Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Companion piece to my oneshot "Reichenbach Falls." Enjoy.
Three years.
It had been three years since the death of Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls and John Watson was decidedly alone. He remained living in Baker Street on the good grace of Mrs. Hudson who couldn't find the heart to put him out. After all, in many ways, she was just as lonely without the utterly unpredictable presence of Sherlock as John himself was.
The years had passed, but life without Sherlock Holmes had not gotten any easier. Every day John got up, went to work at the surgery, came home, and read a book or watched television until he fell asleep. Boring. Routine. Sherlock would have despised it. In reality, when John actually thought about his life now, he despised it as well.
He tried not to think about his partner too much, although that was a futile endeavor. Sherlock's things were still strewn about randomly, most notably his violin lay on a chair in the corner. For whatever reason, John couldn't bring himself to move anything though. It wasn't as if he believed Sherlock would be coming back. When no body had been discovered, he waited and hoped that just maybe…but it had been three years.
Mycroft came round every once in a while to see how he was. The visits were unexpected at first, but now were largely welcome. Talking about Sherlock with his brother seemed to hurt less than with anyone else. Perhaps it was because Mycroft understood the relationship between Sherlock and John far more than most of their acquaintances. Granted, it probably had much to do with his surveillance of the pair, but still.
In a way, it was these visits that opened John's eyes to his true feelings for Sherlock. On a random Tuesday about a year after Sherlock's death, Mycroft had made an offhand comment as he left 221B that granted John an epiphany.
"Thank you for your time Doctor Watson. I'll see you next week," Mycroft said as he walked towards the door. Before he opened it however, he fixed John with one last sad look and added,
"Sherlock was terribly unique, as I'm sure you well know. And often misunderstood for it. But he will always be remembered best by those of us who loved him most."
And with that he left the flat, leaving John alone with his thoughts.
John Watson had a great amount of respect for Sherlock Holmes. He admired him, was frequently amazed by him, and was proud to be considered his friend. But it wasn't until that statement that John realized that his feelings were so much more than that. Admired, respected, liked…yes. But additionally, he loved Sherlock in a way that could have had a fascinating effect on their relationship if he had figured it out sooner. Alas, some things were just not meant to be.
It was in this frame of mind that John found himself on the anniversary of Sherlock's death. He sat in his room for a long while before finally deciding that maybe a cup of tea would help soothe his weary heart. And so, he went to the kitchen and made his tea, walking out to the sitting room only to come face to face with a ghost. For there, standing in front of him, was Sherlock Holmes.
The teacup crashed to the floor.
The two men stared at each other for several moments as John tried to ascertain if he was hallucinating or not. His mind was made up when Sherlock spoke.
"John. I…"
John cut him off.
"You bloody bastard. Three years. Three whole years and nothing. You let me think you were dead!"
John's voice rose as he vacillated between anger, hurt, and deepest joy while Sherlock's remained quiet.
"It was necessary. I needed time to track down the remaining members of Moriarty's network, and I couldn't put anyone in danger by revealing myself. But I am sorry John. I am so very sorry," he murmured.
John had so much he wanted to say. He was so full of various emotions that he could have yelled, laughed, or even hit the man in front of him. But he had been a soldier. He understood the reasoning behind the decision that was so distinctly Sherlock and couldn't fault him for it. It was exactly what he himself would have done. And so, John did the only thing he could in such a situation.
"You're an idiot," he said, and closed the space between them.
In that moment, John Watson kissed Sherlock Holmes, and it didn't matter that he cried or that there were still many things that needed to be said. His partner was alive. And he was home.