So, I recently got into Sherlock. I always planned to watch it, and I finally got round to it. And it was absolutely fantastic, brilliant, flawless-anyway. It did end on a heartbreaking note, and Series 3 doesn't start filming until March, and god knows how long it will take to film, so in the meantime, I calmed myself down by writing this, so that I can try to be happy. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope I can help you deal with a few Reichenfeels.
I suppose you could consider this Johnlock, if you wanted to. I've tried to keep it as similar to the show and the characters as I could, and you can easily consider the show Johnlock...I'll leave it your imagination. Once again, enjoy, and maybe leave a review to let me know what you think.
Three years. It had been three years since John Watson had watched his best friend throw himself off of the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital. It had been three years since John had broken down in front of his best friend's grave. It had been three years ago since John moved out of 221B Baker Street, to get away from the memories. The flat they had shared still remained the same, and for the few nights where John had tried to stay there and pretend that everything would be alright, he could have sworn he heard someone playing the violin in the early hours of the morning. After crying himself to sleep, he knew that he had to leave. He said a tearful farewell to Mrs Hudson on the day he moved out, and gave her a piece of paper with his new address and phone number on it, and told her that it would mean a lot if she kept in touch. After all, she had become a part of his life as well, and she was still alive, why should he cut her out as well? Sherlock would never have forgiven him if he did that. The two kept in touch by letter often, and once a month would meet up. John was always happy to see her, even if she did remind him of the life he left behind. But it wasn't as though John would have been able to forget that life even if he tried. It was a strange arrangement, seeing as John kept in contact with only Mrs Hudson, who promised to keep his new location secret, but it worked for them both. Memories were etched into their hearts and minds, and neither of them were inclined to try to smooth over them.
Two years ago, Detective Inspector Lestrade had turned up on John's doorstep. He informed him that after a year of badgering Mrs Hudson, she had given up John's new address. With some cleverly chosen words that hit just the right nerves, he managed to persuade John to help him on cases, like he had done before Sherlock died. He told John that Scotland Yard was helpless without that bit of outside help. John had protested that he wouldn't be very helpful, but Lestrade had still managed to persuade him.It turned out that being around Sherlock, who was always analysing people and making impossibly accurate deductions, had meant that some of the skills had rubbed off onto John. Of course, he wasn't as good as Sherlock had been. He doubted that anyone could be. Anyone else would be second best. Being back at the Yard had helped John slightly. Seeing familiar faces again had started to help him heal. Lestrade, obviously, was the face John looked forward to seeing most, they had become relatively good friends before John moved away. Anderson and Donovan were more bearable now as well, seeing as Sherlock wasn't there for them to mock. They were civil to John, and even offered to get him coffees or go out for a drink after work on occasion. And then there was Molly. Molly was more or less her usual old self. She gave John a big hug on the first day he went down to the morgue for a case, and looked pleased to see him. But John also noticed that she always looked slightly uneasy around him. Slightly nervous, and she wiped her palms on her lab coat quite a bit. This puzzled John to no end. He knew that she definitely didn't fancy him, she'd always had a thing for Sherlock, so the nervousness couldn't mean that she liked him in that way. Plus, the look of her face didn't show any kind of attraction. It was almost as though she felt guilty for something. John didn't know what.
One year ago, John had become increasingly better at his new job. He noticed minute details that sometimes he couldn't believe he'd even noticed. He'd solved many cases, and used the time in between cases to blog about them, rather than falling into a pit of boredom as Sherlock used to. He had closed a few quite high profile cases as well, putting him back in the public eye. Using his new found influence, he managed to clear Sherlock's name, and told everyone that James Moriarty was a real person. He was an evil psychopath who had caused so much death and destruction. He shared everything he could remember, he testified in court, he blogged for days on end to get his point across. Finally, it did. The city of London accepted Sherlock Holmes as a hero, and mourned his death as they rightfully should have done. John had happily explained this to Sherlock when he visited his grave that evening, as he did every week.
