The raindrops fell heavily to the ground. John lifted his arm to cover his face and started walking faster. It had only been raining for a few minutes and he was already soaked. He sighed in relief when he got inside 221B Baker Street. Water dripped from his hair and into his eyes, he left behind big traces of mud and wore not one single piece of dry clothing. He took of his jacket and shoes and walked up the stairs. He stepped into the flat and looked around. John stood there for minutes without moving. Just watching and memorizing. For a moment he felt drained. Empty. Like everything had been taken away from him. Sherlock was not there anymore. And he would not come back. John forced himself to walk into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. He placed the cup on the table besides his chair, but did not drink anything. That day he had been able to stay calm and steady, until now. John's hands started shaking uncontrollably and he started sobbing. He leaned forward and hid his face in the palms of his hands. Tears streamed down his face and his eyes turned red and swollen. It was his first time alone since Sherlock died. There had always been someone watching him; making sure that he was okay. He had found it utterly annoying at that time, but now he missed it. He did not like to be alone. Without Sherlock. A giant hole had appeared where Sherlock left, and that was in John's life. John was confused. Sherlock said that he was a fraud. No. John was sure that he was not. Sherlock had lied, that was for sure. John just did not know why, but there must have been a good explanation why. Otherwise Sherlock would not have done it. But still there were a silent nagging feeling in the corner of his mind. What if Sherlock actually was not who he pretended to be? John quickly pushed that thought away.
"Could you pass me my pen?" John immediately raised his head and looked towards the couch. He nearly fell out of his chair when he saw a dark-haired man, with distinct cheekbones sit and fiddle with some papers in his living room. John rose from his chair and stared wildly at the man. He could not believe his own eyes. The man simply ignored him and kept on writing notes. But this was not just a random man. It was John's best friend. The friend whose funeral he had been at last week, the friend that he saw covered in blood on the pavement. How could he be here now? John tried to speak, but he was too startled to say anything. Or in another word: scared. He was scared. His dead friend was sitting in their flat, like nothing had ever happened. John did not know what to do. Was he real? Was this the real Sherlock? Or was he just going insane?
"Sh-Sherlock?" he stuttered. His throat was dry and he felt like throwing up. The pale flat mate raised his face.
"God, John! Are you sick? You look dreadful." Sherlock frowned lightly and looked back down at his papers. John grabbed the back of his chair; he felt awfully dizzy. His face had gone completely white and he could not remove his eyes from Sherlock. He could not understand. Sherlock was dead. John saw him fall. It was not possible for him to survive. Sherlock ignored John's startled gaze. Calm down. Whatever is happening, there is a reasonable explanation for it. John closed his eyes and started rubbing his fingers against his eyelids. He moved his hand and slowly opened his eyes. Sherlock was gone.