It's been three years since Sherlock's fall off of St. Bartholomew's hospital and John had yet to recover. He still lived in 221 B on Baker street and
despite his best friend having been dead for such a length of time, John didn't get rid of any of his things. He couldn't. It hurt too much. Instead, everyday he'd make just enough tea for two people. One cup for himself and the other, for a man who is buried six feet under. Everyday the other man wouldn't drink his tea and everyday, John's heart died a little more. Try as he might, John couldn't do anything to stop this little routine that he preformed. Taking care of Sherlock had become a second nature to him, despite if he was here or not.
John worked at a doctor's office to get money to pay for rent. His hours were strict but for the time being it was enough to numb him mind and rid him of the man that plagued him in his dreams. In the moments when he wasn't consumed by his mind numbing office job, John's though trailed back to that day when it all happened. Without his realising the tremors in his left hand would start up every time he thought too much about him.
John tried to forget about Sherlock. Block him out and move on with his life, but things are easier said than done. As much as John hated it, in the time that he had spent with Sherlock, the man had managed to condition John's mind into remembering and focusing on the little details. John, no matter how hard he tried couldn't forget Sherlock. He couldn't forget the way that the man carried himself as he went about his day. He couldn't forget about the way Sherlock's face contorted with concentration as he carefully studied an object (and in some instances people) and the way the smooth skin of his forehead wrinkled as he narrowed his eyes to focus on the miniscule details. John couldn't forget about the way the faint smell of tobacco lingered on Sherlock like a perfume.
John felt like he was going crazy. He continuously saw Sherlock as he went about his mind numbing days. Sometimes, he'd think that he saw Sherlock three or four times in a week and other time it would be only three or four times every two or so months. John's gone back to his therapist and tired to explain to her this phenomenon, but every time she shuts him down saying that he of all people saw what happened at the hospital. John slowly but surely fell into a depression. After all his best friend was dead. It was inevitable.
John got out of his therapists office after thinking he'd seen Sherlock again. He felt more depressed then ever as he recalled what she had told him about PTSD. His hand started shaking again and he balled his fist as he came up to the curb and called for a taxi. John focus on his breathing and calming himself down as the taxi took its time pulling up to the curb. The ground was wet with rain and the tires of the cab splashed through a puddle of water at John's feet, thoroughly soaking through his leather shoes and his white cotton socks. John exhaled sharply and reached for the taxi's door. He opened it up and sat down in the back set.
"Mind watching what puddles you drive through next time," said John, not taking the invitation to sugar coat his annoyance.
"Sorry," came the gruff voice of the cabbie. He wore the same stereo typical uniform the London taxi drivers were forced to wear, but there was something about this cabbie that was exceedingly familiar. His voice most of all. John chose to ignore the information for the time being and signed again as the tremor in his hand acted up again. The cabbie didn't turn around to face John as he ask, "Where are you going?"
The cab slowly started moving and John tried to relax before saying, "221 Baker St."
The cabbie nodded and no more words were exchanged between the two. After several twists and turns they finally made it onto Baker St. and John was thankful to get back home. He needed to make tea and he didn't want to be late. John having already done this trip from his home to his therapist many times before pulled out the exact amount of change required for the ride. As the taxi pulled up to a stop at his home, John got out of the cab and turned to the open driver's side window.
The man at the front of the taxi's head was bowed but John still found himself deducing the man. He had dark curly brown hair and ghostly pale skin. The man had barely finished saying the amount for the drive before John presented the man with the right amount of change in a quivering hand. The man took it, not without John accidentally bumping his hand first but the cabbie kept his head bowed down, not so much as casting a glance in John's direction despite the contact. John noticed as the man had turned his head to take the money that the Cabbie was well kept. He was clean shaved with thick brown eyebrows. Traits which all but intensified the trembling of John's hand.
John also noted that the man's hands were seemingly young and muscular. No calluses from hard labour. Nor were there any deep wrinkles as it would have been seen in an older gentlemen. This confused John. Most Cabbies were much older but this man seemed to be no older then his mid thirties. This man was perplexing to John and the worse thing was that he didn't know why.
John muttered a quick thank you and walked away from the cab as he walked away, John sneezed from the cold and lifted his hand to cover the spray of germs that attempted to escape his body. It was in that moment that John caught the faint smell of cigarette smoke.
John turned on his heel to see the cabbie still idling not two meters away from him. The man's head was still bowed but his hands where folded in a manor that was all to familiar to John.
"Sherlock," he whispered quietly to himself with wide eyes. He didn't know what to do or what to think or how to feel. A numbness rendered him motionless and gaping at the man before something in him snapped.
"SHERLOCK!" he yelled, suddenly furious. The cabbie sent a glance in John's direction do to his out burst. The moment the cabbie's alluring blue eyes landed on John, he knew that it was him. Sherlock. His Sherlock. John felt himself stop completely. His breathing was laboured and his feet wouldn't move. More importantly the tremble in his hand stopped and it was all because of him. John finally sucked in a deep breath. He was looking at the face of a ghost.
