"It's gonna be ok. -SH"
A note.
Just a note, a little five words long note.
Written in less then thirty seconds, the hand firm but the writing still messy.
The ink was a bit smeared, but the letters were still readable.
It's gonna be ok... As if. John thought, chewing on his nails. If that's so, where the hell are you, Sherlock?
He was still in Baker Steet, 221B. Mrs. Hudson helped him and lowered the rent, while he waited for Sherlock to be back. She didn't know about it, but that was fine. She didn't need to.
Life was quiet, quieter than ever without the genius.
John found that very note the moment he went back home, on his pillow. He wanted to believe it, but at the same time he believed more his eyes.
What he saw. And also what he heard. Crying.
He had heard Sherlock Holmes crying. That was bad, wasn't it?
Suddenly his phone rang, making he jump. He wasn't ready for that, and was surprised enough to be called. He took the phone from his pocket, and furrowed his brows in confusion.
He barely used the damn thing anymore, so it was normal for him not to recognize a text from a call.
The number was unknown, but what surprised him the most was the content of the message.
Let's have dinner.
Now, that was weird. He knew only one person that would write something like that, and that person was already dead. Actually, she died twice as far as he knew.
His phone rang again, and he looked back at the thing.
I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.
Damn. She couldn't... Then again, Sherlock seemed to know he was lying about her being in America, and he didn't look to be upset about that. But this...
If inconvenient, come anyway.
This wasn't possible. Simply, it couldn't. How did she know?
22 northumberland street, you know the place.
Ok. That was it. He stood up, grabbed his walking stick and jumped on the first available cab.
Few minutes later, he arrived at the restaurant. He had been there only once, the day after he met Sherlock, when they decided to share their flat.
He sighed heavily and then walked in.
A waiter greeted him, and leaded him to Angelo, the keeper.
"Oh, that cane again? Try not to forget it here, this time!" he smiled, and leaded him toward an upper floor he didn't know the restaurant had.
"Don't worry about that, I got injured again and this time for good." he mumbled his answer.
He entered the room. It was small, and there was a little table in the center of the room.
"Special order, Mr. Watson! I'll be back later, when you'll be ready to eat!" Angelo said cheerfully, closing the door after John.
The doctor sighed and sat down, back to the wall and the window, cursing his leg and pulling out his phone. How could she possibly be...?
He thought to himself, but as soon as he did, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.
He jumped on his seat at the touch, restraining a surprised squeak. Then, he turned around to see who was it. He didn't hear the door opening, the only way in was the window he wasn't facing, which was open, but Irene... She used to exit trough windows, not enter, didn't she?
But what he saw... He had no words for it. Just...
"I KNEW IT!" he shouted, standing and knocking the cane to the floor, while rushing to hug Sherlock. "You couldn't be dead!" he continued happily.
"There, there John... People will be talking." Sherlock said with a smile hinted in his voice, while he patted the other's back. He heard him laugh, and that repaid him for the wait.
They parted and John's smile was so bright and big that Sherlock felt like melting on the spot. But then the doctor frowned again and pouted almost loudly.
"Six months, Sherlock! All this time and you were alive! Tell me why I shouldn't punch you."
"Because I left you a note, and you knew that everything was gonna be ok."
"Yes, but your little show was terrifying. How did you-"
"Molly helped me, modified a corpse's face to look like me and pushed him out of a window while I fell into the trash camion right down there. Lestrade had it put there."
"That was brill- wait, they knew?"
"Yes, but don't kill them, it was for your safety. I'll tell you, but now, please, I just want to eat. Are you hungry?" Sherlock changed topic, smiling like he ever did, and in John's mind, how he always will.
"... Starving."