Since the very first day I spent at 221 B Baker Street, I knew that my flat mate was someone unique; his way of seeing the world, of seeing through people, the way he could tell you everything about anything or anyone: without doubt he had a magnificent brain. However his ability wasn't all that appreciated by the people around him, and when he informed me of this fact, I was rather surprised. I understood later that it wasn't what he said that people hated – it was the way he said it. He was rude and abrasive and domineering to almost everyone who had the misfortune of crossing his path, (besides me of course).

Besides the ingenuity of his methods of deductions, he had a lot of abilities. His knowledge on chemistry, anatomy and physics were more than extraordinary and all of these were completely useful for "our" job. To be honest, I never felt like I was useful to him. I basically just followed him around and listened to everything he said because apparently I attracted less attention than his skull. So one day, somewhat tired and largely underappreciated, I decided that there was no point in me trailing him all over London. The speech he threw my way when I voiced this, listing a myriad of reasons why I should in fact trail him all over London, like I'd been doing ever since I met him, made it impossible for me to stop.

But of course, tagging along behind him as he hunted down yet another criminal wasn't my only part in our strange relationship. Since the first day I met him I accepted him as a friend. I worried about him constantly. Whether he had slept or eaten enough became one of the things on the top of my concerns. He, obviously, wasn't pleased with this and didn't allow me to control his eating and sleeping habits or any part of his life and as a matter of fact, he was right. In the end it wasn't up to me to coddle him – he was a fully functional adult and had done completely fine on his own before I ever even met him.

In the beginning, my intention was merely to find a cheap way to stay in London. What I wasn't looking for was a friend, for during my service on Afghanistan, I had seen a lot of friends and good people die. So when I started to feel 'something' for Sherlock it was like a basic need to be sure that he was safe, that he was ok. Unfortunately he was a little difficult.

When our 'adventures' began, my protectiveness of him didn't come as a surprise. In fact, I expected myself to be. To me it was natural to protect the people that were with me on the battlefield, and it wasn't any different with Sherlock. Well, almost not different; however, because like I already said, he was mostly always a little difficult. Every time I tried to make sure that the situation was safe enough for him, he just looked at me and said, like a teenager does to an overprotective parent, "You are acting like such an idiot, John. Nothing's going to happen to me." And maybe he was right, because every time something dangerous happened, at the end we just had a couple of bruises or scratches here and there, and to be completely honest, it was unbelievable. I usually came off feeling invincible.

I think what I didn't really expect out of our peculiar dynamic was that he refused to let me have a relationship with anyone. Every single woman that I dated ended up hating me, even months after, and he was always to blame, even if he saw them only one or two times. The simple fact that I give more importance to my friend than to them was some that they couldn't handle, and the fact remains that at some point, it was annoying. It was annoying what they thought of us, that Sherlock was more that my friend, that he was actually my boyfriend.

I have no idea why, but as the time passed by I started to understand that they were right. For me, Sherlock was more important than anyone else, and even if in the beginning I didn't accept it, it was true. At the end of the case he was the only friend I had, and he, Mrs. Hudson and, in a certain way, Lestrade were the closest to a family that I had ever had. Living together built a different connection between us, however, so whatever it was that Sherlock and I had, it was somewhat different. Special, if I were to say so myself, and it was difficult for me to see this, or rather, accept this fact for quite a while.

Not that I was ever precisely a closed mind person, I wasn't, but the idea of accepting that I had developed feelings for my flatmate wasn't so easy, especially if the person we're talking about is Sherlock Holmes, the most asexual bastard in the whole of England, or at least, that was what I thought.

Even if was a little difficult, however, it didn't take me too much time to realize that I felt something different for Sherlock, and unfortunately, it wasn't until I saw him on that rooftop that I had the guts to accept that it was love. I didn't, and I regreted it deeply, have the time to tell him.

When I saw him on the ground, all I could think of was "Why the fuck didn't I tell him? Why?"

One way or another, it was already late. No matter how much I knew that I love him, he was gone now. Forever.