He knew for a fact that Sherlock Holmes was dead. His therapist told him so. Besides, John saw what happened and he was present at his funeral. It couldn't have been him, could it? John's back straightened as he stood there rooted to his spot rigidly and his eyes took in the other man. He felt dizzy as he tried to make sense of what was going on.
John's eyes suddenly widened as he remembered what the great detective told him all those years ago, "Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains- however improbable- must be true."
The world around John spun as he went through a mental list revolving around his senses. The man looked like Sherlock and carried himself as Sherlock would have. He has the same voice as Sherlock and for Christ's sake, he even smelled the same as the supposed dead man. Oh God, what was happening? John didn't know what to think anymore. John's knees bucked as the man finally stepped out of the car with a sigh.
"Hello John," said the curly haired man as he stood straight.
"You," said John, finding his voice again, "You're suppose to be dead! I saw you! I saw you fall!"
"Yes, I know you did," Sherlock replied calmly as he took off the cabbie hat and shook out his hair while tossing the hat through the open window back into the cab. Sherlock faced John once more and locked eyes with him, "John, I'm alive. This is me."
"No. No you're not. My therapist, she said- and, and I saw you!" John exclaimed.
Sherlock took a step forward and grasped John's arms before saying, "John, I am here. I had to destroy Moriarty's crime ring. It was a trick. Just an illusion."
John stood there with his mouth gaping. He had no idea what to say or what to do. He just stood there stiffly and Sherlock slowly released his grip on John's arms. He sighed and his eyes looked over John once more before saying, "How about we go inside? I suspect that you haven't changed the locks, have you?"
Sherlock took a step away from John and suddenly the man felt like he could breath again. The taller man a key out of his pocket and slid it into the keyhole and turned it, earning a successful click from the lock sliding out of the way. Sherlock smirked, "Ah yes. Perfect. Come along, John."
Sherlock opened the door to the main hall and held it open for John. The shorter man walked through the door uneasily and refused to take his eyes off of the supposed Sherlock. He cleared his throat for a moment before calling out, "Um, Mrs, Hudson, I'm back."
"Welcome back, deary," came the gentle woman's reply.
"So, uh, up to the flat then?" asked John as he turned back to face the dead man.
"After you," came Sherlock's reply and as the taller man instructed, John made his way up to 221 B.
John opened the door and Sherlock wasted no time in walking into the flat. The man quickly took off his jacket to reveal a familiar purple button up shirt and tossed the jacket onto a chair in the living room. The man breathed in deeply and a small smile, barely noticeable really, made its way onto the man's face as he turned in a circle to take everything in. John felt his breath become laboured once more. He was here. Sherlock was back in 221 B. John moved from the place where he stood in the doorway and walked into the kitchen to fill up the kettle with water. Once the water was heating, John turned around to fast the ghost once more.
"You didn't get rid of my things," commented Sherlock as he walked over towards the fire place and observed the skull that rested on top of the mantle.
"I, uh, couldn't'," responded John.
"Sentiment?" asked Sherlock.
John nodded and answered back, "sentiment."
"I see," said Sherlock as he took in the information.
John swallowed his fear and walked up to the man who was looking around his home.
"Okay, I let you in. Now who are you really?" John asked in a firm tone.
"We've already gone through this John," said Sherlock as he looked over the former soldier that now stood no more than two steps away from him.
"I know we have, but Sherlock is dead. I saw-"
"It was an illusion, John," said Sherlock with a sigh. John took a step closer to the tall man, cutting the space between them in half.
"I was at the bloody funeral! I was there at your bloody funeral!" yelled John as he finally let his frustration and anger take over his emotions. He took a half step forward towards Sherlock.
"An empty casket," said Sherlock calmly.
Sherlock could tell that the man still didn't believe that he was there. So after some choice words on Sherlock's behalf ("Oh for God's sake!"), the taller man did the only thing he could think of that would convince John and finally closed the space between the two of them, doing what both of them had wanted since their eyes first met for the first time in three years.
John's eyes widened before closing blissfully as Sherlock's lips pressed against his. Three years he had dreamt about being able to do this. Both men moved closer to each other as they continued to kiss and John moaned happily. Sherlock's arms wrapped themselves around John's waist and John had one hand resting on Sherlock's cheek as the other grabbed onto Sherlock's shirt and tugged the man closer. Sherlock pulled away sooner than John would have liked and the taller man spoke in a husky voice saying, "I'm here. Do you believe me?"
"Oh God, yes," answered John and he believed it. This was Sherlock. He was here. He wasn't dead. John used the hand that was still keeping its hold on Sherlock's shirt to tug the man back down.
Luckily for John, it didn't take much force to pull Sherlock back down because the tall man was already leaning back in to capture his lips again. Once they were connect, a sense of total euphoria took over both men and greedily they pulled one another closer, wanting more. In that moment, there wasn't anything but the two of them. It was frantic and needy but still wonderful all the same. Just as both men were really starting to get into the kiss, the kettle went off loudly signalling that the water was ready to be made into tea by adding the herbs.
Sherlock pulled away from John and chuckled before saying, "Tea's ready."