A chilled breeze blew down the dark Baker Street. His popped collar blew in the wind as he pressed against the cold air. His dark brown curls bounced in each step he took. The London street was surprisingly quiet. He glared at the pavement with his hands shoved into his pockets in attempt to keep warm. His breath turned into a light fog as danced past him as he burst through. He stopped in his tracks and pivoted to his left. He faced a door. The black paint had chipped over the past three years and needed a new coat. His eyes traveled up the door until he stared at the address. 221B.
Sherlock reached out to the brass doorknob. The doorknob had lost its shine over the years. It was obvious that no one had cared for the place for what seemed like a long time. The door eerily creaked open revealing the staircase. Sherlock carefully stepped one foot after the other as quietly as he could hoping not to wake anyone. One foot after the other until a slight creak was heard on the stairs. He stopped and carefully eyed his surroundings. He relaxed and continued up the stairs until he reached the flat.
The horrid smell hit him like a punch to the face. Although the smell was familiar to Sherlock, it was drugs. Drugs and alcohol. All different kinds most likely. Whiskey, scotch, vodka, mixed in with bits of marijuana, cocaine, heroine, etc. Sherlock knew it wasn't going to be pretty or tidy inside the flat. He creeped the door open, and the smells became stronger and more revolting than before. His eyes traveled around the room, observing the clutter. Piles of trash, clothing, and various items were strewn about the flat. The floor was covered by miscellaneous objects. Sherlock tip toed around the clutter as best he could. His eyes looked up from the floor and saw the couch.
There he was. Sleeping like a babe it seemed, but it was never the case. He was obviously drunk and recently passed out. He was face down in the pillows of the couch. He wore only a pair of white boxer briefs. His skin was pale and his body was unhealthily thin. His hair was unkempt and musky as he lay there silently. The only movement was the rise and fall of his back. Sherlock sighed a relief as he saw him exhale. He was glad he was still alive after seeing the shape of the flat.
Sherlock stood there for a moment pondering if he should awake the sleeping John. Should he just let him be or wake him up? Before Sherlock could do either, John awoke violently and shot up into an upright position. His blue-green eyes were glossed over as they looked around the room. He seemed to not notice Sherlock was there. Sherlock smirked at John and spoke, "Hello, John." John's eyes traveled back to Sherlock. He eyed Sherlock up and down. He flopped back down onto the couch and groaned. "Interesting path choice you've taken," Sherlock said as he sat himself down in one of the chairs.
"Not real, not real, just a hallucination again," John muttered to himself as he blankly stared at the ceiling. He furrowed his eyebrows, trying not to ignore Sherlock. He sharply glanced over at Sherlock sitting there. He shook his head to get the image out of his head. He shut his eyes tight and reopened them, still seeing Sherlock. All other hallucinations he had about Sherlock only made him feel guilty and drink or get high. Sherlock's death was what made him turn down this dark path. It started when he stopped blogging. It only reminded John of him. His therapist wasn't very helpful either, so he stopped going and started drinking. When the drinks didn't help, he turned to drugs. Pot was the first he tried, but certainly not the last; he added crack and heroine to the list. He even experimented with crystal meth. He lost contact with just about everyone and became a hermit in his flat.
"I'm 100% real, John. But I'm flattered you would hallucinate about me," Sherlock butted in breaking John's train of thought. John continued to stare blankly at the ceiling. He mumbled to himself, "Exactly what you said last time, but I'm either dreaming or hallucinating. I can't really tell which anymore." John often thought out loud now that he was always alone. Sherlock folded his arms and stood up, realizing the depth of the situation. He stepped over a pile of junk, almost tripping on just about everything. Sherlock loomed over John staring at the ceiling. He leaned in close to him and slapped him across the face. He then gripped John by his ankles and slid him off on the couch onto the ground with a thud. "Could a hallucination do that, John?" He said calmly yet sternly.
John's eyes widened like a puppy's as he looked up at the curly haired man. He was in disbelief. He propped himself against the bottom of the couch to get a better look at him. The blur in his eyes cleared as he saw the true Sherlock standing before him. "S-S-Sherlock?" he stammered. Sherlock nodded in response. "How...this...this isn't possible. Y-y-you jumped off a building. I-I-I took your pulse. You've been dead for three years! I visited your grave everyday for the first six months! How can you even-," He rambled before Sherlock hushed him. "Sh...John, shut up. I know, I know. I was gone, blah blah blah. But now I'm back and that's what matters," Sherlock said with a smirk.
John scrambled to his feet revealing how thin he really was. His white boxers were almost falling off his waist they were so large on him. His ribcage was poking out through his pale chest. It was obvious he hadn't eaten in days. "No! That's not 'what matters.' If you haven't noticed, which I'm sure you have, the state that my life is currently in! You can't just pop up after you've been dead for three years and expect everything to automatically go back to normal. Because nothing is normal anymore! Not after you decided to jump for God knows why! And to think everyday, I felt the guilt of not being able to help you or to save you. That...that was too much," John said. He could feel the tears in his eyes anxiously waiting to pour out. A large lump in his throat caused him to get choked up near the end of his speech.
Sherlock sighed heavily. "I know. I should have told you beforehand I was going to fake my death. It wasn't fair to you. And I've realized the state that you are in, which is why I am here for you," he said looking John in the eyes. John raised an eyebrow in a confused expression, "Really?" Sherlock smiled and nodded, "It's just the two of us against the rest of the world, isn't it? Always has. Always will be." The corners of John's lips slowly began to creep into a smile, something he hadn't done in ages.