"Goodbye John."
This was the last thing he ever heard Sherlock Holmes say, after that John Watson watched his best friend jump to his death. He could remember that part clear as day; it was always in slow motion. Watching him lean forward, then his entire body fall from the building, that coat. That damned coat with the collar pulled up, billowed behind him. His brain was screaming at him to run, do something, do anything, save that man, the only man he'd ever loved. But his body betrayed him and stood completely still and silent, his mouth hung open from the scream of Sherlock's name that had left it seconds earlier. The sickening thud of his body hitting the floor brought everything back to normal far too quickly for John to get his bearings. After that trying to remember anything was just too much. It blurred together into one horrible nightmare that awoke him at that moment three years after the event took place.
As he hauled himself upright the sight of Sherlock's face, red-eyed and teary stood on the rooftop knowing his fate was branded into his brain. He rubbed his eyes hard before gazing around the room in 221b Baker Street. There were texts from family and friends inviting him out but they all knew after three years of the same thing that John was going no where. The once brave and strong man pulled his now weak and lifeless body from the bed and stumbled into the kitchen for some water. The moment he saw Sherlock's limp and bloody body on the pavement his appetite for everything left him. Mrs Hudson would cook for him; make sure he ate enough to stay alive. Molly would come around with Lestrade and check he was moving, functioning, doing the very basics to keep living, but there was no point. John Watson was a shadow of his former self, coming to a very slow and painful end.
He'd tried to be strong, for Sherlock, for Mrs Hudson, for everyone. It hadn't lasted long after the funeral though. When he realized there was nothing really left to live for. He had gone back to his life before Sherlock entered it. The one that he had thought about ending many times due to the mere thought of having to go through yet another painfully mundane and meaningless day. Tonight would be the night. Very slowly he got dressed and ventured out into the busy city. As he turned the corner he saw the billow of a coat, and the blur of a Deerstalker move into the next street and this was exactly why he didn't leave the house. Too many things reminded him of his best friend and with that he turned around and went straight back to his chair by the fire, staring at the Violin that had stayed silent for years.
He wasn't sure how long had passed when he opened his eyes again, he didn't care either. The depression that had once enveloped him had come once again. It was slower this time; he thought he could cope on his own. He didn't realize how very wrong he was. Once again he stood to get some water and took a bite of whatever Mrs Hudson had left for him as he turned around he saw Sherlock stood in front of him and walked straight past him, smiling a little at his madness.
"I wondered how long it would be before I started imagining you here."
The figure stayed silent except for the short, sharp breaths that sounded like the ones that normally accompany tears.
"Oh Sherlock, you have no idea…" His voice broke. He barely spoke to anyone anymore meaning the few words that did leave his body were hoarse and painful now. He sat down slumping forward as fresh tears began to roll down his cheeks. Yes he had let himself deteriorate into this state, but he hadn't let his emotions go. Ever the soldier he kept himself to himself and shut everything he thought away, to eat at him from the inside.
"Oh God I've missed you." He began to sob into his hands, letting all that built up sadness erupt from him, not seeing the figure turn and kneel in front of him.
"John… I" Sherlock's voice caught in his throat, he'd never in a million years thought this would happen to his John. His wonderful, luminescent, handsome John. What had he done?
He had hoped that John was heading to his grave again, not something normal people would hope for, but of course this situation was anything but normal. Sherlock watched his best friend leave their flat noticing how much weight he'd lost since the detectives last visit a few weeks back, it was a little scary now. Today he must speak to him, get him to live again, but he had to time it right. It had to be private he had so much to say it couldn't just be in the middle of Baker Street.
Unfortunately John looked right at him making him dart around the corner as quick as he could, slamming himself onto the wall he gazed toward the road looking for any signs of cabs collecting John, or him walking to the underground station. When neither happened he walked slowly to 221b simply standing outside staring at the front door for longer than he'd intended to. Collecting his breath he walked up to the flat slowly to see John fast asleep, the flat exactly the same as he had left it all those years ago. He sighed going into his old room noting that it had been slept in, his shirt was hung out of the wardrobe, trousers folded on a chair and his shoes placed below, as if they were laid out ready for him. As he picked up Johns top which lay on the bed he heard his friend stir and move to the kitchen, before he could process exactly what he was doing he ran out to see John, a smile spreading across his face no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
"I wondered how long it would be before I started imagining you here."
The emptiness of John's voice wiped the smile straight off Sherlock's face and caused unwanted tears to roll down his cheeks. When he heard his friends sobs he couldn't stand there any longer.
He placed his hands gently onto John's knees moving his thumbs every so gently in what he hoped was a comforting manner. The sobbing stopped and John froze. If he was imagining Sherlock before then how could he feel him, hear him… touch him? He moved his hands slowly; scared that if he actually looked Sherlock would have disappeared. But he didn't, there he was knelt before him tears flowing silently his icy blue, or were they green eyes staring directly at John, full of sadness, fear and there was something else?
John's mouth gaped as he tried to form some sort of speech, but nothing would come out. Three years, three years he'd believed him dead, let himself die so he could be with Sherlock and yet here he his right in front of him.
"John, please saying something I… I… oh what have I done to you I'm so sorry." The past three years had changed these two men so much they were almost unrecognisable. Who would of imagined the great Sherlock Holmes lost for words, knelt in front of a simple man, crying and doubting his actions. A tiny smile crept across John's lips as he explored Sherlock's face, taking in every single detail.
"What, what are you smiling at? What have I missed?" Sherlock's eyes darted about John's face, trying to deduct anything, but once again he was brought to no conclusion making John laugh. For the first time in three years he laughed.
"You're confused." That was all John could manage after that the sobbing came back in full force as the weight of the years crashed upon him. He slumped into Sherlock's open arms and clung on for dear life.
"I'm so truly sorry John. I had to, please believe me when I say this was for the best. I'm here now. I won't leave. I'm here." His long fingers tangled themselves into John's short hair while the other hand found his lower back and rubbed soft circles. He looked down at the man who had once been his rock. Whether John was aware of this fact or not was trivial, but what he had done to this man was unforgivable. At that moment Sherlock vowed to do everything in his power to make John happy again. Truly happy.