Day 1- 5 Days until the funeral
John sat at his desk, scribbling on to paper, crumpling it up, then throwing against the wall. He grabbed a new sheet, then put his head in his hands. Sherlock had written a speech for him, but it lacked the emotion that John said he needed in this kind of speech. He took some phrases and ideas from Sherlock's writing, but added his own as well. How was he supposed to be sad about his best friend's "death" when he wasn't really dead?
Sherlock had to fake his death- again- and this time he actually told John. And Molly. And Mycroft. But he couldn't tell everyone, especially his parents. They would get on to him about it, and he couldn't have them know.
John looked up and out the window, watching the cars drive by. He smiled. "Of course, if he had to do this, he'd have a plan. A brilliant one, at that." Because Sherlock, being Sherlock, always had a plan.
Sherlock had contacted Molly and John approximately three hours after he pretended to get executed. He was supposedly shot, but in reality, he grabbed a body from the morgue, dressed it up like him, then put it on the floor, covered in fake blood. Once everyone was convinced, they cleaned the body up and put him back, Sherlock already miles away in a getaway car.
His plan was to return in about four months, and he would go straight to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson would be the first to know, then his family, then his friends, then everyone. Of course his plan of action was to burst into a journalist's office and shout, "The game is still on!" and announce to the world that nobody could kill Sherlock Holmes.
John smiled for a moment before slipping back into a frown. He scribbled more on the paper.
"Oh, my dear John! You look terrible." squeaked as she walked into the flat. "Let me get you some tea-"
"No, no, I'm fine. Could you, uh leave me? I'm writing the, uh, thing." he trailed off. She nodded sharply and ran off. John crumpled up the paper, tossing it angrily across the room to hit the (absurd ruin of property in John's opinion) spraypainted face on the wall. He began to turn back to the desk with a sigh, but as soon as he did he did a double take. There was a distinct, small red heart drawn in the middle. He stood up, apprehensive. He walked over and brushed his fingertip across it. It was definitely new. Could Molly or Ms.H have done it? John scratched his head and debated picking at it further. He decided to ignore it and get back to writing.