I kind of wrote this as an excuse to draw some fanart. Heh. You can see the pictures on my deviantART: xLaramiex . deviantart . com (remove the spaces).
A year after Sherlock had disappeared - his mind skipped over the word 'died' because this was Sherlock for Christ's sake - John received a note.
5.30 tomorrow morning. Natural History Museum.
At first glance, he didn't recognise the handwriting, but after poring over it for the rest of the evening he thought he saw something strange about it; some curve to the 'y', perhaps, or a needlessly flamboyant 'w', as though the author was trying to hide something.
Within a few hours, he was practically down on his knees praying to every God he'd ever heard of that he knew his friend's handwriting as well as he thought he did.
He hardly slept that night, tossing and turning and dreaming of Sherlock in a way he hadn't since the weeks following his disappearance. He got up before his alarm, too jittery for anything but tea. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the cupboard-top as the kettle boiled.
John left the house without shaving and got himself on the tube; although fairly hefty sums of money found their way into his bank account on a semi-regular basis, he didn't like to rely on Mycroft too much.
Part of him expected to be shot or kidnapped on the way.
Please God, let me be safe until I've seen him.
He arrived outside the Natural History Museum 40 minutes early and sat on the steps in the semi-darkness to wait. The Museum was illuminated with purple lights during the night, but it was too light for them now even though the sun had not yet fully risen. John rubbed his hands together and wished he'd thought to bring a thicker jacket.
By 5.25, he was jumpier than a nervous horse. He stood up to stare, craning his neck to try and see over the barriers, along the street. Rush hour was beginning to take hold, but there was no Sherlock.
At 5.45, a handful of people rounded the corner of the building, heading for the door. Emotion churned in John's stomach; hope that it was Sherlock, cautious joy that it might be, fear that it wasn't, concern that it might be people who had hurt his friend.
When they drew nearer, John realised that it was people who worked in the Museum. Caretakers, exhibit organisers, security people. It didn't matter what they were, just that they weren't Sherlock. One of them brushed past him.
"Sorry, mate," the man said.
John waited, shivering in the cold and weak with a sickening disappointment, until 7 o'clock. Finally he gave up, accepting that Sherlock wasn't coming, and got a taxi home because he couldn't face the crowds.
Despite the disappointment, he was now sure that Sherlock was alive.
Sherlock knew it had been a foolish and selfish thing to do, but he missed his friend more than anything. He had led a lonely life, the last year, since faking his own death and embarking on a mission to kill Moriarty. A world-wide search had eventually led him to Moriarty's right-hand man in London. There he discovered where Moriarty would be for the next 64 hours, and he had used 7 of those to see John.
The plan had been simple: send the note, interrogate Moran, then go to the Museum and hope that John would too. He disguised his handwriting so that if it was intercepted or found it would be harder to trace back to him. He had only intended to look, but when he saw John waiting, nervous, hopeful, he acted on the spur of the moment.
He stole a uniform and flat cap, and disguised himself as a caretaker at the Natural History Museum.
It was risky; John knew him so well and in so many different disguises there was a possibility that he would be recognised, and for John's safety and Sherlock's peace of mind he couldn't let that happen. Luckily, Sherlock had always been very good at disguises, and so even when he brushed past John accidentally-on-purpose his best friend had been too busy looking for him to realise Sherlock was right in front of him.
A year after he should think I died, he still comes running when I call. Like a faithful old hound.
He watched, hat off, from an upstairs window until John left. That wasn't part of the plan either. A glimpse, and then onwards, was how it should have been, but Sherlock couldn't tear himself away from the one who came to meet a dead man.
He'd lost a lot of weight, Sherlock saw. His cheeks had hollowed, and the tendons on his hands stood out starkly. His eyes were sunken, and there were frown-lines between them. Wrinkles everywhere, in fact. His face was covered in them, like spiders' webs.
Sherlock sighed as John finally left his post by the front door, and slowly walked away, his shoulders sagging and his head bowed. He looked behind him frequently to check Sherlock had not suddenly appeared in the two steps since he last looked.
I may die tomorrow, Sherlock thought. I am glad I have a friend who loves me, and will understand.