Two years. Two years since that fateful afternoon. The last time that Sherlock Holmes had been seen alive. Sherlock Holmes: the great detective, the gifted musician, the brilliant and infuriating madman – and John's best friend.
He had waited far too long to go back to therapy, that was obvious. Eighteen months spent vacillating between the relative stability of a job at St. Bart's, a new girlfriend, and keeping an active social life with his army mates, and a crushing despair in which the mates were avoided, the girlfriend out of the picture, and the job kept but only just. It gradually got worse as time went by, so gradually that John didn't notice the pattern and how the periods of depression were getting longer and more intense, and the "normal" periods more desperate; he kept himself busy at work and only took a break if someone reminded him, and the girlfriend was a different woman every time. He still never drank much when he and the lads went out, due to Harry's troubles, but their nights on the town were raucous affairs that provided an escape, if only for one night at a time on weekends.
It was after one of these nights that he realised he needed help, and badly. He'd opted against bringing a companion home, though he easily could have, and stumbled into the flat and up the many stairs and into his bed and fell quite soundly asleep. He woke up on the sitting room floor at half-past two in the afternoon, clutching Sherlock's violin to his chest and weeping bitterly. As soon as he'd got his bearings, he fetched his mobile and dialled his old therapist's number.
Six months of intensive outpatient care and now a weekly grief support group and John was finally starting to get a grip. He worked hard but not frantically, enjoyed a more relaxed social life, and decided it was better for everyone if he stayed single for a while. Things were sorting themselves out, and he was beginning to feel alright again. The pain was more a dull ache, still coming and going in waves, but becoming easier to manage. He and Mrs. Hudson had grown apart but were again spending time together, with tea and crap telly in the evenings and breakfast out every other Sunday. He had never been comfortable with such stillness, but was learning to be content with everything being quiet, calm, and predictable.
Naturally, this meant that something was bound to pop up and turn it all completely on its head.
It was a Tuesday evening. The kettle had just boiled, and John had switched off the stove and poured the hot water into his tea mug. Grabbing the tin that held the tea bags, he pulled the lid off and fished for one of the sachets, which he then plopped gently into the cup before returning the tin to its former state. While it steeped, he sought out the milk and sugar. Thus obtained, he spooned the tea bag out of the cup, stirred in a splash of milk and a liberal sprinkling of sugar, and brought it over to the sofa, where a ham and cheese sandwich was waiting. He settled himself into the old leather cushions and picked up the remote control. He flicked through the channels until he came upon on a sitcom he'd never seen before and figured it was as good as anything. He started in on his modest meal and relaxed into the banality of television.
He'd just taken the first bite of the second half of the sandwich when the doorbell rang. He wasn't expecting anyone, so he let Mrs. Hudson answer it. It was but a moment before he heard her shuffle out from her own flat on the main floor, muttering to herself. John heard her unlatch the front door, heard it creak open and a heavy set of footsteps enter. Mrs. Hudson seemed surprised to see the person, whoever it was. They spoke – it was a man's voice. The man asked a question, and when she answered the footsteps moved quickly to the stairs and ascended them quickly, probably two at a time. John looked towards the flat door as it burst open.
"What on Earth -?"
"I'm sorry I didn't knock but it's important." Detective Inspector Lestrade was standing in the doorway, his face a strange mix of excitement and utter confusion. "There's a patient at Bart's, looks like an overdose, and -"
"No, wait, hang on a second." John had shut off the telly and was on his feet now. "What the Hell are you doing here? Why would you come about a patient? I'm not an ER doctor and if they really needed me they'd phone me. What are you doing here? Why would they send you?"
Lestrade's words came out in a rush. "Nobody sent me, Molly Hooper phoned. She was on her way home when the ambulance turned up. Now, normally she doesn't bother with this sort of thing but she was really close – had to park in a different lot or something – and she saw the gurney and recognised him so she followed them along until she could be sure she really recognised him, then she -"
"Wait, slow down. What did she realise? Who was it? What's going on?" John was bewildered. He hadn't seen Lestrade in about a year, and suddenly here he was, talking far too quickly and making very little sense about Molly and some patient at the hospital.
Lestrade took a breath and ran a hand over his hair. "Sorry. Jesus, John. It's him. It's Sherlock bloody Holmes. He's alive."