"Sherlock? Sherlock? Are you there?"
John sighed and shook his head. No. He was doing it again. He knew he shouldn't. But he couldn't help it.
He put the little circular mirror down on the table and buried his face in his hands. He didn't cry. He couldn't, not a single teardrop, ever since the funeral. He just wasn't able to function any more.
Finally he got up and went upstairs to his bedroom. At least he was able to sleep, but nightmares haunted him every night. Nightmares of Sherlock falling, of his dead body, and sometimes, a little hopefully, he dreamt of hearing his voice again, calling him…
"John? John?"
The voice echoed in the empty living room. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the table. But no one was there to hear it.
Sherlock sighed deeply, wiped his tears from his face and put the mirror back inside his pocket.
"Sherlock? I know you're not dead. You can't be. You… you lied, you bastard, you lied, I know!"
He threw the mirror angrily onto the sofa.
"Don't throw it, John, you'll break it!" Mrs Hudson called to him while going to the kitchen.
"Damn that mirror!" John shouted.
He ran out and banged the front door.
"Sherlock… Sherlock… please… you just can't be dead. I can't… I can't be your blogger without you."
John shook his head.
"It's not working. He's not there. THIS IS BULLSHIT!" he shouted again, but remembering, didn't try to break the mirror. He put it back on the table and went back to sleep.
"John? John? Are you there? Somewhere?"
Sherlock sighed, his breath fogging the mirror.
"Piece of shit" he muttered angrily. "Why can't I just send a message with this?"
He wiped the mirror with his sleeve and looked into it but all he could see again was darkness.
"John.. damn it… why don't you keep it with you? I wish you got this message… I'm not dead, John… I know you know it..."
"Sherlock… Sherlock… fuck you, I'm not doing this anymore!" cried John desperately. He grabbed the mirror in his anger but again remembered not to shatter it in case… oh, he was just a hopeless dreamer. He stuffed it among the pillows on the sofa then lay back and fell asleep.
John was looking into the mirror. Yes, he was hopeless. He couldn't help doing it, though he knew he won't see anything. Actually, he could just have gone through all Sherlock's belongings and would've found the other mirror. He was probably talking to himself the entire time.
"I must stop this" he thought. "It's not healthy, I have to get over it, I have to accept he's—"
John blinked and stared at the mirror. He could've sworn he saw something there, just for a second. A flash of something. Greenish, like Sherlock's eyes. But he was sure he was hallucinating.
But then it happened again. And again. Just for seconds, sometimes. John was starting to think he'd gone mad.
"Sherlock, don't fucking play with me if you're alive, just… just come back! You're… my best friend. You know it Sherlock, you know it, you bastard! I love you. Sherlock, please… please come back to Baker Street."
Sherlock sat there for a long time, until he was sure that John had left.
"Yes, John. It's time for me to return. It's time for Sherlock Holmes to reborn."
John was sitting in the living room, drinking tea by himself. There was some food on the table as well, put there by Mrs Hudson but John was not able to eat. He wasn't able to do anything. He knew Sherlock couldn't be alive, but he hoped… but the mirror didn't show anything any more.
There was a knock on the door.
"Who is that?' John asked.
"Is there a certain Doctor Watson here?" a muffled voice said.
"Yes… it's me, come in" answered John hesitatingly.
The door opened and someone stood there, with his back to John, wearing a long black coat. John blinked, he was sure he was seeing something that wasn't actually there.
"Erm… excuse me, sir… so who are you?"
The man in the door turned around slowly. John kept blinking, this just couldn't be real, it couldn't…
The man was now standing face to face with John and he saw the tear-strained face of Sherlock Holmes.
"No" he whispered.
"You called me, John. I came back."
"No. You were dead. YOU WERE FUCKING DEAD!"
"But you know I wasn't. I know you did. I know you always believe in me."
"Yes, Sherlock, because you're my fucking best friend, that's why!" John shouted again. "I… I…" and he burst into tears, running to the door and hugging the man standing there, the man he missed so much, without whom he couldn't live, not for a single day.
And Sherlock Holmes hugged John Watson back.
At last, they let go of each other, still sobbing.
"Actually, John, you were right. I was dead. And you were, too."
"Yes, I was" John agreed. "I'm always dead without you."
Sherlock smiled faintly and neither of them said anything. Trying to break the awkward silence, John asked, indicating the table full of Mrs Hudson's cooking:
"Hungry?"
Sherlock hesitated for a moment, looking into John's eyes. He remembered a moment, a moment they shared back then, after solving their first case, and the look in John's eyes now reminded him of that moment.
He smiled again, then nodded.
"Starving."