1.
John sat on the damp park bench, barely noticing the water seeping into the seat of his trousers. He barely noticed anything these days; he just tried to suppress the consuming darkness that seemed to sit in the pit of his stomach and eat away at his life. Nothing would ever be the same.
Ever since losing his best friend he hadn't had a full night's sleep, and often ended up pacing the corridors of the two bed flat that now only housed himself. He had bags under his eyes and his clothes appeared to be two sizes too big. Even a casual observer would have said he looked unhealthy, depressed even.
It had been four months.
He knew he had to carry on with his life, but what was left of it? It now seemed to John that he had lived through Sherlock for the short time they'd had together. He didn't have any interests or hobbies or even any other friends. Maybe that was what had drawn them together in the first place, John thought to himself. Two lone wolves who needed company but didn't want to admit it to anyone, especially themselves.
For the first couple of weeks John found himself having flashbacks to that day on the roof. Moriarty's death and then the fall, seeing Sherlock's bloody body on the ground, running towards him... It haunted him daily. He replayed it in his head constantly, wondering what he could have done differently, how he could have saved Sherlock.
He now saw him everywhere, heard him playing the violin at four am, filling the fridge with body parts and doing all of his other little habits that used to infuriate John so much. He'd give anything to have him back.
John sighed and stood up from the bench, making his way along the winding path that led up to the hills of Hampstead Heath. His breath made foggy swirls in the bitter January air, but John didn't pay any attention to the cold.
He was so absorbed in thought he didn't notice the shadowy figure that stood concealed in the cluster of trees a way behind him. As he walked away the figure pulled a slender hand containing a phone out of her pocket. She typed a number, pressed call and disappeared into the shadows.
John reached the top of the hill and stood silently looking at the view. He could see all across the skyline of London from here. It seemed strange to him how the city just carried on as normal, when his world had fallen apart. He was just about to turn away when he caught sight of a man in the corner of his vision. As their eyes met John wished he'd never gone to the Heath that day.
It was Lestrade, or as he was known on weekdays: DI Lestrade of the metropolitan police. He was a figure that John had once thought of as a friend, or at least an ally. Now he could barely look him in the eye. Too many memories.
It seemed that Lestrade also felt uncomfortable, but it was too late now for either party to just turn around and pretend they hadn't seen the other. Lestrade awkwardly shuffled up to John, who stood staring fixated on the landscape, determined not to let any emotion show.
"How've you been?" Lestrade spoke softly, as one would to a young child, or at a funeral.
John clicked his tongue, "Fine. Fantastic. Never been better."
His attempt at sarcasm was shattered as his voice cracked on the last word. It was the first time he'd talked to anyone in weeks. He usually spent most of his days shut up in the flat. He'd thought a walk would clear his head, but he couldn't have been more wrong.
"Look, for what it's worth John, I am really sorry about what happened to Sherlock. We all are."
"Oh you're all really upset aren't you?" John raised his voice and turned angrily to face Lestrade, "Don't even bother pretending that you care Lestrade. I bet you would have been queuing up to push him off yourselves. You...you knew he wasn't a fraud...You knew and... And...You...None of you even thought. How's Donovan? Anderson? I bet all of you are glad now he's gone. You just couldn't take it, could you? Being made to look like fools? Because you know that he was better than all of you put together. That's why you all hated him, because he was a threat to your precious pride." John spat the last few words, feeling all the bitterness that had gathered inside him in the past months push its way out.
Lestrade was taken aback by John's sudden outburst, but he wasn't surprised at what he heard.
"I did care John, and I do care. I know this isn't easy for you. Believe me I'd be angry if I was in your shoes... I made mistakes John, and I'm sorry. I blame myself for what happened. I did what I had to do and I didn't like it at the time. You know I never meant for any of it to happen." Lestrade spoke looking at the floor, suddenly fascinated by a piece of grass on his foot.
John had calmed down a bit and spoke hopelessly, his eyes empty,
"Well it's all done now isn't it? Nothing I can say will bring him back." He sighed and turned back to face the landscape.
After a few silent moments Lestrade looked up at John's profile. John looked like he'd lost weight and his usually clean shaven face was now host to light brown stubble. Lestrade also noticed he was wearing the same clothes he had been on the day Sherlock died, and wondered if he'd even changed. He was truly a broken man.
"Look John, I've got to go."Lestrade broke the silence, "if you need anything you can always call. Look after yourself."
He patted John on the arm sympathetically, then headed off back down the hill.
2.
It was getting dark by the time John arrived home. He was still deep in thought as he unlocked the door to 221B and trudged up the dimly lit staircase to his flat.
"John?" came a voice from downstairs. Mrs Hudson.
John went halfway back down the stairs and leaned over the banister.
"Yes, what's the matter?" He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, but he tried to make an effort to keep on good terms with his landlady. She stood at the bottom of the stairs in her dressing gown wearing the frightened rabbit look she always wore.
"Uh, it's good you're getting out more dear, that's all. Feeling better?"
"Not really, no."
"Well if you ever need to talk..."
"Thanks Mrs Hudson, goodnight."
Mrs Hudson watched John trudge back up the stairs and enter the flat he'd once shared with Sherlock. There truly was a part of him missing now, she thought, the light had gone out of his eyes and she often heard him pacing up and down into the early hours of the morning.
"Poor bugger," She muttered to herself as she went to go and make some tea.
3.
John threw his keys down on the side and slumped into an armchair.
"You've got to pull yourself together... pull yourself together man..." He muttered as he held his head in his hands. Something inside him seemed to click as he got up and decided to go for a shower. He still hurt inside, and nothing would ever replace Sherlock, but he couldn't go on destroying himself.
