Being alone in the flat was something John simply couldn't handle. Even so, at night, he had to suck it up and go home eventually. Only for a few hours, though; he couldn't bear the silence any longer than that. He retained his statue-like stoicism as best he could, only crumbling every once in a while, late at night. One particularly cold night, he decided he had had enough with the constant emptiness a life without Sherlock brought. He just couldn't stay strong for that long. It had been almost two years since Sherlock had jumped off the hospital, leaving John alone. His therapist had prescribed him pills, but he didn't bother to take them. He didn't, at least, until that night. In a moment of weakness, he downed half the bottle and collapsed on his bed. The next thing he knew, he was laying in a hospital bed, bright lights shining in his eyes. The young nurse tending to him told him someone had made an anonymous call, saying a man in the upstairs bedroom of 221b Baker Street was in trouble, ultimately saving John's life. The nurse stayed with him for a while, comforting him in his confused state and helping him adjust to the hospital room in which he was currently residing. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity to John, she announced he was ready to be discharged. Before he left, she slipped him a piece of paper with a number and her name- Mary Morsdan- instructing him to call if he needed anything. He complied calling her a few times when he felt as if he was about to attempt drastic measures once again. The pair went on several dates in addition to the phone calls- John felt it was only fair as it seemed to him he was starting to lead her on. After several months of dating Mary, John decided he enjoyed Mary's company more than he had enjoyed anyone's since his days with Sherlock. She was clever and sweet- a nice distraction from the things (or lack thereof) going on in John's life. In a year's time, they were married with a child on the way. Deciding Baker Street was not a place they wanted to raise a child, the two moved out, renting a nice house on the outskirts of town, away from the constant bustle of the city. On his last evening in Baker Street, Mary was at the hospital, working, and John was in Mrs. Hudson's flat, having a final cup of tea. That's when the knock came. Announcing it must be the man who called about the flat, the elderly woman rose to answer the door. John was clearing the table when he heard Mrs. Hudson's loud gasp. Depositing the mugs in the sink, John rushed out into the hallway, only to find himself gaping at the tall lanky figure standing just inside the doorway. Before he even knew what he was doing, he felt his fist connect with the man's bony cheek. A long string of curse words, things he didn't even know was inside of him, came pouring out until his voice was hoarse. The man didn't so much as bat an eye the whole time. After John went silent, they made eye contact. John lunged forward once more, this time embracing the man, tears stinging his eyes. Wrapping his long arms around John, he held the man tight as sob's wracked the smaller man's body.
"Hello, John." Said Sherlock in a heavy voice.