It was all so familiar. The silent bustle among those making their way to whatever destination, the dull grey, slightly overcast sky, the black cabs with unknown destinations and routes. It was just another normal day, nothing special about it.
So he opened the door to 221b, brushing his fingers over the chipped-away paint. The door closed silently behind him, the bolt locking into place. He knew if he went down the hall to the right that Mrs. Hudson would be there, but he wouldn't bother her today.
Instead he walked up the stairs to his flat, the carton of milk he had picked up on the way home grasped tightly in his hand. It had been quite a while since he had made such a stop, but he knew it was necessary. It had been too long.
Soon he was there, the door to his flat closed. He knew it would be unlocked, though, so he grasped the handle and turned it lightly. At first there was the familiar resistance, but then it gave way with a small squeak as the bolt slid out of place.
Just like that he was home, noticing the small changes that had taken place in the past three years. The microscope no longer sat on the table in the kitchen, the normal haphazard material that accompanied it also absent. Everything was tidied up for once, no take-out boxes lying askew on the ground, no dishes sitting impatiently in the sink. The skull that had made a home on the mantelpiece was removed, cast about somewhere that was not out in the open.
But those were the insignificant differences that he noticed, none of them making any impact whatsoever. Instead, it was the man lying on the couch that took forefront in his mind.
His face was so achingly familiar, the way his features screwed up as if in pain. He looked so thin from where he was standing, his cheekbones standing out against the rest of his face. He looked hollow, gaunt...almost like a ghost.
Instantly he knew something was wrong.
The truth pressed against his mind, the pressure so great his knees almost buckled then and there. But he refused it, refused to acknowledge what was so obviously right in front of him because he knew the pain of the realization would crumple him. It would completely break him.
His feet slowly made their way closer to the figure as if of their own accord. It was as if his life was a movie and someone had pressed the slow-motion button, every second it took to reach the man stretching out to equal hours, days, months. And finally he was there, the amount of time it took lengthened to the full three years that he had been absent.
He lowered himself onto the couch slowly, careful not to disturb the motionless man. His shaking hand reached out to touch the man's face but stopped short, unable to bring itself to continue.
He remembered the first time they had laughed together, after returning to their flat in a flurry. They had fallen against the wall, gasping to catch their breath, joking and chuckling. Back then he had not known how the man would eventually worm his way behind the walls he had built to keep everybody out. He hadn't known how he would eventually become willing to risk his life if only to keep the man safe from harm. How they would share many more adventures together, unknowingly needing the other.
He willed the man's eyes to open, to acknowledge his presence and spark with recognition. But they did not and the lack of movement was all it took for Sherlock's fingers to make contact with the still figure in front of him. The skin was cold to the touch, unflinching in such a cruel way.
It had been three years, and one day too late.
John lay motionless, the bottle of sleeping pills empty on the floor underneath the table. His arm hung down the edge of the couch, fingertips brushing the floor mere inches away from it.
Sherlock wondered how long it had taken the pills to take affect. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? What had John been thinking while he waited? Did he panic, start to have second thoughts? Or was he calm, hopeful, relieved?
Sherlock noticed the trail of dried spittle down the side of John's face, and he closed his eyes against the image of the man seizing. It was too much. Too much information at once, too many realizations.
Everything he had worked for in the last three years leading up to this moment was pointless, for nought. He had tried so hard, so hard, to keep the man safe and protected. Ultimately his best friend's demise was his own fault. It was all over. Nothing mattered anymore. There was no home to return to, no one to return to. His John was dead.
Sherlock moved numbly, almost without knowing. He carefully lifted up John's stiffened shoulders and slid underneath him, crossing his legs. Then, gently, he settled John's head in his lap.
Absentmindedly at first, his fingers traced their way over the other man's face. But then the strokes became urgent, desperately wanting to fix every feature, every curve into his memory before it deteriorated completely.
His mind raced just as desperately as his fingers, the irretrievable memories racing past and then disappearing.
There was John, the first time Sherlock had ever seen him. Every laugh they shared, every contented conversation they had had since that day. The way John's eyes would twinkle when Sherlock insulted someone who deserved it. How the man's eyebrows would furrow in frustrated confusion when he fell behind Sherlock's train of thought. Every single awe-inspired compliment John had instantly uttered when he was impressed.
And all they were were memories.
He didn't know when he had started, but Sherlock dully realized that he was crying. He acknowledged it with a detached sort of interest, such displays of emotion uncommon for him. But the tears kept coming and Sherlock did nothing to stop them.
Instead he doubled over, pressing his forehead to John's.
"Here's your miracle, John, " Sherlock murmured into the man's hair, the words coming from a long-ago memory he had locked away. "I'm alive- have been all along. And I came back to you. But this...this isn't what I wanted to return to." Sherlock took in a ragged breath, willing himself to continue. "So now you owe me my own miracle, John... Come back. Don't go where I can't follow..."
Sherlock trailed off, finally losing the ability to continue. Instead he sat there and cradled John to himself. His lips brushed John's forehead, pleading for the man to move, give him a sign, but he never did.
So Sherlock remained there, broken. Somebody would come eventually, he knew. Would discover him holding the corpse of the person who had understood him the most. They would take him away and he knew it would be the last time he would ever lay eyes on John Watson. Because he knew he would follow John, regardless of where he went.
But for now Sherlock held onto the only thing that had ever been important to him.
And across the room the carton of milk lay splattered on the floor and forgotten.