John stared numbly at the wall before him.
It had been almost a year since Sherlock's death. "One year too long," he muttered. He looked up at the ceiling as a tear fell down his cheek. Damn John, pull yourself together, he thought as he hastily wiped it off with a used handkerchief.
John couldn't explain why he was so sad. It had been a year; he should be over him by now.
He also couldn't explain why he missed him so much. He was egotistical, annoying, unemotional, and mysterious; which bothered John immensely at times, but he always did what Sherlock told him to do. He trusted the man- he even loved him. But he knew Sherlock gave his heart to only one thing: his precious, precious work.
John contemplated Sherlock's death for quite some time before he came up with a conclusion, something of significance.
Sherlock would never kill himself.
He worships his intelligence too much to just die off.
He would go to the ends of the earth to keep himself alive. So why did he do it?
John quickly pulled out his phone and texted Sherlock. He knew he wouldn't answer, but it comforted him to see his phone number. Sometimes, John would read their old messages and chuckle a bit, even though, on the inside, he was numb.
The number you have reached is no longer in service.
His heart sank as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. John glanced as the clock on the wall; 12:00. He yawned a bit and slowly slipped from his seat and walked into his bedroom. He sat on the bed for quite some time before he slipped into the covers and closed his eyes. Sleep beckoned him, and he welcomed it with open arms.
The next morning he woke up to a vibration coming from his back pant pocket. His brow creased as he hastily grabbed the phone and unlocked it. He had a new text message from a strange number.
Meet me at the graveyard. –SH
It couldn't be. This is a sick joke.
John swore a bit and locked his phone back up. Whoever did this, would pay, he thought.
But a strange feeling came over him and he looked at the text one more time. Analyzed it. Maybe it really is him. His heart fluttered at the thought and he quickly got dressed.
John quickly ran down the street and hitched a cabbie. He was nervous and his body ached from running.
"Saint Woolas Cemetery, please," he murmured. He had never been so nervous; his hands were shaking and he sweated immensely. Oh God, I can't let Sherlock see me like this, he thought to himself. He shook his head and looked out the window.
Almost there.
His whole body shook of anticipation as he pulled up to the cemetery.
He quickly paid the cabbie and stepped into the crisp grass of the cemetery. He scanned the area for signs of Sherlock.
None.
He shook even more as he thought about his old friend. He missed him- more than anyone could ever understand. He missed his ego. His insanity. His, well, everything. Everything about Sherlock was perfect.
Damn John, you're bloody mad.
He snapped out of it as he saw slight movement coming from the right of him. He quickly turned to see a tall man, wearing a long coat, a blue scarf, and a smirk on his pale face.
John gasped.
"Sherlock?"
The tall man stepped closer and hastily pulled John into a hug. "Sherlock, what are you doing. I haven't seen you in almost a year, and the first thing you do is hug me? How about explaining yourself?" John flushed with anger, but he couldn't stay mad at Sherlock for very long. He was just happy that he was back.
"I'll explain later, John. Just take me back to the flat." John pulled out of Sherlock's arms and looked at him, "Later? How about now. I haven't seen or talked to you in forever, and you want to talk about it later? Please, Sherlock. Just explain now," he pleaded.
"You saw everything. You heard me on the phone. What more is there to explain? I thought you would have figured this out by now."
John couldn't hold it in any longer. "Sherlock, I don't understand why you won't tell me. I had to survive a whole bloody year thinking you were dead. Do you know how hard that is? I barely knew you, and I was so devastated when you "died". I almost couldn't bare it, Sherlock. You are my only friend-."
Suddenly Sherlock leaned in and pecked John on the cheek ever so slightly. John turned the brightest shade of red and turned away, "What was that for?"
"You're cute when you're angry. Now, John, can you wait ten minutes to get back to the flat? Then I will tell you what you need to know. I'm tired, and I wish to rest." Sherlock quickly spun around and began searching for a cabbie.