"Keep your eyes fixed on me." Those words still echoed in John's mind. Had it really been three years? He shook his head. He needed to stop thinking about it. To get on with his life. But there was so much to say…
Sometimes, he would talk to Sherlock out loud. It had become a habit. He would look in the refrigerator and ask Sherlock to buy some milk. He would make two mugs of tea in the afternoon. Until, of course, he had to remind himself that Sherlock wasn't there. That he would never be there again.
It still hurt. The apartment didn't smell like Sherlock anymore. All of Sherlock's things were collecting dust, save the violin that John regularly cleaned. All the eyeballs and various appendages stored in the microwave and refrigerator were thrown out. Sherlock was disappearing.
But the bullet holes in the wall were still there. The skull was still there. And the morgue had given him Sherlock's jacket and scarf. They were still stained with his blood. He refused to clean it off. He knew it was disgusting, having dirty, bloodstained clothing. But if he washed the clothes, they wouldn't be Sherlock anymore. They would just be clean.
He visited Sherlock's grave every day. On the walk home from work, he would take the long way around, just to say hello. He'd resorted to listening to songs Sherlock used to play when he was thinking. And sometimes, he would even listen to depressing slow jazz songs (because those were always the ones that didn't make him cry, especially "I'll Be Seeing You").
Mrs. Hudson wanted to help. He could tell. She babied him; brought him tea on long days, made him breakfast every morning, and knew how to help him get through all those nightmares he had. But no, they weren't nightmares, because nightmares were things that the brain invented. He simply remembered reality. When he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, it was because he was watching Sherlock fall.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me." Always that echo. John sighed and sat down at his computer. He logged into his blog. Created a new post. His fingers gently rested on the keyboard, thoughts racing. It had been forever since he had written. But it had helped, so he had to start again.
Dear Sherlock, he wrote. Yes, this had to be it. He had to say goodbye, and this was the only way. I'm waiting. I'm here, broken and waiting. Where are you, Sherlock? Are you happy? Do you miss me as much as I miss you?
No, that wouldn't do. He pressed down on the backspace key until all the words disappeared. Then he stretched his fingers and started again.
Dear Sherlock,
I can't believe you're gone. It seems like only yesterday we were having wonderful adventures. Yes, Sherlock, adventures; that's what they were, after all. It's been three years. It must seem pathetic, my having not functioned properly in the three years since you… fell.
I'm taking this opportunity to tell you goodbye. Believe me, I don't want to tell you goodbye. I have to. I will always think of you as my closest friend. You took me in when nobody else would. You helped me see things in a different way. You gave me a lifetime of memories.
The only thing I didn't have enough of was time.
I wish I had more time with you, Sherlock. More time to… No, it doesn't matter. Wishing gets you nowhere. I mean, for three years I've wished for you to come back, somehow. For three years I've wished my head would let me forget you, just for a bit. For three years I've wished my heart wouldn't hurt so much.
No, wishing does not get you anywhere.
Maybe I should just say what I always wanted to say. Maybe I shouldn't. You were my best friend, Sherlock. You made my pathetic life worth living, and I'll always thank you for that. Goodbye, my friend. And… though it doesn't matter now… I love you, always and forever.
Yours,
John
John erased the last sentenced and hesitantly posted the letter. Then he waited. He waited for some change in his heart, some change in the way the world felt.
Nothing. Zip, nada, zilch.
He sighed, shut his laptop, and leaned back in his chair. "Why aren't you here, Sherlock?" he cried angrily, running a hand through his hair.
"Who said I wasn't?"
John nearly toppled over. Before he could scramble up from the floor, a strong and steady hand was pulling him, up off the ground and closer, closer to a familiar smell, a familiar touch, those silky black curls and a new blue scarf, clean and wonderful and all so very… Sherlock.
"Y-y-you're-"
"Come now, John, it hasn't been that long," Sherlock rolled his ice blue eyes. John wanted to smack him. Beat some sense into him. Something!
"Three years," he whispered.
"Yes. Well. I…" Sherlock sighed, unsure of what to say. John decided to fill in the blanks for him.