A/N: First ever Sherlock fic! Enjoy :)
Sherlock stepped out of the cab and crossed Baker Street, his eyes fixed on the black door in front of him. There was nothing odd about this action in particular, except for the fact that he hadn't visited this spot in three years. Three very long years. For that was the amount of time that Sherlock felt the world needed to forget that him, and Moriarty, had ever existed. Sherlock felt sure that even John wouldn't think about him, that the name Sherlock Holmes probably hadn't crossed his mind in at least a year. In fact, he was so certain of this that it came as a rather unpleasant shock when he stepped into their old flat.
He still had his key and had crept quietly up the stairs, for fear of either John or Mrs Hudson hearing him. If they were there, he wanted his entry to be a surprise. However, all this left his mind when he saw the living room and kitchen of the flat looking identical to the last time he'd left it, handcuffed and humiliated. The skull was on the mantle-piece, his microscope (a little dusty) was on the side in the kitchen and his second-best dressing gown was draped over the back of his chair. It felt like he had only stepped out for a cigarette.
As Sherlock stood there and took in his surroundings, he began to notice little details, and a picture of John's life without him started to form. The room smelt slightly musty and felt un-lived in. At a guess, Sherlock would say it had been three months since anyone had boiled the kettle or watched tv there. Where was John then, if not here? And why were most of the furniture and oddities left untouched? He went swiftly up the stairs to John's room and upon opening the door, found nothing. Literally nothing.
The room had been stripped bare. The only thing on the bed was a crisp white sheet and there was no underwear in the drawers. John was not living here then. Sherlock checked the wardrobe, which told a different story. Most of John's clothes were still there, including his favourite jeans and shirts. Two books were missing from the bookshelf and his alarm clock was gone from the bedside table. Where then could John be? Sherlock fitted the pieces together. John had been living elsewhere for at least three months, somewhere that didn't allow civilian clothes and permitted no personal extras besides a few small, lightweight items. It made a picture that Sherlock did not like. John was either in prison, or- he checked the box under the bed; no gun- he had re-joined the army.