I went to his grave yesterday. It wasn't easy and I have to accept it, but it was the most difficult visit I ever made. My heart started to race and my stomach was killing me, my eyes burning; I just want to lay on the ground next to him and cry, cry because I miss him, because I couldn't tell him that I really loved him, that he was special and unique, that no matter how difficult could had been because his smile made everything better.

That day I decide to believe again, asked him to come back, to please stop it, stop being dead and just come back home to me.

Home… a word that didn't have too much meaning since he died, I couldn't go back to the flat immediately; it was so difficult. The flat was so empty, dark, sad and ironically, it was extremely boring. Nothing was the same without him. Scotland Yard wasn't the same, our flat, London, my life… everything was wrong.

Almost three years had passed since I lost him.

The first year was a living hell, every person that saw me on the street, or a restaurant asked me something about him. It was horrible, the harder I tried to forget him, the more the people talked to me about him and his death. One day I was finishing my dinner at Angelo's and a journalist came to me asking about him. I tried to ignore him, and I was doing splendidly, until he asked me this horrible question -

"Were you aware of the fact that he was a fake?"

And I lost it. All I remember now is my fist ramming into his face and my enraged yelling.

"SHERLOCK WAS NOT A FAKE, HE WAS MY FRIEND AND I'LL ALWAYS BELIEVE IN HIM!"

The consequences, of course, were not pretty.

That year my life changed a lot. I didn't go to Angelo's after that incident. Actually, I avoided a lot of places that we used to frequent. In three years I didn't even step into the Saint Bartholomew's hospital. I did talk to Molly once or twice since everything happened but nothing more than a couple of minutes on the phone. Occasionally Mycroft sent me messages, asking me how I was and if I needed anything and all my answers through the first months were the same: a simple and cold "NO". That changed on the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, when I started to fully understand my situation with Mycroft. He had me completely under surveillance.

That night was the worst of every night. I was extremely depressed and a hundred ideas passed through my mind. I sat in the flat, drinking the tea that Mrs. Hudson had so graciously, as always, made me. On the table next to me was a picture of Sherlock, (the one with the hat that he hated so much), and my gun. My fingers were lightly tracing the cold steel, and everything that came to my mind was the same question that my therapist asked me that same day: "Did you love him?" My answer was easy, a simple, truthful yes. It was the next question that pierced me – "Did you tell him?"

"I didn't have the time", I managed to answer.

When I told it to my therapist I was convinced, but after that I was alone in the flat that a year ago was full of craziness, loneliness. The good moments with Sherlock were memories that now haunted me and I knew that my answer then had been a lie: I did have the time, I just didn't had the fucking guts to do it. Grief rendering me to a point where my thoughts were painful and extreme, I started to cry, took my gun and put it against my temple in a desperate moment; my decision made. That was when my phone rang.

Mycroft's name lit the screen, and the gun in my hand trembled. Trying to smother my sobs, I answered.

"Don't do it, John"
"Mycroft… what the…"
"Put the gun down."
"No… you don't understand, I can't continue like this…"
"I do understand you, he was my brother and I loved him, no matter how sour our relationship was."

"It's not the same!" I cried, hands trembling harder. "You weren't used to his presence in your house, to the sound of the violin all night, to the body parts on the fucking fridge! You weren't!"
"John…"
"FUCK! … I miss him Mycroft!.. I need him" I was already heaving, tears streaming down my face by this point of the conversation
"I know John, but believe me, that's not the way to go about your grief…"
"What am I supposed to do then?... Spend the rest of my life feeling awful because he's not with me? No, Mycroft, I can't"
"Think about all the times you had with him, John. How he felt about you." Mycroft's voice was quiet, sad.
"I was his friend. So? I wish I could just lose my memory; maybe it would make everything easier."
"No John, my brother needs to be remembered, especially by you. You were the most important to him. He admired you more than anyone else because of your bravery, your courage, your loyalty… don't break that image John…"
"Mycroft I…"
"Yes you can, do it for him John; you're the only person he always cared about, please stay safe. For him."
That was his last phrase before he cut the call. I have no idea how but that make me change my mind, but if Sherlock used to think that I was strong… then I had to keep that image for him.

