John lay awake in bed, he didn't really sleep anymore. He should have gotten over it by now, he knew he should have, but for some reason he just couldn't. He couldn't really be dead, could he? Of course he is, John thought, I watched him jump off that building, I went to his funeral. He didn't sleep again that night, just sat in the dark thinking about the day his world crashed down around him.

At about half 8 the next morning, John decided he'd go for a walk to clear his mind. He knew his mind could never truly be free of his best friend's memory, but he could at least distract himself for a while.

As he walked down Baker Street, his phone buzzed in his pocket, telling him he had a text, it read:
"You look terrible - rough night?"
He had been receiving a lot of these texts in the past few months. John spun around, searching for someone who looked somewhat suspicious. And then he saw it, just a flash of curly raven black hair and a long black coat sweeping round the corner.
"Sherlock" he muttered under his breath and then he was running, screaming his old room mates name, pushing his way through crowds of people who were either looking annoyed at the noise he was making, or sympathetic. He couldn't blame them, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. After chasing shadows for another 10 minutes John finally gave up and headed back to 221B.

After he got back and settled back down with a cup of tea, the ex army doctor picked up his phone and scrolled through the anonymous text messages he had been receiving, just staring at them trying to figure it out. His phone buzzed with another text;
"Do you miss me?"
Could it really be him? Was he going crazy?

That day John decided he'd make another appointment with his old therapist. He hadn't been since... well, a good few months. He wouldn't tell her about the texts of course. He'd tell her that he saw Sherlock wherever he went, even though he watched his casket be lowered into the ground. He'd ask her if she thought he was going crazy.

John came out of the therapists office more frustrated that when he went in. She had tried telling him ways to get over someone close to you. Does she think he hadn't already tried all of them? He knew she was trying to help but he had hoped she would have told him something he didn't already know. When he got outside he pushed a shaking hand through his hair as he received another text;
"I told you, you should have got a better therapist."
Who was this? Only Sherlock knew he saw a therapist and he had told him a long time ago that he should stopped seeing her. John nearly started crying right there in the middle of the street. Was this really Sherlock? Or was he the victim of a sick joke? He could feel the lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger the more he thought about it so he practically ran home.

As soon as he got in he made a cup of tea with sweaty hands, telling himself he wouldn't cry, he couldn't. He picked his laptop up from the table and looked through news reports of the amazing Sherlock Holmes. The ones when he was first recognized right up until that very last day. He read through those last few and felt a tear slide down his cheek as he saw what they had wrote about him. "Fake", "Liar", "Deceitful". Everyone believed the articles, obviously, but John knew the truth, he knew that the only time Sherlock had lied to him was that day on the roof. He could never believe his best friend would lie to him like that. No, something must have happened, something he would now never know. Pretty soon John was properly crying. He hadn't been in this state since after the funeral. Sobs racked the man's thin frame and tears stained his thick jumper. Somewhere through the sound of his broken cries he heard his phone vibrate on the table next to him.
"Open the door."
John eyed the text warily but shuffled to the door none-the-less. He peered carefully through the small peep hole on the door. The person was looking down so all he could see were tight raven curls. He recognized this straight away and quickly fumbled to unlock the door and rip the door open. And there he stood, the man the world thought was dead. He looked up, his grey eyes sparkling. John couldn't believe what he was seeing. Sherlock was standing in front of him, how could this be? He had watched him hit the ground. He was going insane, wasn't he. That was the only explanation, he had finally cracked.

"I've missed you." Sherlock whispered, voice raw with emotion.
"I thought you were gone."
"I'm sorry, I couldn't... you might have been in danger."
John's legs buckled beneath him and he just kind of collapsed into the taller man. God how he had missed him. Sherlock caught John and enveloped him into a hug, his long arms wrapping around him.

Things went back to normal after that day, Sherlock had explained the Moriarty situation to Lestrade, who had surprisingly been very understanding. The rest of the team had been more than a little shocked, but as soon as they had recovered, Anderson had turned to him and said, "I thought we'd finally got rid of you." He had smirked at this, and looked almost joyous as he compared the man to a slug. It was weird for John having to get used to having his room mate around again but he adjusted quickly and they were back to arguing like a married couple within a few days. Things were just how they were meant to be.