Hey guys! A nice post-Reichenbach fic inspired by the song "Blue Eyes" by MIKA. It's kind of pre-slash, but mostly friendship. I don't write anything but happy endings. If anyone read my fic "Take My Hand", then this can be thought of as a follow up. However, I very much wrote it in mind of it being a stand-alone.

It was ridiculous, in John's mind, how much it hurt. The way his heart had jumped into his throat as Sherlock had thrown the phone down was downright silly. While watching Sherlock fall, all John could do was watch. He did nothing but stare. It was pitiful, really. He was a soldier. He's watched his friends die.

In his defence, none of them had been his best friend.

John got visitors occasionally. 221B was no longer the sanctuary it used to be; less like a home, more like a prison. When people visited, he normally got comments on the state of the flat, as there wasn't much else to say.

The first thing Molly said to him was, "The house is very clean!"

Mrs Hudson was shocked when she came up a month after Sherlock had left. She never said anything, but surreptitiously told John she had forgotten something so that she could drop off her anti-bacterial spray back at her flat.

Sometimes, he'd find himself staring into space: at least, on the outside. In his mind's eye, he'd be watching Sherlock's face in that space, displaying emotions that John is sure that he once saw but he finds it difficult to remember when and where.

It was during one of these moments, a little over a month after 'it' happened, that he bumps into someone in the tube; accidently, of course. This woman, with her blonde hair and thin face, spilt her Costa coffee all down her front and John felt a wave of crippling self-hate wash over him. Such a simple thing to happen - could've happened to anyone - yet it made him feel so useless.

"Oh God, I'm so - I didn't see, I just… oh my…"

The woman sent a kind smile his way. "Don't worry about it! I was practically expecting it. I should've been more careful, after a week like this," she giggled softly, almost a sigh.

John felt a small smile form on his face. It felt natural. "Bad week?"

"You could say that. Third time that's happened this week! I must be getting old." Again, she smiled at John. It was sweet of her, John would reflect the next day, for her to be so nice to him.

"I'm John," he said, sticking out his hand for her to shake. "John Watson."

She grinned, and shook his hand. "Mary Morstan." Her voice was cheeky sounding, like she was teasing her. He's lost track of her now; her voice hit him like he had cotton wool in his ears.

The tube had stopped while Mary shook his hand – he didn't even feel her let go – and he looked out to the platform. That's when he saw the coat. Just the tails of it, but it flew in such a fashion that memories collapsed onto John like an unexpected piano falling from the ceiling.

Transfixed on his mind's eye, he didn't hear the woman say goodbye. When he turned to apologise, she was gone.

Mycroft called more often now. He didn't so much at first - probably ridden with guilt, John thought bitterly - but he had called John on the six month anniversary. He had apologised. It was kindly, though very awkward.

"I know I was so very blind to it all. I thought I had done what was best for everyone. I thought… Sherlock meant a lot to you, John. Maybe you should have his things." The next day, a box was dropped off at his door. He never opened it, just put it at the door to Sherlock's room.

Laura, John's psychiatrist, diagnosed him as depressed and prescribed him a new pill to take, on top of the ones he already had for him limp and shoulder. He was beginning to conveniently forget to take them. It took her nine months to come to the conclusion that he was more than grieving. John's response to this was:

"Sherlock could've deduced that a lot quicker than you."

Laura was passive to the flippant and almost-accidental insults now. She only nodded.

As John reflected back on all of this on Sherlock's birthday, sipping tea and staring at the leather-clad armchair, he felt a sickening smile cover his face. It hurt. It all hurt so much. When he started trusting Sherlock, he hadn't realised he also began to rely on him. Every step he took, he wondered about Sherlock. Before and after 'it' happened. He would wonder what he was doing, if he'd be at home when he got home, whether there'd be room on the kitchen table to eat or if it's be a TV dinner again… whether he left anything for John in his will, if there was an afterlife where Sherlock could be happy. Of course he felt stupid for wondering all these things, but the niggling thoughts at the back of his mind were relentless little buggers. A lot like Sherlock.

A jiggling noise came from the door. John's head swivelled round to stare at it. Someone was trying to get in; everyone John knew was aware that he didn't want to see anyone today. They'd all asked, and John had decided to keep them all away.

