John Watson sat at his computer inside 221b Baker Street. He did this almost instinctively, not realizing that he had nothing to blog. After all, since Sherlock's death, John's life had been exceptionally boring. There was a knock at the door. John looked through the peephole to see Mrs Hudson holding a tray of cookies. "Go away," John shouted, vaguely realizing that he was being very rude. "Let me in John, I'm worried about you. You haven't left the flat since we went to visit his grave," said Mrs Hudson, unable to say Sherlock's name aloud. "That was Tuesday," said John. "Yes it was, and today is Saturday," said Mrs Hudson. "It's a bit early to start hibernating John. Please, just let me in. You'll go bonkers cooped up in there all alone." "Well maybe I don't want to be sane anymore. Do you think if I went out of my mind, would I still think of him?" asked John. There was a long pause before Mrs Hudson remarked "I'm only being polite asking you to let me in. I do have a key." With that John walked over to the sofa, and pushed it up against the door as a barricade.
Mrs Hudson returned from retrieving her key, and tried to open the door. Realizing that she couldn't get in she sighed and said, "Just phone me if you need food alright John?" "It doesn't matter; nothing matters, not without…" John trailed off. John was lost, not physically, but mentally. He didn't know what to feel. Sherlock was the most narcissistic, obnoxious, lovable, perfect person he had ever met, and without him John had no idea what to do. All he really wanted to do was forget, and not have to feel so lost, but how could you forget Sherlock, and if he did forget wouldn't that be betraying Sherlock somehow.
How to remember him though, after all most people think he was a fraud. John didn't believe that for a second. He was certain that Sherlock only told him that the rumours were true in hope that he wouldn't miss him if he lost respect for him.
John thought about ending his pain, the way Sherlock had, but his perpetual state of rage and depression left him exhausted, so he usually just slept a lot, and stared blankly at the smiley face and bullet holes on the wall. It was impossible to move on in that place. Everything reminded him of Sherlock. John hadn't touched anything in Sherlock's room. He couldn't bear going in there for more than a minute. Sherlock's purple shirt was still lying on the chair in a crumpled mess. There was a short period of time when John thought about putting that shirt on a pillow and hugging it a lot, but he realized that that was probably the kind of thing that crazy people do.
It had been almost a month since Sherlock died, so any remaining hope of him returning had basically been purged from John's mind. Still he would sometimes dream that his best friend would come crawling through the window holding a severed limb or miscellaneous organ and start raving about some shadowy group of assassins or a terrorist group or something ridiculous , and John would tell him to put down the dead person parts, shut up, and give him a hug. Then John would wake up and realize it wasn't real, and that was the worst feeling in the world. He wished that he could just live in that dream world with Sherlock, and not in this cruel reality.
That night John was woken up from his dreamless sleep by a bang at the door. He got up, startled by the loud noise, and ran to the door to see what was going on. Something on the outside was slamming itself into the door trying to get in. He climbed up onto the sofa that was still pressed up against the door and looked through the peephole. There was a tall pale figure with dark curly hair standing outside 221B with cheekbones that could only belong to one person. John's eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. "Sherlock!" John shouted, "WHAT THE HELL?!" "Yes, I'm alive," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, "Now let me in would you?" John's knees were wobbly as he pushed the sofa away and shakily opened the door. John stared at the man standing before him. "Hello John," said Sherlock cheerily. "I-I can't," John stuttered and slammed the door. "Wait no, what?" John said as he re-opened the door. "How?" asked John. "It's elementary my dear Watson!" said Sherlock. "T-th-this can't be real," said John, "I must be dreaming." Sherlock made the we both know what's really going on here face and said, "You didn't really believe I would just go and die did you?" John rolled his eyes "Shut up, shut up right now." Sherlock grabbed John and held him tight, not wanting to let go. "I've missed you John," said Sherlock. "You've missed me? I thought you were dead! Why didn't you come back sooner?" Sherlock replied "I couldn't, it would have put you in danger. I'll explain later." "Okay," said John as he burrowed his face into Sherlock's shoulder. " How the hell do you have shoulder muscles Sherlock? Seriously how does that happen? "Right now it's your turn to shut up John," said Sherlock grateful that things were already getting back to normal between him and his blogger. Minus all of the hugging, that was new.