_

The second year was a little easier, mostly because people stopping asking about him.
I moved out of the dreary flat and got a new one of my own in the opposite side of London. I continued visiting Mrs. Hudson once in a while but the topic of Sherlock's death was like a taboo between us. We did, however, remember the "happy" times with him but nothing other than that. I started working in on a hospital and this helped a little to distract myself.
At the end of that year I began dating a lovely woman. Her name was Mary and she was really sweet. I had a great time every time I spent time with her.

In three years without him, and Mary had definitely helped me a lot. She'd become someone so special to me that I'd even been considering proposing to her for quite a while. After what happened with Sherlock, I didn't want to take the same risk and lose someone that I loved.

It was the day I decided to go to Angelo's again. I had really missed the food prepared there, however Sherlock's memory had kept me from visiting, lest the grief overwhelm me again. This day, however, I decided I'd shoulder the pain, should it come, and stepped into Angelo's.

The evening was nice. I went alone because Mary was busy with work. When I arrived Angelo came to me, hugged me and told me that I was welcome and that everything on the menu was free for me. I thanked him. It was good to have that warm pasta again; the smell was comforting. The dinner was amazing and only then did I realize how much I had missed this place.
The evening was comfortable and lovely, besides the constant nagging feeling of being observed. I shrugged it off – it was probably Mycroft being nosy again.
But later, as I was taking a taxi, I could've sworn I saw Sherlock at Angelo's window, looking out right at me. But that was impossible, right? I mean, it'd have to be a twist joke of my mind. It had been almost 3 years since Sherlock jumped of that rooftop. He was dead and I knew it to be true. I shook it off as a hallucination.

It's amazing how cruel people can be. For about a week I'd been getting strange messages, all from the same number, sighed 'SH'. It was a terrible prank – an unjustifiable one, and my rage at this monumental fucker was indescribable.

To be honest, when the first message rang out on my phone my heart started to beat faster, the hope reborn. I have no idea why, but in that moment I wished so desperately that it was, in fact, really him. I thought that my life was better with Mary; that it was complete, but I was wrong. There was always something missing, a hollow aching feeling in my chest, so before I hurt her more I ended our relationship.

It was useless to try and replace Sherlock. I still needed him... I still wanted him.

Today I went to Baker Street to see how Mrs. Hudson was doing. She was fine and happy to see me, but happened to be on her way out. I don't know why exactly I asked her for the keys to 221B. This could sound strange, but I felt a sudden inexplicable need to be in there again, maybe because I could've sworn I had been seeing Sherlock that entire week, first the night on Angelo's and after that in a lot of places, the market, the hospital and even at the cemetery, I'm almost sure that I saw him. Combined with the text messages that claimed to be from him, it was all too much to take.

I took my time to decide if I should venture up or not. I was sitting on the bottom of the stairs thinking, when a soft, mellifluous melody attracted my attention. It was the sound of Sherlock's violin. Abandoning all logical thoughts, I got up and ran up stairs, desperately praying, repeating to myself one mantra – "I can't be wrong. I can't be wrong!" I had listened a lot of violins but no one of those sounded like Sherlock's. It had to be him, but at the same time I knew there existed the possibility that when I opened the door the flat would be completely empty and in the last instance it was the most coherent ending to all this, after all Sherlock was dead, wasn't he?.

To my surprise, all was the opposite. I hesitated I opened the door. The flat was almost empty; the table that used to be full of papers and with our laptops on top now was almost clear, only a violin case was on top of it. The fire was burning, the wood cracking and the beautiful smell invaded the room.
And there he was, front of the window was the now more slim Sherlock's figure, his hair a bit longer and wilder, his violin positioned between his chin and shoulder; the light of the fire gave him a special shine with a beautiful match of red, orange and yellow.

I was completely frozen. "It can't be him… it can't be, he's dead… he's dead and can't be here," were the only words reverberating around my head. I walked through the room so I could get close, stretching out one shaky arm to place a hand on his seemingly solid shoulder, and touched him. For a while I couldn't believe it. He was here, he wasn't a ghost, and I was touching him! The music stopped and slowly he turned around to face him me and I noticed breathlessly that I almost forgot how beautiful his eyes were, that mix of blue and green and even a little of grey. It was beautiful.

