That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note? Or at least that is what you told me that fateful day three years ago. John paused mid-text to wipe away a forming tear. I felt that I should do this the way you did, but I can't very well talk to you on the phone right now so, Sherlock, I'm sending you this message as goodbye. John shook his head, suddenly changed his mind, erasing the word goodbye and continuing. No, goodbye doesn't quite fit here, it's more like, I'll see you soon, because I can't live in a world without you."
"My best friend," John whispered and then he was no longer able to contain himself. He set the phone down, placed his head in his hands, and sobbed for what felt like hours.
John thought about all the things he'd had to do without Sherlock in the past three years. For weeks he'd come home and his heart would drop to the pit of his stomach when he didn't see Sherlock perched on his favorite chair or lying on the couch. He was no longer mysteriously out of milk nor did he have anyone to talk to about his most recent row with the automatic check out machine at the market.
For a while John tried to take over as a consulting detective. By no means could he match Sherlock, but Lestrade was glad to have John. He was observant, though he always chastised himself for not seeing as much as Sherlock. John could solve the case, but at every given opportunity he'd point out Sherlock would've solved it quicker.
Lately, though, John felt like he'd been seeing things. Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of blue that reminded him of Sherlock's scarf. He'd turn and catch a glimpse of a tall, black haired man disappearing around a corner, but he reminded himself that it couldn't be Sherlock. Sherlock was gone. Sherlock was dead. It happened with increasing frequency though. As if these crazy delusions of his best friend were following him. John cackled a harsh broken laugh that sounded like it belong to a man in a mental institution and not calm, kind, John Watson. "What I wouldn't give for the real Sherlock to be following me." John threw his head back and laughed that dead laugh again.
As John's laugh faded out, he looked around his flat. Everything looked the same since Sherlock had gone. The bullet holes still existed in the walls along with the yellow smiley face target. The skull still sat undisturbed on the mantle and the violin in its case. John simply didn't have the heart to get rid of these things. They were Sherlock- what was left of him anyway- and John needed them. As John looked to the door, though, he found something out of place. An envelope, slipped under the doorway. Very nice stationary, hand printed with quick, but neat, stokes and a wax seal. "A bit overdone for regular post" John mused as he picked it up and carefully examined it. On one side the letter was clearly addressed to him at 221 B seemingly written by a fountain pen or something similar, but it was the other side that really caught John's interest. The wax seal, blood red by ironic choice or not, had the initials S.H. scratched in.
"No. Not after three years. Not like this. I… I can't even read this letter." John stumbled back to his seat, unable to keep his balance any longer. "Sherlock bloody Holmes this is just like you. You're as much of an arrogant prick in death as you were in life. I shouldn't even read this, but you know I will. I know I will. I swear…" John begrudgingly tore at the edge of the envelope just as angry as he was scared.
Before pulling out the delicate stationary, John took a deep breath, closing his eyes and bracing himself for the worst. Upon opening his eyes, he had removed the letter, unfolded the perfectly creased paper gently and stared down at Sherlock's sharp handwriting, rage and discontent soon began to boil as he read the single sentence, scrawled perfectly in the center of the page. John hadn't realized how infuriating three words could be. Though he knew he shouldn't be so mad, this was exactly like Sherlock. Short, simple, and with absolutely no regards as to how anyone was feeling. John mouthed the sentence to himself quietly, over and over again, making a useless attempt in which to prevent his wrath from escaping the confines of his mind. John thus forth dropped the letter and walked out the door; unable to contain himself any longer, he decided a walk to calm him down would be best.
Soon after, Ms. Hudson walked over to where the discarded letter was and read the same dreadful sentence that John had read moments before: Be home soon. –S.H.