I'm surprised with myself. I actually managed to write something (fairly) short. As requested by idanceandream, who asked for "some sort of johnlock post-reichenbach falls about Sherlock coming back and realizing how badly his absence affected John?"
As always, reviews of any kind are welcome (as are requests for things; they don't have to be Sherlock.)
The first time he goes back, it's been just over a year since he faked his own death. It's a stupid, sentimental thing to do, but he tells himself he's not visiting. He's checking. Checking to make sure his blogger is alright. (He won't admit that he misses him.)
He makes it all the way up the stairs, and has his hand on the doorknob before he realizes that John is not at work. It's not the subtle clues (the unlocked door, because John never leaves it open when no-one's there, and not always even then, and the still-wet muddy footprints leading up the stairs, if that can be called subtle) that alert him. He hears a crash from inside the apartment. Stupid. He berates himself for getting so wrapped up in sentiment, and backs slowly down the stairs, resisting the urge to ruin everything and go back up, open the door, and see why John isn't at work. (It's not like him to stay home from mild injuries or sickness. He immediately begins formulating scenarios that could result in John remaining home. He forces himself to stop. It's not helping.) He'll come back later.
The second time he comes back (because for Sherlock, later means much later) it's been nearly two years since he faked his own death. He hasn't heard much about John, (his own choice. While it would be simple to obtain the information through secondary sources, he prefers to see for himself.) he hasn't made any new posts on his blog since that day, and when he asked, a co-worker of John's had told him that John had been showing up less and less for work lately. He's worried.
This time he comes in the evening, on a Friday night (the day that John is most likely to be out on a date on) This time, he makes no excuses about why he's here. He misses John. This time, he doesn't even try to enter. (He's too afraid of what he might find.) He stands outside the door without an umbrella, getting strange looks from the people on the street, walking by with their heads tucked down, umbrellas sheltering them from the downpour. He, of course, didn't bring an umbrella.
Someone asks him why he's standing outside, and had he forgotten his keys? He hadn't realized he'd been standing there for so long that the rain had soaked through his coat (not the same coat; too recognizable) and broken from his trance, he leaves.
Five minutes later, John Watson returns, completely unaware of the man who had been standing outside. Even if he had been there earlier, he would have known he was just dreaming again. He's had a lot of dreams like that lately.
The third time he returns, Sherlock doesn't bother finding a time when John will be out, in fact, he does he opposite. It's only been a week since his second visit, but he's grown increasingly worried about John. He walks up the stairs quietly, because it is the middle of the night, and he doesn't want the attention that would result from waking anyone up, especially Ms. Hudson.
He pulls the key from his coat pocket (he kept it, in case he might need it later, and because he knew John wouldn't have the locks changed) and opens the door, much more quietly than he used to, and for a moment, it's like nothing has changed. But it becomes quickly evident that things have.
The apartment is in even more of a state of disarray than it was when he lived there. (Alarming. John was always the clean one.) Empty bottles are strewn across the tables, shattered on the floor, mixed in with the piles of dirty clothes and boxes of half-eaten pizza.
He is torn between looking further, or leaving. (He's not sure he wants to see more. But this is what he came to see. He stays.) Unsure of what else to do, he begins picking up the worst of the mess, gingerly scooping up the broken glass with his fingers and dumping it in the waste bin. (It's a hazard just lying around there, and he doesn't want John to step on it, although judging by the bloodstains on the carpet, he already has. Several times.)
Guilt. (He can't say he's familiar with the emotion, and he doesn't like it.) John's obviously developed a severe alcohol problem, and he knows why. (Because of him.) He opens John's bedroom door slowly, picking up more broken glass and stepping over a days-old slice of pizza as he enters. Even in the dark, he can tell John's lost weight. (Too much to be healthy. He looks even thinner than Sherlock once did.)
Not knowing what else to do, he sits down on the edge of the bed, resting his hand lightly on John's shoulder. (The other is still full of broken glass. He couldn't find a place to put it.)
When John wakes up, and sees Sherlock like that, on the edge of his bed, he knows he's not really awake. Even so, he wraps the man in a bone-crushing hug, mumbling something about how much he hates always having these dreams. Sherlock's fist clenches, and the broken glass shreds the palm of his hand, but he doesn't care. John does though. He grabs Sherlock's hand, carefully picking the shards free from his skin and wiping the blood away with his bed sheets.
In the end, he goes back to sleep, and Sherlock leaves. (He still can't return, not yet, no matter how much he wants to.)
And in the morning, if there's some blood on the bed that wasn't there before, he cut himself on the glass again, and if the place looks a bit neater than when he left it, it's because he cleaned up some and forgot about it. There's no other possible explanation. Because he knows that last night was just a dream.