John sat at his apartment, just another ordinary day on an ordinary year. Sherlock had been dead for almost three years now. 'Stop it', John thought, putting his head between his hands. It always came down to this. There was always something that would trigger the thought and make it come back again. He looked out the window, a hole in his chest still. Would he ever get over it? Would it ever be a day when his thoughts would not bring him memories of Sherlock any more? He wasn't sure and that scared him. His mobile phone rang in his pocket. He waited for a while. Who would send him a message? He had no friends. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs and Lestrade hadn't spoken to him for so long he supposed the inspector had forgotten him all at once. It was probably just the phone company, asking for some rate about some service. Curiosity took over him. Who would care to text him? He removed the phone from his pocket and unlocked it, checking the message. 'Open the door. SH.' was written there. John froze in his place. No, that had to be a bad joke. It couldn't be. Whoever was doing that to him was evil. He looked at the door either way, leading to the stairs. Whoever it was he wanted to know. He got up, grabbing his cane for support and went down the stairs, ready to face the person who had thought that would be something funny to do. He opened up the door, staring at the street.

"Ah, took you a while."

The man in front of him was slender than what he remembered, the hair longer. But it was him. John grabbed the cane with more strength, trying not to lose his own balance.

"Sher… Sherlock." he whispered, his legs shaking.

"Ah, you still recognise me." his friend said, a smirk on his lips. "Don't just stay there, you idiot. It's me. I am back!"

John felt himself being grabbed in a tight embrace and closed his eyes praying it to be real this time