John opened up the door of the flat, a bag of groceries in one hand, the cane on the other, supporting his limp. It was cold outside, and the leg always seemed worse on days like this. It had started a few days after the funeral. One second he was sitting on the green chair after another exhausting day, the next he was trying to get up and move on with his life, to find out he couldn't do it that easily. He had retrieved the cane, but he never made another appointment with his therapist after that. It would have been pointless.
Mrs. Hudson, although dealing with her own grief, had helped to bring back a bit of normalcy to his life. John's sister came by sometimes, for a cuppa and vapid talks. He refused to talk about Sherlock's death. Not that he forgot it, no. It was a vivid as before. But allowing people to talk about it, would only allow them to feel pity for him, and the last thing he wanted was to have people worried about him. He had rather be left alone. Maybe the limp would eventually subside. Maybe not. It didn't matter; he had no reason to run now.
He closed the door, adjusting the cane and stopped on his tracks. He was hearing it again. The violin. It was something that happened quite regularly and one of the reasons he had stopped seeing his therapist. The first time he had mentioned that she showed concern. But John knew he wasn't crazy. That just...happened. It usually stopped after a few minutes.
He waited but the sound continued. He took a deep breath and paced slowly up the stairs.
The groceries' bag fell on the floor, spreading jam and milk and bean's cans all over. He had his back turned, but John would recognise him anywhere. The bow played the violin with soft movements but the song wasn't sad.
Sherlock turned around, still playing and after a last note he stopped, looking at John. Sherlock smiled.
"John." he said.
John was still trying to decide what was real and what was not.
"You're alive." he managed to choke out. "You are alive.'
The second time he said it, Sherlock sensed resentment on his tone. He couldn't blame him. Sherlock nodded, awaiting a reaction.
John blinked a few times, took a deep breath.
"Right." he said.
He picked up the groceries from the floor and paced to the kitchen.
"That's all you are going to say?" Sherlock asked, putting the violin down.
John put the kettle on and took a moment before turning around to face Sherlock.
"You could at least have brought some milk."
He felt strangely calm, and unable to think straight at the moment. Sherlock smirked and approached him. The angle in which he looked down at John was the same as he remembered. John's hair wasn't as blond as before, with some white hairs making an appearance. His expression was tired, but resolute.
"I won't forget next time. I promise." Sherlock said.
John got them cups and made them tea, and they sat in front of each other, as if there had never been a break. But John wanted an explanation, and Sherlock had all the time in the world to give it to him now.
As he told his story and his life in the last three years, Sherlock glanced at the door. The cane was leaning against the wall, ready to say goodbye to an old friend.