Sherlock walked through the door of 221B for the first time in three years. Everything looked the same, except some places were accentuated with more dust than he remembered. John's limp must've come back, judging by the dust on the right side of the stairs and the apparent usage of the bar to his left. Sherlock sighed, hoping John wouldn't slump back into his limp.
He climbed the stairs quickly and silently, feeling like he had only left John yesterday. As soon as he set foot into the flat he knew something was off.
First, John never kept the place this cold. Not even in the hot summer days.
Second, there was spilt tea on the ground. John would never have let that happen, it was staining the rug. John's favorite rug.
Third, books were strewn everywhere, along with the paper John usually reads everyday. The flat was a mess.
"John?" Sherlock called, voice echoing. When there was no reply Sherlock walked into the kitchen, maybe John went to get a towel to mop up the tea.
The kitchen was a different sight altogether. Dirty plates scattered the countertop, half filled glasses of wine were spilt on the floor, looking days old.
No, something was definitely not right.
"John?" Sherlock called again, but much to his concern, he didnt receive a reply.
Heart beating rapidly, he ran into the bathroom, finding that it was just as filthy as the other rooms of the flat. "Oh John..." Sherlock whispered, remembering how anal John was about keeping the bathroom clean.
Sherlock hurried up the stairs into his missing flat mate's room. "John!" He yelled. No reply greeted him.
"John!"
John's room was perfectly cleaned, down to every last corner. But it wasn't John who had done it. John always cleaned and kept his room a certain way, a way Sherlock had learn to memorize by shifting through John's things. Everything was set clean and dusted and folded, but not in the way John would have done it. Someone else was here.
Sherlock ran down into his own room and found everything was in the same place as he left it, nothing moved, nothing cleaned in the past three years.
There was, however, a new addition. Laying on his unmade bed was an envelope.
Furrowing his brow, Sherlock grabbed the paper and began flipping, analyzing every inch before opening it. Inside was a peace of parchment, on it scribbled a note in what could only be recognized as John's handwriting.
Sherlock read it as he made his way into the main room.
Sherlock,
It's been almost three years since you took a step off the top of St. Bart's. I don't blame you for doing it, I would have left me too. I'm just surprised you took that route. I miss you, Sherlock, too much. I hear your violin in my dreams, and I wake reminding myself you're finally with the angels. Hell, maybe you are one now. I keep you in my heart, Sherlock. You'll be safe there, as long as my heart goes on. I'm not sure how long it will keep beating. Probably not much longer. It's okay, Sherlock, that you never came back. I wasn't expecting you to even if you could. I tried to be happy without you, I really tried. But in the end it was no good. I couldn't love someone with half a heart, having had the other half jump off of a building. It won't be long now. We'll be together again. Very soon. But just in case you are alive out there somewhere, I wanted to leave this, knowing I'm going to look for you even when you didn't look for me. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I'm coming to you. Soon, we'll both be on the side of the angels. Remember me for who I was when you left, not the man I became when you were gone, not the man I am at this very moment. Goodbye, Sherlock.
-JW
"He waited for you, you know." Sherlock clutched the letter and spun, finding Greg Lestrade in the doorway. He waiting three bloody years for you Sherlock and you let him wallow here."
"Get out." Was all Sherlock said.
"I have never seen a man so broken in my life. Never. Why he was so upset, I'll never know. No matter what any of us told him, no matter what his doctor said, he believed in you. He was the only one who still had faith that you were coming back." Greg, of course, didnt listen.
"Get OUT."
"He TRUSTED you, Sherlock! And you let him down. He was a good man, you know that. He was a good man broken by a selfish five year old throwing a tantrum. How can you live with yourself? Knowing you ruined a good man?"
"I said," Sherlock pulled out his gun and shot the wall an inch away from Lestrade's head. "get. Out."
"You truly are one of a kind, Sherlock." And with that, Lestrade left, leaving Sherlock alone in his flat once more.
As soon as he heard the door slam shut, sherlock fell to his knees, letter crumpling in his hand.
"I'm sorry John..." He whispered to no one in particular.
Finally, Sherlock Holmes cried.
All the times he was alone and he missed John, he put a bullet through another one of Moriarty's men. Every time sadness threatened to show it's face, Sherlock ran to drugs, to liquor, to anything that would push those feelings back into the box he kept them in. But now, no one was around, and he was able to cry the unshed tears from the past three years. Once one tear hit the stained rug, he couldn't stop the constant flow. He cried the tears John refused to cry in his final moments without him. Sherlock cried as if it could bring his best friend back, quite similar to the way John cried for him all those times when his leg would ache, or he would hear the phantom violin haunting his dreams.
In the very end, it only took one bullet to reunite the two. After all, John Watson was the only one who never stopped believing in Sherlock Holmes.