AN: So, hello! I wanted to thank you for taking some interest in this fic (if you're reading). To try and improve my writing skills, I'm taking a 100 themes challenge. To complete that challenge, I'll be uploading a Johnlock story every so often, from 1-100! They'll only be little ficlets, but I hope you enjoy!

Theme 1: A Reunion.

It wasn't often John decided to visit 221b Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson had asked if he'd like to have coffee and a chat, to see how he was doing obviously. It saved her getting lonely, and saved John a lot of wallowing in self-pity. At least when talking to Mrs Hudson, he could seem as pathetic as he liked; he knew she'd understand. She missed Sherlock too, after all.

What he couldn't stand though was the thought of his old flat - which he knew would be the same as he'd left it; Sherlock's possessions would be strewn about all over the place, old newspapers thrown around the floor and on the sofa, the kitchen still cluttered with various test tubes and chemical equipment, the fridge would still be empty too.

He knew that Mrs Hudson didn't want to let the apartment out, and she knew he wouldn't let her. This was a last resting place for the memories of Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, from their various zany adventures and many nights of arguing, the laughing, the happiness that Sherlock brought him. It seemed stupid to be attached to someone so quickly, but John had never felt a friendship like he had with Sherlock Holmes.

On his way to Baker Street, he'd called in to buy a tin of biscuits and another jar of coffee to give to Mrs Hudson. He opened the front door with his shopping in-hand and shivered as he walked in; the memories were still fresh and unwanted. How many times had he walked through this door? Mrs Hudson's door was open wide, so he went straight through.

"Mrs Hudson!" John called, setting the shopping bag down on her kitchen table. There was no response from his former landlady. He tried again.

"Oh Mrs Hudson! I have some biscuits for you!"

No answer, still. It seemed strange to John that Mrs Hudson would agree to see him, and then appear to have mysteriously left Baker Street.

'Upstairs. She couldn't be upstairs… could she?' John swallowed. All of a sudden he wasn't so eager to have coffee with Mrs Hudson.

Making his way out of the door, he looked anxiously up the flight of stairs that would lead to the front door of the flat. Taking a deep breath, he tugged anxiously at the bottom of his jumper and began to climb the creaky wooden stairs. Every inch he advanced towards the flat, the more nervous he became. Was he able to face his memories of the past that had been circulating throughout his old home? He wasn't entirely sure, but he proceeded nonetheless.

He considered turning back down the stairs and just giving her a text later, explaining that he'd come down with some medical thing. 'Sorry, I had a bit of a stomach ache. Common cold. The Flu. Bit of a dicky stomach, sorry. Maybe another time?' He'd come too far now, he was facing the front door of the flat.

"Mrs Hudson?" he repeated once he noticed the door was left ajar. Swallowing, he left the stairs and pushed the door open slowly, timidly glancing around.

It was tidy.

The cluttered apartment that had been left abandoned when Sherlock… after Sherlock's death was clean. He couldn't understand what was going on. A sudden shiver of panic ran down John's spine. 'No… no no no, she couldn't have cleaned it', he thought, stepping a foot inside the door. 'She wouldn't have!'

He didn't have to move farther than the doorframe to see the piping hot cup that had been left on the sitting room table. The papers that had once been scattered all over the surface of the table and most of the floor surrounding the table had been cleaned and organised. The floor was clean. The room was warm; the fire was lit.

"You're late."

He could have sworn that was Sherlock's voice criticising him. Deep and particular, it stood out amongst the quiet crackling and spitting of the fire. 'Dreaming. You're dreaming, John!' He laughed at himself in his own head – he'd seen Sherlock. He watched, powerless as he-

'Get a hold of yourself, John' He shook his head and moved into the flat towards the freshly poured cup. It was coffee; Sherlock never made coffee. 'Of course, it's Mrs Hudson. I'd agreed to come round for a coffee, and now we're having coffee…'

He looked down at the cup and smiled a little. Wishful thinking that it would be Sherlock. It was a painful smile.

"I got it right this time," a voice beside John's ear whispered, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "Not like in Dartmoor – no sugar this time."

Whipping his head around violently, John was set to confront some ghostly apparition of Sherlock that had been haunting the flat since he had left. But his eyes locked with the pale blue eyes that he had grown so accustomed to, staring expectantly at him. The dark curls were shorter, the eyebrows more relaxed, the skin still ghostly pale; but he was real. He was real.

"I see you've commandeered my scarf."

John touched his neck. 'Christ, the scarf'. Lestrade had grimly presented him with the navy striped scarf after the funeral, not making eye contact with him at all. He'd kept it with him ever since, wearing it out and about at any chance he got. It had still smelled like Sherlock did, even if it was only for a little while - it was enough.

"Well, it's not like you had any need of it," John felt his cheeks growing hot. It seemed pathetic that this was one of the only possessions of Sherlock that he'd treasured.

Sherlock didn't look disgusted, not even amused; but he smiled. It was a warm smile, a smile of appreciation. His expression was thoughtful, a very rare emotion for Sherlock to convey. "I'm glad you kept it safe."

"I wouldn't let anything bad happen to it," John replied, clearing his throat. "I couldn't."

Shuffling a little closer, Sherlock let a breath out of his nose smiling a little wider. 'This isn't the Sherlock I know,' John thought to himself, 'he would be making some ridiculous comment, or belittling my intelligence…' he began to smile a little, 'or telling me that the sentiment of his scarf is stupid…'

"After all this time you're silent?" the taller man asked, glancing down at the scarf, "I thought you'd have had questions."

"Just one."

"And what's that?"

"Are you actually real?"

Sherlock's expression was confused, his blue eyes narrowed and eyebrows creased. John knew he would have given a straightforward truth, until sudden realisation had passed over him after John's eyes had filled with tears.

"You were dead. I saw you- I watched you. You jumped off that building," John said, wiping his sleeve over his face. "It was all over the news… You can't be real, you were dead!"

John felt anger and confusion well up inside his chest, ready to burst. The next thing he felt however, was Sherlock's arms around him. It felt so strange that it couldn't possibly be real, Sherlock had never showed that much emotion in his life; certainly not enough to ever embrace John. His face was buried deep in John's shoulder, his arms pulling tighter around John. He seemed to be mumbling something, but he couldn't hear.

"Of course I'm real, John. Shall I prove it?" Sherlock mumbled into John's jumper. He lifted his face out of John's shoulder and took in a deep breath through his nose.

"Unshaven face shows a general lack of appreciation for personal appearances which would suggest that you don't venture out very often. The bags under your eyes, the wrinkles in your clothes; suggests that you don't sleep, only nap when you get the chance, plagued by nightmares perhaps. When I returned to the flat there was no-one here, everything was left as it should be, you weren't here, moved out; new place, couldn't stand the memories, though you took my scarf so it means that.. you missed me."

It had taken a moment for John to respond, but slowly he wrapped his arms around the taller man. "Thank God you're alright," he whispered quietly, "I'm so glad you're here…"

The sound of someone clearing their throat broke them apart, only to find Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway with a pleasant smirk on her face, holding the tin of biscuits that John had picked out earlier. "Biscuit, anyone?"