It's been three years.
Three years.
Three years without John.
Three years.
Sherlock stared at John motionlessly. John was leaving one more ugly flower at his gravestone that his brother had chipped in at buying. Mycroft didn't see the point. It was just a fake death, yet it made it so much more believable.
Sherlock didn't get the beauty of flowers. What was so nice about them? Their petals? The colour? Nothing was nice about them. It just helped John cope.
John began to cry. He touched the grave, slowing running over the name, 'Sherlock Holmes'. What was the point of crying over dead people? It wouldn't matter, but when his best friend cries, Sherlock's heart broke.
Sherlock realized. It's been exactly three years since he had 'died'. Since the Fall. It was such a long time. Sherlock was supposed to show up at 221B Baker Street just a month after the Fall, but everybody told him John wouldn't be able to take it.
He began to think of ideas for his encounter. He didn't want poor frail old Mrs. Hudson to get a heart attack. Perhaps, he should make a shop, his mind quickly racked over. It was either a Book Shop or a café, he finished. John wouldn't go quickly to the café. That was quickly deduced. The book shop was what he would have to do, and he quickly texted Mycroft how he wanted a shop near Baker Street, and to give him some books. Soon, he got a text back saying Mycroft had bought a shop on Northumberland Street, and to make sure to get a disguise in case of prying eyes. He also sent books. Mycroft loved his books with tea, and Sherlock wanted to sell all of them.
Sherlock smiled at John. John didn't know what was coming, but Sherlock was ready to put his suffering at ease.
Two Days Later
Sherlock slipped on some glasses and some make up to create a recently shaved beard (which Sherlock thought was quite hard to put on) to create his disguise. He had got rid of his coat that was left during the Fall but he had bought another, a reversible jacket that looked like a yellow raincoat on one side, and the other had the more suitable taste of a flap jacket. His curly hair plopped with a fake blonde wig; he finally opened the store as he left faster than John, who was still crying at the grave.
In just half an hour, John walked by, any trace of tears gone. He thought of a notebook that he desperately needed to write another memoir about him and Sherlock – the only way he could cope and imagine that they were still there, together. John opened the door, and the bell rang, making him jump, ruining his daydream with Sherlock standing right beside him.
Sherlock smiled. His plan was working so far. He finished with a costumer (he actually got all the books from Molly (meaning the morgue) and Mycroft), then walked up to John. He tried the rough American accent he learned during those three years.
"Can I help you?" He said.
John nodded. "By any chance, would you have any notebooks?"
Sherlock nodded. He guided him down a shelf, which had plenty of notebooks. The notebooks were classified as 'filled and donated to science' and 'unfilled'. John nodded as he smiled at the words 'donated to science'.
"How did you get all of this, if you mind me asking?" John said in awe.
"Eh, they were all donated, traded, or sold. I made a bit of sales today." Sherlock said in his American accent. "It was just opened today, as you know."
John believed that the book store's employee had the same 'stupid' look on his face that Sherlock had. He had no trace of that infamous jacket, which Sherlock would have if he was in the store. He needed money; he couldn't work very much. He should sell at least a couple of Sherlock's books; no matter the pain it brought him. He still had his jacket, the skull that Sherlock had replaced with John and 221B Baker Street, once he was ready to move back in. He had dated Mary, and even was ready to propose to her, but he was delusional – thinking Sherlock had texted him. Sadly, breaking up ensued.
Sherlock looked at John. He could deduce that he was thinking about a date. He was upset, making a hard decision. John was becoming harder to deduce, day by day.
"Hm. That sounds neat." John smiles.
Sherlock nodded. He had a large box full of field journals at 221B Baker Street. "Do you have any field journals? We're stocking up low on those."
John's face crumpled. "My best friend had some. Sure."
Sherlock smiled in an understanding look. John felt like everybody knew Sherlock and John, even three years later. "Could I grab whatever you don't need? How much are you looking for?"
John didn't know anything about prices. "Not sure, maybe we could discuss the price after."
John nodded and they left, the store door automatically locked. Sherlock smiled. All according to the plan… All according to the plan…
John walked in. Sherlock breathed in something he was missing for ages. "I haven't moved some things for years. I'm sorry about that… Okay, so they're in… Sherlock's room. Would you like some tea? I'll get some tea."
Sherlock frowns. He hadn't planned this far and he needed to do something. He ran up. "John! Wait!"
John looked at the man. "How did you know my name? You know about Sherlock and me?"
The man frowned. "I'm so sorry John…"
"What? Why? You didn't do anything…"
"But I did." Sherlock took off his glasses, make up (which he was glad to take off) and his wig. "I'm really sorry."
John began to swear multiple times. Sherlock was expecting that, but not him quickly fainting, hitting the kitchen floor. Sherlock flew down, picked him up and placed him on a chair. He frowned. His only thought was that he guessed he should see his room again. Just for good measure, Sherlock texted John, "I'm alive. –SH" He felt like it was quite mocking, but it got the point out.
Sherlock walked up the stairs. It was the nice, dusty stairs that he missed for years. He spun around and saw his wallpaper with the smiley face. Almost forgot that bit. There was some more gun marks then it had three years ago. Or maybe he just imagined it, until Sherlock remembered he had memorized every gun mark. Sherlock ran down to count the extra gun shot marks. There should be 68 marks on the wall. There are 111 gun marks, after he quickly counted.
Sherlock ran up the stairs once more. He looked at his door. The handle has been turned multiple times, Sherlock found in a quick half-a-millisecond-deduction.
He opened the door, and everything was the same since he Fell. After a deduction though, Sherlock realized John had sat on the floor, looking at the reports that they have done together. Very obvious, with the light grey mark and a circular box with his experiments left out.
John, still groggy, went back into consciousness smiling. Sherlock was usually his dreams, but usually it was a nightmare, a repeat of the Fall. This time it was so perfect. John thought Sherlock was here. He checked his phone –was it Mary apologising?- and saw Sherlock's text. His heart pounded. Was everything real?
"Sherlock?" He yelled.
Sherlock heard the screaming. He walked down the stairs of the flat. "Yes John?"
"You're… alive." John murmured, and then soon got into a murderous rage, punching Sherlock. He watched him fall. He was real. "Three years Sherlock. It's been three years."
Sherlock nodded, recovering from the punch. "I'm sorry John."
John shook his head. His throat was tied in a knot. He must be dreaming. Sherlock can't be alive. He croaked out, "Why?"
Sherlock sat down in his not normal way in the chair. "Moriarty."
"He died too. Gun shot, they said. Suicide." John remembered.
"Who cares about that John? His snipers. They were going to kill you. You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I had to, John." Sherlock said fidgeting.
"You could have just told me Sherlock." John burst out in anger.
"John, you being terrified stopped them from shooting you. You were safe, because you believed it."
Sherlock frowned. It was going to be awkward from now on. Sherlock taunted, "Dating anybody again?"
John shook his head. "Mary…"
Sherlock nodded. "Saw that. Last time you dated?"
John nodded, and then got up. Sherlock was ready to feel the impact of a punch, but instead John pulled his best friend into a hug. "Don't leave me ever again Sherlock."
Sherlock detested the fluffiness of the conversation, yet he answered John, hugging tightly, "Never."