The jiggling continued, and John sighed. Even though he felt so stupid, so pitifully weak, he just wanted to be left alone. However, it sounded important.

"Who is it?" John called.

The person at the door growled. "You had to lock the door today, didn't you John?"

John froze. That voice. Oh, it was deep and almost luxurious in tone. It filled him up from head to toe with a strange relief. Relieving anger.

John grabbed the key and ran to the door. After a few fumbles, he twisted the key in the lock and yanked the door open.

And there he was, the man that John had pined for, for just under a year. Yes, he was slightly paler and seemed skinnier than John remembered - or maybe he had decided to invest in baggier clothes - but it was definitely him.

"John, I…" Sherlock said.

John was staring at him. "You bastard."

"Look John, I really am sorry," Sherlock said, his voice sounding deep and sorrowful. John was doubting this every second.

"Oh, of course you are. You're here, just decide to appear, on your birthday. And you thought that only your brother was dramatic," John fumed, walking towards his armchair and falling into it.

Sherlock followed behind him, a curious look in his eye. John didn't understand it at all; that was plausible, John believed. He was allowed to be confused at this point in time.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his own armchair - after all this time, it was still his. "Sorrow is very peculiar, John. One bad thing happens - it takes an hour, maybe a few minutes to unfold - and the effects cling on for a lot longer. Taking pills doesn't cure anything, sadly," John looked ready to kill Sherlock (the gleam in his eye, the frustrated exhale through his nose). "Of course I still steal your therapist's notes, John. I had to know how you were doing."

John huffed in annoyance. "Why are you here?"

"This is my home too, isn't it? I mean, I did leave you to pay the rent for little under a year but my stuff is still here. Untouched, if I'm correct."

"Correct, as always," John couldn't help to admit. "'How are you here?', was maybe the better question."

"Indeed. Molly never got the chance to tell me."

John's eyes widened, "Molly?"

"Oh yes, she's a lot more clever than I ever could've imagined. Working with dead bodies and all, you'd think I would've looked up this pulse-stopping stuff by now. I've been awfully busy though." Sherlock sighed and sent John a - dare he say it? - affectionate look

"Doing what?"

"Saving you, of course," Sherlock said, and John almost threw his mug at him. "Oh, do calm down and let me explain."

"Kind of difficult when you just came back from the dead."

"I didn't come back from the dead, just back from the shadows." Rolling his eyes, John snorted. "I was trying to save you. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson too, but they weren't as…" Sherlock's voice trailed off, and he coughed awkwardly.

"Young?" John offered, daring to believe any different.

Sherlock laughed - a true guffaw of happiness. "Maybe." Sherlock's eyes softened again and they shared a tense look - the chairs were closer that John remembered, and was it hotter in here with Sherlock back? - before Sherlock continued with a grin.

"Moriarty threatened to kill you three if I didn't kill myself. It doesn't really matter why he shot himself - it's just good that he did," John laughed at this. "I had to die for his men to get away from you three."

John's eyebrows creased, "But why have you missed my birthday? Christmas? The past 11 months?"

"Getting rid of his organisation. It was a lot larger than we imagined." A beat. Then, "I wish you could've been there. Not that I had time to appreciate it, but I've been all over the world, John. You would've have liked it better than I."

A cherry red coloured John's cheeks.

"I'm sorry, John. I know this isn't just a blown up experiment or… or a couple of bullets in a wall, but I want you to accept my apology." Sherlock's eyes never wavered from John's -the blueness in them just as John remembered, just as they had haunted him for the many months Sherlock was away - but there was a nervousness in them that was so easily identified that it showed just how powerful the emotion was in Sherlock. Normally, emotions were masked.

John sent a half-smile Sherlock's way. "You should get some sleep. You look tired. Tea? Something to eat?"

Sherlock started to laugh, and John saw a glimpse of a relieved tear streaking down his best friend's face. "Starving. Sleep can wait."

Getting up, John was lost in thoughts of Sherlock's return. It was the weirdest thing to happen to him. And he'd been to several weird cases with one weird man.

"Oh, and John?" Turning around, John observed Sherlock's sitting stance – relaxed, knees under chin – and the playful upturn of lips. "You should probably stop using me as a standard for your therapist to meet. People might talk."

John burst out laughing, stomach clenched with the suddenness of it. It felt like he never stopped laughing all evening, and the next day.

What did you think?