It was raining again. Why was it always raining? John wondered. It had been raining then, too. That day at Bart's. He hated the rain. It kept him inside, unable to go out. Nothing to do but sit and think. And remember…
He could remember everything. He didn't necessarily want to though, but sitting in his chair in 221b on rainy days brought back that day, and the days that passed. He remembered every word they had shared during that phone call. They were burnt in his memory. His final moments with Sherlock Holmes.
After that John couldn't go back to the flat for a while. He'd tried but Sherlock was everywhere. Everything was a trigger, his violin, the skull, the lab equipment on the kitchen table. Even the frozen head in the freezer. He made himself go back after a few weeks at the hotel. He still couldn't escape the memories of Sherlock so he might as well go back to the comfort of 221b.
Now it was three years later and John still hadn't escaped his own memories.
…
At last, Sherlock had gotten out of Ireland. True, he was a bit worse for the wear, and John would've been quite cross, but he had made it. There were five fewer of Moriarty's operatives in the world to worry about. And he had picked up a companion as well. The train rattled on as Sherlock glanced at the dog that lay on the seat beside him. Completing his disguise as a blind man, Sherlock thought absently. The only way he could return to London.
…
The clouds had cleared over London. John noticed this as he walked to work the next day. He was still working with Lestrade, not as often as he was obviously not as skilled as Sherlock. But he had acquired some of Sherlock's talent over the years. Even when he couldn't help with deductions he was still a brilliant ME.
John greeted Lestrade as they entered NSY at the same time.
"Morning. What do we have today, anything interesting?" John inquired as they walked to Lestrade's office.
"Naw," Lestrade shook his head. "Just your run of the mill murders. Bet Sherlock would have gotten this one in a minute or two." John laughed slightly. He hated when Lestrade would bring him up at work. It took so much of him to cover up the feelings he felt when ever he thought about that day, or any of the days before.
…
Wanting nothing more than to return to Baker Street, Sherlock stepped off the platform, letting the dog guide him through the mass of people, all of whom were giving him sympathetic glances and plenty of space on the sidewalk. Not that Sherlock particularly minded. He could move faster. The 'blind man' was really the perfect disguise. No one wanted to stare, thus he could not be recognized. John would, Sherlock thought, and turned his not inconsiderable mind to the task of coming up with an explanation for John. What could he say? The dog tugged at the leash, breaking Sherlock's line of thought. A cab was rapidly approaching from a side street. In keeping with his character, Sherlock quite deliberately stepped off the pavement in front of it.
…
John had gotten over his feelings about Sherlock, and they had figured out who the murderer was by the end of the day. It turned out to be the gardener. John had noticed the soil in the victim's wound, even though the body was found inside. Apparently the murderer and the victim's wife were having an affair.
John was back home now, and about to settle down when he heard a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson stood in the dark hallway looking shocked.
"Oh John, the light just went out in the hallway will you be a dear and fix it for me?"
"Oh yes, of course Mrs. Hudson, do you have a stepladder?"
"In the closet there dear."
John located the stool and a replacement bulb in the closet. He carefully climbed up the rickety stepladder, having to stand on the fourth step to reach the light fixture. Sherlock wouldn't even need the stepladder, John quickly shook the though from his head, and continued to unscrew the bulb. He replaced it and then screwed the cover back in place. He was still on the third step when the front door opened.
…
The cab screeched to a halt within an inch of Sherlock. The dog started barking furiously as the cabbie got out and started cursing at him.
"What in the bloody hell did you think you were doing? Watch where you're—oh, I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know you were—, are you all right? Let me give you a ride. Anywhere, on me." Sherlock smiled, assured the idiot that he was 'quite all right' and accepted his offer.
"Where to?"
"221B Baker Street." Sherlock spent the rest of the ride trying to find the words for his apology to John. They didn't come. He still had nothing as he led the dog up the stairs to the flat and opened the door to fine John standing on a stepladder in the middle of the hall.
…
John was frozen half way down the stepladder. He tried to speak but no words would come out. He felt clouded, like you do right before you fall asleep. Is it really Sherlock or a figment of my imagination? John thought as he tried to step off of the ladder, only to miss his footing, which led him to fall and hit his head on the hallway floor. John had fainted.
John opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He knew he was on the couch in his flat he just didn't know how he'd gotten there. Didn't remember much actually. He had been changing the light bulb in the hall when…
John jumped off the couch, only to be hit by a strong case of vertigo. He leaned against the wall for support while his vision returned. Once it had he sprinted into the kitchen.
"Sherlock!" John said a little breathlessly, he then walked up to Sherlock, promptly popping him in the face. Sherlock didn't look the least bit surprised as he rubbed the side of his mouth, and he hugged right back when John wrapped his arms around him.