Friday
John walked into the main room of their shared flat in Baker Street, and once again experienced that strange feeling of both shock and complete joy when he saw Sherlock standing in the room. He was just standing there looking out of the window, wearing his blue dressing gown and holding a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, just like he had done so many mornings before this.
But John still couldn't quite grasp in his head that he was actually here. That Sherlock Holmes, the man who he had thought dead for three years was back again, and it still came as a surprise even now, 14 months after his return to the living.
In the beginning, John had been furious him. In the three years of abandonment, he'd gone through hell and he'd only just started to accept it. He was trying to move on; he was trying to get on with his life.
And just as he had come to terms with the hell that was his existence, Sherlock had burst into his flat, expecting to be welcomed with open arms. John did not grant him that.
But that was a long time ago. That had been last year in the winter of depression, beaten down by seemingly un-ending solitude. This was the time of sweet mornings that smelt like coffee and the scent of Sherlock's skin.
John walked up behind his flatmate and put his arms around him. He breathed in the air that surrounded Sherlock and closed his eyes, laying his head down on the shoulder of the taller man.
Sherlock's long and elegant fingers caressed John's hand in calm motion.
"Sleep well?" he asked in a deep, whispering voice that shook his ribcage and John could feel his words much more than hear them.
"Mm-mmm." he simply replied, not finding it necessary to use actual words to express himself. In fact, Sherlock could probably read him anyway, making all forms of communication completely pointless.
Sherlock put down his coffee and released himself from John's grip only just enough to turn around in his arms and face him. A smile brushed his lips with the greatest caution, hardly moving his muscles at all.
John raised himself to the tip of his toes in order to put his lips to Sherlock's.
Their lips hardly touched as they slowly and ever so lightly kissed in the morning sunlight.
Then they grew more brutal in their ways. Sherlock's arms wrapped around John and held him tight, almost trying to push him further towards him than was physically possible. John's hands searched their way to Sherlock's hair and tangled themselves into it, grabbing fistfuls of hair in the confusing passion that suddenly hid him with the touch of his friend and lover.
Lips got violently pulled apart by feverish lips and teeth bit in everything they could find. They pushed their bodies up against each other so firmly they forgot they were two people in separate bodies.
Then Sherlock's phone lid up and the ringtone started playing.
The kiss died out reluctantly, but they didn't move away from each other at first. A long moment passed with them just standing up against each other panting heavily.
Then John sighed and pulled away, gesturing his permission for Sherlock to answer it. Sherlock shrugged and sent him an apologizing smile.
His graceful fingers picked up the phone and answered the call. The ringtone finally died out.
"Yes?" Sherlock asked.
There was no one on the other end, and Sherlock felt puzzled for less than a blink of an eye.
Then a bullet fired through the window, sending splintered glass flying everywhere and ripping through the detective's skull. Blood smashed out on the wall behind him and the wrenched body fell heavily to the ground.
John didn't even have enough time to realise what just happened, before a second bullet penetrated his skull.