John sat alone in a café, chewing his food slowly, deep in thought. It had been nearly a month since the worst day of his life, the day that Sherlock had died. It was all beginning to feel like a dream, a wonderful, beautiful dream with a wicked twist. Sherlock had been there for him, a distraction from his military nightmares. They had returned, the nightmares, though they had changed. Now, all he dreamt of was Sherlock falling from the hospital roof, over and over. Before meeting him, John would've taken anything over his military nightmares. Now, however, they became desirable; he wished for them back so he could be relieved of the constant heart-wrenching pain.
Looking out of the café window, into the dark street, he sighed. He had become accustomed to those streets much too well, as most of his free time in the weeks after the suicide were spent searching for Sherlock. He had no job, and 221B Baker Street brought too many painful memories. Every morning, he rose early and came back very late, the hours in between spent by wandering the streets aimlessly, calling his friend's name, desperately searching for any sign of the man in the swooshy coat and the blue scarf.
But it had all been in vain, perhaps Sherlock was really dead. Either way, he could not go on living his life like this. He needed a job, he needed distractions, but most of all, he needed Sherlock. He was not complete without his friend; he had no purpose. Perhaps this was supposed to be the end for him too. He had nothing, he had no one. No one to stop him. Except…the chance of Sherlock still being alive. This had been the only thing that kept him going each day, the only thing that prevented him from flinging himself off the nearest bridge. Hope.
The British weather began to mirror his mood, as the thickly clouded sky began to rain. John turned back to his food, which had cooled long before, and began to eat again. Halfway through his meal, he heard his phone beep, alerting him of a new text. He hadn't gotten nearly as many since the incident, as Sherlock was dead (?) and everyone else thought he was a fraud. He hesitantly picked his phone up, and looked at the message, which was from an unfamiliar number.
Look up.
John looked up, and around the café. It was empty except for the waitress and an elderly couple, both of which seemed too oblivious to be the senders. He then peered outward, through the rain-streaked windows into the dreary street, lined with a few dim streetlamps. There was nothing there—but wait. Squinting carefully at the scene, he noticed a dark figure that was barely visible, standing in the shadows. He was tall and lean, with a definitively straight posture. It couldn't be…but could it? John grabbed for his phone as a new text alert beeped.
I'm here. –SH
His heart leaped at the prospect that his search may now be over. Squinting outside again, he could make out that the silhouetted man was wearing a long coat and had unruly curly hair. Yes…this had to be Sherlock.
John leapt up from his seat, nearly knocking the table over. He slammed a twenty pound note on the wobbly table and called to the waitress, "Keep the change!" Rushing out of the door, the bell jingled. He had never run faster in his life, though when he got to the place where the man had been, he was gone. John looked around frantically before feeling a tap on his back and twirling around to see Sherlock standing in front of him. He was here, actually here!
John paused for a moment in shock, revelling in the presence of his friend. The long, thin fingers, the way his scarf was worn, the icy grey eyes, the prominent cheekbones, the mop of curly hair. Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders, eyes quickly analysing him as he noted the higher than average pulse.
"I'm sorry," the detective said, putting as much emotion into his voice as possible.
It wasn't much, and John was angry, so angry, that his friend had left him. Left him so that he became broken, so he almost followed in his friend's footsteps. But what he felt more was desire, desire for proof that this was all real. He reached up slowly and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair, bringing his face towards him and suddenly kissed him, softly and sweetly, soaking as much of his friend's essence as possible. The detective responded immediately, and enthusiastically, sliding his hands down the doctor's back. He took him into a tight embrace, pulling them closer before he broke the kiss with a smile, their noses touching, their eyes locked, their heartbeats racing. Everything was going to be alright.