John walked out of the kitchen, tea in hand, and went to sit on the couch. His laptop was lying on the cushion next to him, The Science of Deduction's webpage open as it had remained most days for the past three years. His own blog had become nothing once again; He didn't post, he didn't visit, and he couldn't handle reading the past cases.
It had been three years since his best friend jumped off Bart's roof. Sherlock Holmes had been dead for three years.
His cell phone on the end table vibrated at the notification of a new text. John reached over to grab it and read the message.
Are you coming over tonight? –Mary
He didn't want to, but he had been avoiding seeing Mary for a couple of weeks now. He was running out of excuses.
"What's wrong with me?" He mumbled to himself. "She's your girlfriend for crying out loud!"
He typed back a reply.
Probably. –John
He was sure she was starting to hate him, but he didn't care; more likely than not, that was for the best. He dug the remote out from between the cushions and turned on the telly. It was three in the afternoon on a Tuesday. He didn't even know why he tried.
After turning the telly off, he threw the remote across the room and fell back into the couch, almost spilling the tea he had forgotten he was holding. He took a sip and grimaced. Somehow burning lava hot had transformed into the Arctic Circle.
John sighed, slipping back into the kitchen only to put the cup in the sink before making his way to his bedroom. Without turning the light on, he fell stomach first onto the bed, turning his head slightly as he tried to clear his mind.
He was exhausted all the time lately. He couldn't sleep, and when he managed a few hours, the smallest of noises would wake him up. When he mustered up the ability to go back to the flat on Baker Street, he spent every night for six months sleeping in Sherlock's bedroom. After those months, he decided it best to stop torturing himself and went back to sleeping in his own room. The house felt quiet and alone and yet sometimes he could swear he heard Sherlock moving about the apartment, messing with a new experiment, or simply breathing steadily while he took a nap on the couch.
John turned his face back into the mattress and groaned. It had been three years after all; he needed to stop letting the memories bother him to this extent.
He woke up suddenly; unaware he had fallen asleep but grateful for the surprisingly uninterrupted hours. Rolling onto his back, he looked over at the clock glowing red on the bedside table. The time was ten forty-five.
"Shit," he mumbled to himself, reaching into his pocket to get his phone. Five missed texts and they were all from Mary.
He tried to think of a simple apology to make up for his doing this yet again.
I'm really sorry. I fell asleep. I don't think tonight will work after all. –John
He fell back onto the bed, allowing his phone to bounce away from him on the mattress. He felt bad. It wasn't Mary's fault John wasn't in love with her, or that he didn't want to be with her anymore. To be honest, John didn't even understand why that was.
He sighed. No point in trying to do anything at this point except go back to sleep. Luckily, his mind was tired enough that it let him fall asleep relatively easily.
John woke up the next morning to his phone vibrating, telling him he had a new text. Groaning and rubbing his eyes, he rolled over, reaching his hand out to feel around for the cell.
John, I'm not dead. –Sherlock
"Wait…what!" John reread the text over and over until the actual meaning of the words started to sink in. "This has got to be a joke; an evil, demented prank," John murmured, falling back onto the bed.
He waited a few moments before deciding to text back.
Sherlock's dead. So who is this? –John
The doorbell rang. John sprung up from the bed, his eyes widening. This was starting to become too much. Regardless of the nagging doubt that screamed louder and louder every step he took towards the front door, he had to see. He had to know who it was, and if for no other reason, he had to kill every hope that Sherlock could possibly be alive because that was impossible, and just hopeful dreaming.
John made it down the stairs, taking short steps closer and closer to the front door. He reached out his hand placing it on the handle, leaving it there for a moment before opening it.
"Hello, John," a familiar voice said.
John was looking down at the ground when he heard the voice. His heart panged and he felt his eyes begin to tear up. After three years, this was not happening. He was most definitely hallucinating, going crazy, anything to explain why his best friend – his dead best friend – was standing on the doorstep of their old apartment.
Finally, he let himself look up.
"She-Sherlock," John managed to get out through shallow breaths. He was desperately trying not to cry, and that wasn't working terribly well. "I…I thought you were dead. I saw you jump. I saw you…you were…"
He looked back down at the ground, his hands turning to fists as he shook, both angry and hurt.
"I know. I'm sorry, but—" Sherlock said. He tried to step closer, to get inside the building, but John put his arm out to stop him.
"How do I know you're not a part of imagination? How do I know I'm not making this all up? What if this is a dream? Damn it, Sherlock, it's been three years! You've been dead and gone for three years."
"John, it was necessary. I'm sorry that it hurt you, but I really did have to do it."
"Okay, so for some reason you had to jump off the roof of a hospital. And live. So why did you have to disappear for three years? Mental health reasons? Vacationing is Aruba?"
"I know you're angry—"
"You're damn right I'm angry! What else am I supposed to be? Understanding and caring? Well I'm sorry if I can't understand why my best friend wouldn't tell me why he faked his own death and didn't tell me until three years later, bam! out of the blue he returns."
"John, please, let me come in."
John glared at Sherlock for a while longer before stepping aside. Sherlock took an uneasy step forward, and then continued on up the stairs. John sighed heavily before following him.