It was three years after the fall. It was Sherlock's birthday. John had wrapped a gift (a beautifully crafted magnifying glass, he'd like that), just incase, incase he came back. It was foolish of him to think that but he did anyway. John was sitting in his chair, in his spot thinking "Nothing weird, nothing out of the ordinary. No Sherlock Holmes yet. Just what he wants me to think. He would." He sat there patiently. Waiting. Wondering with slight excitement. If Sherlock would return it would be now. He was dramatic like that. Fantastically dramatic like that.
When it had turned midnight and it was in the early morning John knew that Sherlock wasn't coming back. Perhaps it was because he knew Sherlock was alive and that the great detective wasn't there, seeing him that pained John so much. John went into the perfectly perserved room of Sherlock Holmes and got into his bed. Trying to believe that he would hear a creak of the footstep of Sherlock.
He woke with uncomfortableness, like an itch that isn't a itch or a hair in the wrong place. There was something near him. A presence. A being of warmth. John finally opened his eyes to see black. It was morning. The black, was the back of Sherlock's head. John moved the covers slightly to reveal the rest of the detective. That bastard. Although angry, John was happy. Delighted. Relieved. It was worth the wait, worth the pain, just for that moment of revelation. The doctor couldn't stop this grin growing on his face. Dr Watson could stay like this forever. Hand just weightlessly drifting along Sherlock's warm chest. He closed his eyes again glowing in the glow of the great Sherlock Holmes. The world's only consulting detective. John's only best friend.
John woke up. Alone in the cold. Tap dripping in the kitchen.