It had been a total of six months since John's best friend had declared his fraudulence and plunged from stardom to his death. All because of Moriarty. Because of this man, John had lost his best friend. Every day John would go out to the cemetery where Sherlock was buried, and sit down on the patch of grass. Every day it was the same.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock", he'd start out. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Save you from yourself, save you from Moriarty. I let you down. You know, I keep waiting for you to talk back to me, and make some smart aleck comment about how everyone is dull. But you never will. I will never stop asking you to please not be dead. Please. You told me you didn't have friends, but you did. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Irene Adler, Mycroft. Even Donovan and Anderson. I'll be honest, I've taken to hiding your skull around the office just to scare them. They don't suspect me yet."
He'd sit there for hours, a think about Sherlock. He was dramatic and pretentious and extremely impossible. He was annoying and a mess and played the violin at all hours of the night. When John thought about him, he'd try to thing about how angry Sherlock made him, in hopes that it would help him forget. Isn't that always how it goes? You try to forget the ones you love because you can't bear to think about them anymore. When people die, they leave behind tiny parts of themselves. Pieces that had seemed so small, so insignificant turn into blaring reminders of the person that was lost. A favorite mug in the cabinet. A pair of old sneakers, left outside in the cold rain and long forgotten. Something you never noticed before, and now, a giant elephant in the room, staring you in the face. You can't bring yourself to stop looking at, yet you can't make yourself move it in any way, as if picking up their oldest sock with the hole in the big toe would somehow make your entire world spontaneously combust.
It was always the same.
John would then leave, heading back to the flat and fall into a deep, restless sleep in Sherlock's bed. Always Sherlock's bed.
He even dreamed of sitting in the cemetery, waiting for Sherlock. It was different tonight, though. He got up and walked away, not something he had ever done before. He heard a deep laugh behind him and turned around. A figure stepped out of the trees and swaggered up to him, wrapped in that blue scarf and twirling a deerstalker cap, chuckling and saying, "John. John. John. Don't be so simple, I thought I taught you better than that. Didn't you see how I faked it? I made it so obvious."
He disappeared in a blur of color. John awoke with a start, and fell out of his bed gasping. Fat tears leaked down his face.
"Why did it have to be just a dream? God, Sherlock, I miss you."
The floorboards creaked across the room
"I know John, I'm sorry", a voice whispered
"…sounded like Sherlock", John whispered to himself, pulling himself back into his bed. He was imagining it though. Of course.
Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the shadows, smiling sadly.
"Hello, John", he said.
"Dreaming", John said, closing his eyes. "Sherlock just go away. Just leave me alone. I don't need you. I don't miss you. Just leave. Me. Alone."
Sherlock moved towards him.
"This isn't a dream, John."
John jumped up and shouted, "Right well, if this isn't a dream, then this won't hurt!", punching Sherlock in the nose.
Blood spurted everywhere, coating the familiar scarf.
"Do you need to hit me again?" asked Sherlock, trying to stop bleeding with the sweater he had given John for Christmas.
"Yes" said John, kicking Sherlock in the shin. "You left me, you wanker. I though you bloody died. You make me watch you commit suicide and then you think you can come back like it was nothing? How could you do this to me? I had to watch my best friend die! I hate you! I bloody hate you."
"No you don't", whispered Sherlock
John collapsed on the bed and covered his face with his hands. "How? I don't understand. How did you do it?"
Sherlock smirked at him, that trademark, smarmy smile of his. "It's so simple John!"
John looked at him, an annoyed expression on his face.
"I'll explain in the morning. For now, know that you have Molly to thank. Just move over. It's my bed, after all."
John made room for Sherlock and gripped his hand tightly.
"I don't want to fall asleep because I'm afraid you won't be here when I wake up", murmured John
"I promise I'll be here"
With a sigh, John turned over and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
"You're back", he whispered
"I never left."