John reclined in his chair, distant, broken. It was Halloween, and the night was dark - as it should be on the spookiest night of the year. John used to love Halloween as a child; it gave him the excuse to run around being silly and getting sweets without being told off by his father. As he grew older, he cared less about going out on Halloween, but would still carve out a pumpkin and hand out sweets to the trick-or-treaters. But not anymore. He sat, as he had done for the past three years at Halloween, in his chair. Things seemed pointless without Sherlock.
Over the years he had spiralled down in a seemingly never-ending reel of depression. He stopped going out, hardly ate, hardly drank, barely slept. He had, on more than one occasion, attempted to kill himself, but as he stood on the edge of the roof - the same roof that Sherlock jumped from - he found he couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to give up his own life to be with Sherlock because Sherlock didn't feel… gone.
Eventually, he managed to regain a bit of himself, the soldier in him marching bravely forward whilst the rest of him just wanted it to be over. Greg and Molly visited occasionally and on his birthdays he managed to bring himself up to going out for a meal with Mrs Hudson. He couldn't really afford the flat anymore, but she never pestered him for money when he was a bit late with it. He had a boring job that he hated, and even more boring life that he hated even more. He had stopped writing his blog and refused to continue it, despite constantly being told to by his therapist. She was more annoying than he remembered, but it could have been because he was being more difficult than before, if it were possible. The first time he saw a hope of a better future but that future was taken away from him.
A soft knock on the door brought John out of his thoughts. He glanced at his watch. 8:21pm. The last few trick-or-treaters would be milling around now, picking off the last of the sweets. John didn't get up to answer it. He didn't have anything in, anyway.
The knock came again, a little louder this time. Sighing, John lifted himself from his comfortable position on the chair. He straightened his jumper slightly and raided his kitchen for something. Finding nothing, he went to the door and opened it.
"Trick or treat!" came a small voice. A young boy, dressed in dark coat, deep blue scarf and a deerstalker hat stood before him. It was rather painful to see - the small boy even had the dark curls and bright blue eyes of Sherlock, though they lacked the sharpness. John smiled sadly.
"I'm afraid I don't have any sweets, sorry." he said and glanced at the deerstalker hat. "You know he never actually wore one of those, right? Just for disguise." The little boy dressed as Sherlock Holmes nodded enthusiastically.
"I know," he replied. "And I don't mind. The sweets weren't for me anyway. They were for that man over there. He's dressed like Sherlock too!" the boy giggled and pointed across the road.
John looked where the boy had pointed. Standing in the shadows was a tall, slender figure that he knew oh so well. As his eyes adjusted, he could see very clearly a man with high cheekbones, piercing blue eyes and dark curls, wearing his long trench coat and a scarf that was the bluest of blues. The man raised his hand slightly in greeting.
Sherlock Holmes had returned.