3 years.
That's how long John Watson had been waiting.
Waiting for a phone call, a text, a letter, a messenger hawk, anything. Nothing ever came. So, here he stood. The very spot Sherlock Holmes "the fake genius" stood on that awful day. As John stood on the edge of that rooftop, memories, the ones he tried so very hard to forget, came flooding back into his mind:
"I'm a fake."
"Tell everyone."
"Goodbye, John."
He never believed any of it. He knew Sherlock was real, and he couldn't be dead. But he had to be.
He had to be.
Sherlock Holmes sat quietly in his flat in the building that Mycroft stayed in. His brother was out, taking care of something for the Queen, running the British government, or what not.
Bzzzzt bzzzzt.
Sherlock's phone buzzes. Who could be bothering me? he thought. There were no more cases, no more clients after the Fall. Just about everyone thought he was dead, and that he was a fraud. All he did these days was sit around in this stupid room. He picks up his phone, and finds a text from Mycroft:
"Sherlock, get to St. Bart's now. There's something we require you to assist with.
-MH"
Oh, god, how Sherlock did not want to go back to that building. Too much pain. But he had to go. He flagged down a cab, and settled in for the ride.
John stood on the edge of the roof, and started blindly ahead. He wasn't aware of the crowd gathering under him, Mycroft among them. John hadn't been okay since Sherlock...left. He could never bring himself to believe that Sherlock was dead. There was a bit of hope in him that thought his best friend was still alive, but the longer time went on, that flame of hope was slowly put out.
The only reason that flame burned so long was because he did not want to believe that man was dead. That wonderful, wonderful man.
John dreamed about him, all sorts of dreams. Solving cases with him, just sitting around the flat talking, and sometimes, nightmares. Visions of the Fall tormented John. Almost every time he closed his eyes, they were there.
He rarely ventured out into the city anymore. He would just sit around, thinking. He used to love being outside and seeing new sights, but now that, and many of the other things he loved, no longer appealed to him.
People always told him "It'll get better. You'll get over it. You will move on eventually." Three years had gone by and things never got better. He never got over it, and he never moved on.
He took a step closer to the edge.