"John..."

His voice hit my brain, jerking me back into reality. "This can't be…" I thought, almost wordless while my hands slowly started to touch his face, and to my surprise, moment that he felt my touch against his cheek he pressed his face against my hand, leaning into comfort.

"I'm sorry John…"

My other hand came to rest on his face the same way and I was cradling his face. "John…?" He sounded hesitant, but I continued without talking, my eyes fixed on his face as though he might disappear if I looked away. I couldn't believe that he was there.

"John… please talk to me," he said, sounding past uncertain now, almost begging. I couldn't, however, so I just shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

"Why? John I'm sorry… really sorry but I'm here now, please talk to me", he was actually begging now. I shook my head no again with a single tear trailing down my face.

"Why not? What are you waiting for?" his hand carefully wiped my tear away, fingers calloused and gentle against my skin. My eyes screwed shut as I leaned into his touch. "You might disappear", I choked out somehow, more salty drops squeezing out from under my eyelids. He softly stroked my cheek

"I won't, not this time John… look at me." I opened my eyes and looked directly to his. They were shining from unshed tears, just like mine. "You will… you always do, When I feel that you're with me I just blink and then you're gone… you'll do it again." I grasp his hand as purchase.

"No John, is not like that this time… now I'm staying".

I went a little closer. "Really?"

He nodded and that was all I needed, for a second later I was holding him in a hug so tightly and hard that it began to hurt, but I didn't care. I didn't want to lose him again. "Sherlock", I almost sobbed, "I've missed you so much." He held me by the waist, whispering softly. "Me too John", he said "I missed you so much". Overcome with happiness at how alive he was, how real and solid in my arms, at how sincere he sounded, I'd forgotten I no longer lived in the flat.

"John, come home please", he said, lips moving against my hair. "Please come home."

I leaned back, reluctantly letting my tight hold relinquish, and looked into his wide, pleading eyes. space and looked him directly on the eyes, confused. "What?" I asked. He was worried, mouth pulled into a frown, eyes anxious. "Please come back to Baker street", he implored. "Please… the flat is not going to be the same without you."

With a sudden realization, I smiled a little. "Yes, I'll come back to live with you." I embraced him once more, burying my face in his neck to perceive his essence. His arms tightened around my waist.

"Sherlock I…" I started, and trailed off. I really wanted to tell him that I love him but I couldn't, I was too afraid. What if he didn't return my feelings? I couldn't stand to lose him again.

"John… I Love you," he interrupted my thoughts. I pulled back for a second time so I could look up at that beautiful face. "What?"

My answer came as a whisper, ghosting into my ears. "John Hamish Watson, I'm in love with you… please stay with me?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing, my heart soaring. "Me too Sherlock Holmes, I love you too". We embraced again for what seemed like years, and slowly we withdrew again to look at each other, his hungry gaze caressing my lips. My eyes were drawn to his chapped cupid bows as well, so it was obvious that we both wanted the same thing.

I leaned in, reveling in the feeling of his breath against my skin. He closed the last distance between us and brought our lips together in a simple, chaste kiss. We stayed like this for a couple of minutes, warm lips against each other, fascinated by the sensations the simple act brought. All too soon our legs gave away from sheer exhausted elation, and we took to sitting on the floor by the fire, my head resting on Sherlock's shoulder, his arms around me. Silence hung comfortably in the dim, flickering light.

"Promise me that you'll never go again," I demanded softly after a while. "Promise me you'll never leave." He smiled and kissed the top of my head.

"I won't, I promise," he assured, and I leaned up to kiss his jaw. "Good", I said softly and it was only after a few minutes of another comfortable silence before he talked again. "John?"

I was stroking his chest "Yes Sherlock?" h

He kissed my forehead and nuzzled his cheek against my hair. "In the future, make sure to answer my messages please." I smiled and buried my face in his neck .

"I will Sherlock." I promised, and left a little peck on his neck while he hugged me against his chest."Always."