Three years had passed since Sherlock died. John moved away and then moved back, he had tried to continue his life as best he could. But he couldn't forget completely. His new job and the fact that he moved back into 221B Baker Street, to the joy of Mrs Hudson, was proof of that. So were the weekly visits to Sherlock's grave, the violin lessons and the solitary foray into using nicotine patches, which resulted in him spending a night bouncing around the flat like a pogo stick and once the drug left his system vowing never again. It had been three years since Sherlock died, and not a day went past that John didn't think of him. Or miss him. Or shed a single tear over him.
On the third anniversary of Sherlock's death, John sat in his armchair with a cup of tea in his hand. He was in the middle of a particularly complex case. He eyed the skull that sat on the mantelpiece and smiled. He had once tried talking to the skull, but felt like something out of Hamlet, so promptly stopped. The yellow smiley face that was sprayed onto the wall beamed at him. Even though John was the only person in the room, he didn't feel entirely alone. The room was full of memories, some almost tangible. But still, that's all they were. Memories. John solemnly took a sip of his tea, and then began to look through the files for the case he was working on. Suddenly, his phone buzzed from beside him. He opened the text immediately, expecting it to be Lestrade with a new lead, or maybe Sarah about meeting up this weekend. He didn't expect what he saw.
I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. –SH
John blinked a few times to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. The text was from a blocked number. He shook his head abruptly, with a short, sharp laugh. This was some kind of practical joke, he assured himself. The messages that Irene Adler had sent Sherlock were common knowledge, thanks to his blog, and so was the way that Sherlock signed off all his texts. John had printed off many of them for proof of Sherlock's innocence a couple of years ago. He took a sip of tea calmly, and went back to work.
"John!" Mrs Hudson's voice sounded from downstairs. "There's someone here to see you! They're quite insistent!"
It's probably Lestrade, John thought, there's probably some kind of important detail that I missed. Again.
"Send them up!" John called back down the stairs, before turning back to the files.
He heard footsteps make their way up the stairs before they stopped, presumably walking into the flat.
"So, Lestrade, what did I miss this time?" John asked, rather exasperated.
"You make a habit of missing things, then? I would have expected better from you," a voice said.
John froze. He hadn't heard that voice for three years. He still recognised it. There was no mistaking it. He turned around slowly. And there he was.
"Sherlock."
"Hello, John."
John steadily rose to his feet and walked tentatively towards him, as though he was surveying a ghost.
"It's really you? You're alive?" he asked, half to reassure himself.
"Evidently."
It was definitely him. He looked exactly the same. The same long coat, blue scarf and infuriating cheekbones. He smiled.
John returned the smile. Then he reared his fist back and punched Sherlock square in the face.
"You bastard," he snarled, "you made me think you were dead for three years! Three fucking years, Sherlock! Do you know how much I missed you? Do you know how much I've done for you? I couldn't forget about you no matter how much I tried! I moved back into the flat! I've taken up your old bloody job!"
"I know," Sherlock replied, pulling his scarf off from around his neck to stop the bleeding from his nose.
"You know? Oh, of course you know. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, and you know every bloody thing there is to know. Even how to cheat death apparently. So why wouldn't you tell your alleged only friend that you were alive then, eh? Do I really mean that little to you?"
"John, calm down. I know that what I've done was out of line, but I did it all for a reason. If you calm down, make me a cup of tea, I'll explain everything."
"You want me to make you a cup of tea?"
"Two sugars, please. I would assume you'd remember that."
John's face slowly turned puce. "You've just shown up from the dead after three years, seen how upset and angry you've made me, and you want me to make you a cup of tea?"
"Not good?"
"Bit not good, yeah," John replied sarcastically.
Sherlock grinned, before stepping forwards and wrapping his arms around John in a fierce hug.
"I can't begin to tell you how much I've missed you, John," he said.
John rolled his eyes before quickly settling into the hug.
"Yeah, I've missed you too," he admitted.
They stayed like that for a minute or so. Finally, reunited.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"You're still making your own bloody tea."
I hope you liked it! I might write a follow-up at some point, showing the other character's reactions. That is, if you want me to. You may want me to just burn my laptop and never write again. I don't know.