John emerged from the bathroom in a dark blue dressing gown with his hair damp and towel round his shoulders. He wasn't happy, but he felt better than he had in months and certainly less dirty. It was dark outside and John reached for the light switch by the door, flicked it on and started towards the kitchen when some sort of animalistic instinct told him he wasn't alone.
He heard a small cough from behind him.
John instantly spun around, knocking a jar of jam off the sideboard.
Sitting across the room in an armchair, Legs crossed. Hands together with fingers touching but palms apart, was someone John had thought he'd never see again.
Sherlock.
"Hello John." Sherlock looked John in the eye, the faintest hint of a cautious smile crossing his face.
John stood frozen to the spot, staring at Sherlock, his mouth wide open in shock. The Jam had smashed on the floor, but John barely registered the noise. Sherlock's eyes flicked down towards the smashed jam pot.
"You should clear that up or it'll stain. Third cupboard on the right, there's a new pack of J cloths you bought last Wednesday." Sherlock remarked casually.
In spite of everything, it was this last comment that bought John back to his senses.
"You've been watching me?" He said accusingly,
"Of course I have." Sherlock looked mildly amused "You didn't really expect me to leave you to cope on your own? I know 'dust is eloquent' and all, but this place is a complete tip."
"Woah...whoa...stop." John ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath "How... How... how are you here? You're dead Sherlock... you're dead? What happened?"
He paced up and down fast a few times before looking decisively at Sherlock.
"You're not real are you? I mean... you're dead aren't you?" John rubbed his eyes, trying to work out if his imagination was playing tricks on him. Maybe it was the pills he'd started taking again for the pain in his leg. It had come back the day after Sherlock's funeral. It had to be giving him hallucinations. That was all.
"You're not...really here." John pointed at Sherlock with a trembling finger.
"What I'm a hallucination?" He knocked lightly on his curly haired head and smiled "All real, I promise you." Sherlock leaned forward and looked at John with the utmost sincerity. "John. I am truly sorry for everything I have put you through these past months. I really am. I know I will never forgive myself, I just hope that you can try."
John sunk down into the sofa and rubbed his forehead as the realisation dawned,
"Why? What...You mean you faked your death?"
"Yes. I had to." He said darkly.
John took on an annoyed tone.
"You could have told me. Or at least let me know in some way..." He paused, shaking his head. "Do you have any idea of how I've felt?! All this... and all this time you were alive."
"I couldn't have let you know. I haven't been the only one watching you." He replied.
"You could have done it somehow. " John said bitterly. "I mean, you faked your own death surely you could think of a...Wait...how did you..."
"It was just a trick John. A magic trick." Sherlock had the distracted look that he always wore when he was pondering a problem that involved other people's feelings. They seemed to be the only things he struggled with.
"You still believed in me. Even though I said those things on the phone." It was a statement, not a question, "I hoped you would." Sherlock looked directly at John.
"Oh I knew you were lying. I'm not stupid, contrary to what you might think. Remember what I said the day before? No one could fake being that much of an annoying dick all the time." John concluded. He looked and sounded like a sulky child.
"I came back though didn't I? I expected you to be angry, but I mean I could've taken longer. I had to be careful, that's all. Everyone thinks I'm dead and that's how it's going to have to stay until I can make sure no word of this can get back to Moriarty."
"What? You mean he's still alive?"
Sherlock stood up and started preparing two cups of tea.
"Oh yes. Unfortunately. You think if I can fake my own death that he can't fake a gunshot wound? Oh no, he's smart. Unhinged too. That's what makes him so dangerous" Sherlock said with some relish.
"You enjoy this don't you?!" John looked incredulously at his flatmate.
"What?" The kettle boiled and Sherlock poured two cups and added a splash of milk to each.
"Having an equal. Someone to play games with."
"well... I wouldn't say enjoy. It does get rather tiresome watching your own funeral." He smirked. Sherlock handed John his tea and sat back in the armchair sipping his own.
"Well you can stop it. All of it. Right now. I'm sick of being a pawn in your stupid Intellectual power games!" John stood up and slammed his cup down on the table, its contents sloshing over the edge. "It's always me isn't it? I'm always the one that gets hurt! And you...you just swan in here in your stupid coatlike everything's fine and you have no idea... it's all 'oh don't worry about John' He's just my live-in normal person. I'm sick of it...and I'm sick of your games!"
He advanced towards Sherlock. Sherlock flinched expecting a punch, instead John collapsed onto Sherlock sobbing pitifully.
"I'm just...so...glad you're here" he gasped between sobs, "I'm sorry...I...shouted...you...Just make me...so mad...sometimes...but you're back...and I was...I was...so alone."
Sherlock sat there stunned.
This reaction was not expected. He didn't like physical contact, and now he had a sobbing man on him. He tried to be sympathetic and patted John's back, feeling slightly disgusted.
"I'm sorry John."
"I know...I know... I'm so glad you're back...really." John stood up and fell back onto the sofa realising he'd made a tit out of himself, and made the front of Sherlock's coat soggy. He wiped his face on the front of his dressing down and laughed drily, looking at Sherlock through puffy eyes.
"Look at me. I'm so pathetic."
"More like wet and snotty. Oh John!" Sherlock exclaimed as he saw a smear of snot down the front of his coat "This coat is dry clean only!"
He tutted, then felt bad as he realised the insignificance of having to clean his coat compared to John's long months of suffering.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur, with countless cups of tea, long winded explanations and emotional ups and downs. Sherlock stopped talking as he realised John's eyelids were drooping. He sat and watched curiously as John fell asleep on the sofa, then got up, threw his coat over the sleeping man and walked into his bedroom. Everything was exactly as he'd left it, and everything would go on as normal again.