voice identical to Sherlock's.
The figure moved towards the door, and suddenly, the light was on. It is so bright in John's eyes and it took him some time to adjust.
A tall pale man in purple shirt was standing before him; he had curly dark hair as soft as silk, jawbones as sharp as knives, and his eyes, his eyes pale, green and beautiful, like the sea. Now redness was all around those eyes, a single shiny tear was shed, John ran into Sherlock's arms. A silence "I miss you". "Don't cry, Sherlock. You are with me now, don't cry." said John with his eyes tearing up for seeing his flatmate again. Now both men was embracing each other and feeling each other's heartbeats, so hard like they were never going to beat again.
"You were dead, Sherlock." muttered John, "I saw you jump." "Seriously, two years, and you still haven't figure that out? I was…" replied Sherlock, wanted to explain how he survived, just for the doctor's praise and amazed look, like he always did, he has not changed a bit. "Don't do this to me, never again. Do you understand? I almost didn't make it." interrupt John. "That's what the packages are for. Do you still have the strawberry jam?" asked Sherlock, breaking their embrace, hands on John's shoulder. "It was you who sent the packages?" asked John. "Obviously." said Sherlock, annoyed. "I ran out of them, I found myself rather fond of them after they were sent to me," said John, "Those packages really did save my life; I was going to starve to death. Thank you." said John, smiling. It has been the first time he smiled for months, or years, John could not remember, but it felt great. "Well, I was the one leaving you," said Sherlock, "I am sorry, John. Leaving you like that was painful for me. But it was for your safety." It was the only time Sherlock apologised to anyone.
Sherlock spent the last two years tracing off Moriaty's remained "partners", and putting them away for the sake of his love ones. Now, he and John live away from the public eyes and solve cases only when Lestrade promised him to keep it from paparazzi, which he always does. And the only thing remain is to wait for another adventure.