It was an ordinary day in John Watson's life. Completely and utterly ordinary. For the former blogger/best friend of Sherlock Holmes, bordeom was not something that was easy to put up with. But he'd been bored for three years now. And depressed. Nearly suicidal at one point, actually. And all because Sherlock had died.

John refused to believe that he'd committed suicide because all his great deductions were a hoax. Sherlock was ingenious, John had seen it with his own eyes. There was no way possible all the cases he'd solved were merely tricks. Someone as brilliant, as clever as he, would not kill himself. No, Sherlock had done what he'd done for some ulterior motive. Maybe it had helped solve the cases of Moriarty somehow; John didn't know. So many things had confused him about Sherlock. This was just one to add to the huge amount.

John was sitting in 221B with Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't had the heart to move out. So many things reminded him of Sherlock, and that hurt, but it was a good pain. A pain that he needed to keep going, some days. As long as you can feel anything, you're alive. He and Mrs. Hudson had taken to spending time together there, sitting in companionable silence. They didn't talk about the bullet holes fired into the wall, or the violin sitting unplayed in the closet, or the deer-hunting hat still hanging on the hat rack. But perhaps they kept their silence because they both wanted a third voice to join in, and knew it never would.

John took a final sip of his tea and then stood up, grabbing his cane. Almost immediately after Sherlock passed, his limp and tremor had come back, worse than ever. He now needed the cane to walk practically everywhere, which annoyed him more than he cared to admit. But no matter what he tried, the limp wouldn't go away. He'd needed Sherlock to do that.

"I'm going to go to Tesco's." he said to Mrs. Hudson as he put on his jacket. "Do we need anything?"

"Some more milk would nice." she said softly.

John nodded and walked to the door, grabbing his key from the ring and clopping down the stairs of the flat. He stepped out into the cold January air and zipped his jacket up to the neck, breathing in deeply. He looked up and down the street. He saw a couple sitting on a bench, cars, buses and taxis whizzing by on the street and the tall man wearing a long jacket and scarf standing by a lamp post.

What a second. Coat. Scarf. Curly black hair. High cheek bones.

John saw Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes. That arrogant, sociopathic bastard of a man who aggravated him with practically everything he did. Sherlock Holmes, the man who never did the shopping and shot bullets into a wall because he was bored. The man who wore a suit and tie at home, but wore a sheet to Buckingham Palace. The person who could know everything about you with a single glance.

Sherlock bloody Holmes. John's best friend who had died three years ago. John had thought he'd never see him again until he himself died. And yet, there he was, standing outside 221B as if no time had passed at all. John gave a shout and broke off into a sprint, dragging his cane behind him.

" Sherlock!" he screamed as he ran.

John was barely five feet away. Sherlock was opening his arms as if waiting to be embraced, a small smile on his lips. But at the last second, John stopped short, drew his arm back, and punched Sherlock right in the jaw.

The consulting detective staggered back, holding a hand to his face and cursing,

"Jesus, John what was that for?" he mumbled out.

But John had lost any semblance of control he had. He grabbed his cane and started beating Sherlock's legs with it.

"Three-bloody-years!" he snarled between each hit. "You let me think you were dead for THREE YEARS, SHERLOCK."

"Let me explain!" he cried, holding onto the fence bars for support.

"YOU BETTER EXPLAIN."

Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed John's fists, holding them tight between his hands to prevent him causing any more damage.

"Breathe, John." he said reassuringly, locking eyes with his best friend. "Breathe, and then I'll explain, alright?"

John nodded, drawing in a shuddering breath. In the few moments he had, Sherlock took in John's current appearance.

Lost 25 pounds

Nightmares, not sleeping regularly

Systematic limp is back, along with tremor

Obvious depression

Guilt washed over Sherlock automatically. He knew he'd had to leave, to protect John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly... He'd faked his death to keep the people he loved safe. But he knew it had been hard on all them, John most of all.

"Explain it to me, Sherlock." John said breathlessly.

"I did what I did to protect you. Moriarty was going to kill anyone close to me." Sherlock said urgently. It was imperative John understood, or he'd never forgive him.

"But Moriarty shot himself while you were up on that building. Why couldn't you just come down then?" John asked.

"He had marks-men surrounded us. If they hadn't seen me jump, they would have shot you on sight."

"But how are you still alive? I saw you-"

John's voice broke and he looked at his feet. Sherlock's face softened and he continued, being strong for his friend.

"I enlisted Molly to help me. She got a body from the morgue that looked remarkably similar to me and we put it into the Dumpster that was adjacent to the building. Remember how I made you stay standing in the same spot the entire time?"

John nodded slowly, the details of that awful day gradually coming back to him. He'd done his best to block them from his memory, but when he had nightmares about it practically every night, that was rather hard.

"That was so you couldn't see me land in the Dumpster. Also, the man on the bicycle that ran into you? I paid him to do that so you'd be distracted for a few moments so I could switch the bodies."

It sounded insane. Completely and utterly mad. But this was Sherlock he was talking to. Anything could sound rational coming out of his mouth. With a gasp, the walls John had steadily built up over the past three years broke and all his emotion came flooding out. He flung himself into Sherlock's arms, tears streaming down his face. Sherlock tensed at first, not expecting John's sudden contact. But then he relaxed and enveloped John fully in his embrace, holding him as tight as possible.

"If you ever leave me again, I will end you myself." John choked out as he sobbed into Sherlock's shirt.

"Duly noted, John." Sherlock said affectionately.

They hugged for several minutes, just relishing being in each other's company again. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, Sherlock had missed John far more than he'd ever imagined. He didn't realize how used he'd gotten to having the doctor around until he suddenly wasn't. Over the past three years, Sherlock had broken his own rules of no contact and had watched John living his life from afar. Thank God he hadn't gotten married or anything like that. Sherlock didn't think he could have watched the man he loved get married.

Maybe it was time to tell John about Sherlock's feelings. Obviously not today; he'd been shaken up enough. If poor John got another big shock today, he just might enter cardiac arrest, and Sherlock did not remeber CPR. It was another piece of information he'd deleted. But he would tell him soon. Take him out to dinner or something like that. Maybe that place they'd gone during "A Study in Pink." God, Sherlock had missed him. He missed his stupid blog titles and his sly humor and everything that made John John. His John.

They broke apart and John sheepishly wiped his eyes. Sherlock felt tears burn his own eyes but he kept them at bay. He wasn't going to cry. John was just staring at him in amazment,

"I still can't believe it's you."

Sherlock nodded, reaching into the inside pocket of his long jacket and withdrawing a small orange blanket. In one swift motion, he had it around John's shoulders and tucked around him.

"What are you doing?"

"It's a shock blanket, I assumed you would need one."