Two years.
It had been two years too long.
John tucked his hands into his pockets, his breath coming out in the form of wispy fog.
He was now known as the ex-army doctor, the ex-partner to the world's most famous high-functioning sociopath.
He shook his head, pausing in front of a shop window as the cars that rushed past him on the street caused the water to splash upward and onto the sidewalk. He turned his body sideways to avoid getting splashed, though it wasn't like he cared anymore.
He turned to look at the shop window, at the display that stood there. It was a display for Sherlock Holmes. After Sherlock's death, the people in London had finally discovered that Richard Brooks was never a real person and that all of that drama was fabricated by James Moriarty in an attempt to make him fall. Now, it was as if they thought that by paying homage to the man that Sherlock use to be, that it would bring him back from the dead.
To do that, that would take a miracle.
John had given up believing in miracles.
His eyes scanned the pictures of Sherlock that littered the display; the newspaper articles that praised his deductions in solving formidable cases. As he looked at the display, he tried desperately to cling to the memories that ran through his head. It had been two years since all of this had happened to him, so now it felt like a dream. No matter how hard he tried to cling to the memory of Sherlock, it felt so far away, so muted in his head, it depressed him. Sherlock had made his life interesting; had saved him from his spiral of depression, and now he was gone.
He was among the angels now.
John tucked his hands into his pocket, looking at his warped reflection in the glass of the display. He could see the tears gathering there and he bit his lip, trying to contain his emotions. He couldn't break down in the middle of downtown London. Everyone would think he had lost it then. He watched himself, studying his rugged face, at the emotions he was trying to mask, but was ultimately failing too. He cursed under his breath and looked down; his breath fogging up portions of the glass.
He could hear the bustle of people on the sidewalk behind him, but he didn't pay them any attention. He was too busy focusing on staying calm, on staying collected, on thinking about Sherlock.
When he felt someone rub against his shoulder as they stood next to him, looking at the display, he didn't move. He still had his head down. He was hoping that no one would figure out he was John Watson. He didn't want to answer a million and one questions about Sherlock. Not today.
Instead of saying anything, the person just stood there next to him, standing tall and straight. John sniffled once at an attempt to hold back his emotions, a few tears trailing down his cheek and leaving a pale red mark behind to mark their existence.
The man that stood next to him tapped his hand suddenly and pressed something into the palm of his hand. John looked down at the hands and noticed that the man had handed him a tissue. He gratefully took it and wiped his eyes before blowing his nose.
"Thank you." He said, sniffling once more before pocketing the tissue.
The man remained silent. John blushed, thinking he had just embarrassed himself.
"The display is tacky, don't you think?" rumbled the man in a deep, velvet voice. "Pictures and articles sprinkled about a display is not much of a homage."
John shook his head, trying to clear his thinking.
"What do you mean?"
He was just losing it. That was it.
"I think you know what I mean. You were the only one who knew me at all, John."
John. Hearing his name in that familiar voice, sent goosebumps down his arms. He looked up at the man that stood next to him. The man had a large black overcoat on, a blue scarf wrapped around his neck. His raven black curls were a mess on the top of his head, his blue eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. John looked at the man's reflection in the display case in front of him, and saw his lips curl up into a small smile.
"Hello, John. Did you miss me?" asked Sherlock, making eye contact with John's reflection in the glass.
At first John was angry. How could Sherlock do this to him? How could he do that to him for two years? However, the anger soon ebbed away and was replaced with relief. Sherlock Holmes was alive.
John turned and wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock, startling him a bit. He hugged him tight out of relief, giving those black and white memories in his head a new life. After a minute, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John back.
"You're alive," whispered John. "You're alive."
Sherlock nodded, staying silent for a moment.
"I'm sorry, John."
John hugged Sherlock tighter. Now it didn't feel like he was wandering through a dream, through a nightmare, anymore. Now it felt like he was awake.
All of those memories that John thought were lost, he was finally able to retain.