The doorbell rings. John uwillingly gets up from his armchair and goes to answer the door. It rings again. Whoever is at the door, they must be quite impatient, he thinks. It makes him remember how Sherlock rang the doorbell so many times before John could answer it- no. Sherlock's dead, he reminds himself. Thinking about him only causes sharp pangs of pain, and John isn't really in the mood.
It rings for the third time.
''I'm coming!'' John yells. He picks up his walking stick and limps his way down the short flight of stairs. His psychosomatic limp is back and it's worse than ever before. Mainly because the man who had caused it to go away is now lying under several inches of earth and a slab of marble.
He fumbles with the keys in his pocket, finally fishing out the right one. He always locks the door these days. A murderer is on the loose, and with no Sherlock around, the possibilities of him being arrested seem next to nothing.
He unlocks the door and removes the chain- an additional precaution.
''John.''
The familiar barritone startles him. So does the appearance of the man standing on his door step. Tall and lanky, his porcelain skin paler than ever before. A mop of ebony curls, longer than John remembers, surround the man's head and face like a dark halo.
John's gaze falls on the man's eyes. And that's when realisation dawns on him. Only one person on God's earth has these eyes. A sublime mixture of ocean blue, moss green and cloudy grey with just a hint of gold. Jonh remembers struggling to describe Sherlock's eyes and failing at the attempt.
The man opens his mouth once again and his rich, deep voice speaks John's name.
''John, it's me. It's Sherlock. I didn't die.''
John feels the air being sucked out of his lungs, leaving him with just enough to utter three words.
''No shit, Sherlock.''