It was just a normal day. Well, that's a lie. It was the anniversary of Reichenbach.
Three years.
Three years today, he fell off those falls with Moriarty. I can remember it so clearly. Finding that note. My feelings. The way the cold felt against my skin. The way everything moved in the wind. All of it. Engraved in my mind.
I thought he would come back. I spend hours, days, months, staring at the door waiting. Waiting for the sound of his foot on the stair, the sight of his coat swishing round the door, but… Nothing. No coat. No footsteps. Nothing. I drank myself stupid of course. Whisky, scotch, tequila on occasion, beer, wine, anything in the house. I barely got dressed. The flat became a mess. Turns out: I'm a very angry drunk.
People stopped visiting. Mrs Hudson barely came to see me. Harry called a few times, told me to stop drinking, that the alcohol wasn't my friend. I shouted at her to stop being a hypocrite and hung up on her. She didn't ring again.
I kept his room exactly as it was. I didn't move a thing in the flat. Everything had to be perfect for him when he came back.
It only dawned on me a few months ago that he wasn't coming back. That was the worst week of my life. I didn't move for three days. At all. I just sat. Staring. Ignoring everything.
Then I got up. Best decision I had made in a long time.
I tided most of the flat. I left his experiments on the kitchen table, and his room as it was though.
I stopped drinking. For some reason, I didn't want to. Maybe I had finally seen sense.
I started talking to people again. People came by, I didn't shout. I apologised a lot. Harry came by. She cried and we hugged.
I had finally accepted he was gone. I accepted it. Sherlock Holmes was dead.
Then the doorbell rang.
I was just about to leave the flat, go shopping you know? Everything felt so normal. The doorbell rang as I was pulling on my coat, I pulled the door open.
Time froze.
There he was. Sherlock Holmes. Pale and black haired and perfect as ever. He smiled so sweetly at me.
"Hello Doctor Watson." He said, hoarsely.
I knocked him out cold.
He wasn't out for long, however in those few minutes I had opened and closed the door enough times to make a new record. He woke up slowly. Sat up. Looked up at me with such hate in his eyes. But it wasn't hate toward me, it was hate toward himself. However, at that point in time, I couldn't care less. I beat him. I punched every part of that man's body until he lay upon the floor bleeding. Just enough so that he was able to get up, but also that he felt my pain. He stood up, and we were just stood there. Staring at each other for what felt like forever. Tears began to fall from our eyes.
"I'm-"
"Don't say your sorry. Just- Don't."
"John please, I-"
"No, Sherlock! You don't get to turn up on my doorstep after three years, to the day, and tell me you're not dead. You can't do that! You can't show up here, and smile at me on the doorstep and act like nothing happened. So don't you fucking dare say you're "sorry" to me Sherlock Holmes. Because-" I stopped and stared at him, he looked back- confused.
"Because what, John?"
"Because…" I tried to hold myself together but the tears kept coming. "Because, Sherlock. You were dead. You died, that day and I- It's been three years. Only I'd only accepted that fact a month ago. I was a mess Sherlock. And it's your fault. It's all your fault." Something changed in his face, he looked as if he wanted to shoot himself for what he had done. I would have stopped him. I wouldn't have let him die again. Not again. I wouldn't survive. I stepped slowly toward him, reached out, and touched his face. He filched at the feel of my fingers. We were both crying now. He was here. Standing right in front of my eyes. Not dead.
"John… Oh John, I know. I know that I hurt you. I know that I left you. I know that that note was horrible and saddening and I didn't tell you I was not dead. But I couldn't. Not until I was sure you were safe. I had to make sure no one was going to come after you again. You had to be safe… John, I'm sorry. You have every right to hurt me. Punch me, kick me, fight me, hate me, but please tell me you can forgive someday. I'm so sorry…" I couldn't look into those eyes. I avoided them as much as I could.
"Who knows?" Sherlock looked blankly at me, "Don't look at me like that. Who knows you're not dead?" He pause, hesitant.
"You… and Mycroft. He's known all this time." BAM. Broken nose.
Blood fell to the floor from his nose. "I deserved that."
"You trusted your brother, who you pretty much despise, more than me? You're an arrogant little shit you know that, Holmes?" Sherlock didn't say any thing. But he began to limp away. "HEY. Where the fuck are you going?"
"You obviously don't want me here. So I'll go." I ran after him and pulled him into 221b.
"Are you a fucking idiot? You can't turn up here, after three years, tell me you're not dead, then leave again? What are you, a moron?" Sherlock still looked confused. "I'm still processing, Sherlock! It's a bloody big shock to the system when you hear some one isn't dead." Sherlock looked uncomfortable, he shifted a little, "What. Sherlock, what?" He cleared his throat.
"I lied. Three people know I'm not dead." I looked at him a little surprised actually.
"Who else then?" He avoided my eye contact as he mumbled something under his breath. "Sorry? Who?"
"Irene Adler. She's not dead." That was when I fainted.