John and Sherlock sat opposite each other at the table. Sherlock told John about everything that had happened to him in the past month. He explained how he faked his death with the help of a few willing accomplices. John was slightly catatonic, and still had doubts that what was happening to him wasn't a dream. "Stop pinching yourself would you? I'm trying to talk, and it's distracting," said Sherlock. "Yeah, well it's your own fault for waking me up in the middle of the night with your violent attempt to break the door down," John retorted, and this certainly feels like a dream." John stared at his feet, embarrassed that Sherlock could deduce how much he meant to him. "You really thought I was dead didn't you?" said Sherlock. "That's what happens when you JUMP OFF A BUILDING!" John yelled becoming slightly irritated. "Have a little faith would you? I wouldn't just leave you like that, and it's no fun being dead," said Sherlock. "Yes, the afterlife would be so boring that a thrill seeker like you would have to kill your dead self just to escape your eternal boredom." The two of them began to laugh. It was the first time John had laughed in a month, although he realized it was unlikely that Sherlock had a very pleasant time either. If death is boring, pretending to be dead was probably not much better.
The next morning Mrs Hudson came back. "John, I realize that you don't want to speak to me, but Mycroft is at the door. Has something happened John?" Sherlock opened the door and grinned at the bewildered Mrs Hudson. "Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson yelped. "Yes, yes it's me. It's very nice to see you too Mrs Hudson. Did you say Mycroft?" asked Sherlock. "Yes, your brother is here." Sherlock dashed out the door and stood face to face with the man who betrayed his information to Moriarty. "Sherlock, you're alive!" said Mycroft. "Oh don't act so surprised brother; you wouldn't have come here if you didn't suspect that I was back. What gave me away? Do you have hidden cameras in the street or something? Are you stalking me?" said Sherlock, who appeared to be thoroughly unimpressed and almost disgusted at his brother's behaviour. "Yes you've got me Sherlock; I had my people on the lookout for any tall pale figures creeping towards Baker Street in the night. You could act a bit more pleased to see me, after all it's been a month," Said Mycroft. "I'm not good at happy," Sherlock mumbled.
John came rushing out of the flat after hearing enough bickering. "What do you want Mycroft?" asked John. "Oh nothing really, just thought I'd come say hello to my un-dead brother." "Bite me you backstabbing blockhead. It's your fault I started limping again," John snapped. "Told you it was psychosomatic," Sherlock uttered. "Yes, and you can gloat later," said John, "anyways…" John hit Mycroft with his cane. "Mycroft, why don't you come back when John is feeling less emotionally fragile," said Mrs Hudson. "Maybe that would be wise," said Mycroft. "Goodbye brother."
Sherlock just stared, a thousand thoughts rushing through his head. Why was John so quick to defend him? Why was his brother such a dunce? Why did he look so overwhelmingly beautiful in purple? Where was his purple shirt? Did John move it, or was it still lying in a crumpled mess on his bedroom chair?
"Sherlock, you alright?" John asked, snapping his fingers in Sherlock's unresponsive face. "Yes, sorry, I was just thinking. We should go back inside, It's rather cold," said Sherlock, still staring off into space. The two of them walked back inside.
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. "John, did you close the door when you came outside?" Sherlock inquired. "Yes, why? Oh," John responded, startled. The door to 221b was wide open. Sherlock carefully walked inside, looked around, and sighed. On the table was an apple, an apple somebody had bitten, or rather carved in the letters I O U. Sherlock knew that only one person could have done this. "He's alive," said Sherlock in a tone of despair, "I'm sorry John, but I have to leave again. I don't know for how long. But by staying here I'm putting you in danger. I have to cut all contact to the outside world until I can be sure that Jim Moriarty isn't a threat." John's eyes grew wide. "No! You can't leave again. It nearly killed me last time. I know that you're alive, and maybe that should be enough for me, but it's not. I can't stand not seeing you every day." Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder. "I promise I'll come back John. I always come back for you. Trust me, it was hell for me too, not being able to see you, and I never wanted to feel that way again, but I have to." There was a long pause before Sherlock said, "Goodbye John." John wiped his eyes, trying to be strong. He nodded and said, "Goodbye Sherlock."
Just as Sherlock was leaving John grabbed his arm. "Sherlock, there's something I need to say. I didn't say it last time and I hated myself for it." Sherlock turned around. John could tell that he was holding back tears. "Let me stop you right there," said Sherlock, "I love you John." John just stood there, astonished by what he was hearing. "Shut up Sherlock," John whispered, taking one step closer. John pulled him close and kissed him.