Thanks goes to thereichenbachfell on tumblr for beta-ing!
Disclaimer that I don't own Sherlock and things goes here, and enjoy.
John went back. He went back to 221B Baker Street, but he never stayed long. At most, he would sit on the couch a while, take out his laptop and maybe surf the internet. He liked to play a game where he could pretend, as long as he didn't look up, that Sherlock was there. Sitting, thinking, relaxing after putting on a new nicotine patch or five.
It was a good game. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would come up and say hello and remind him that rent was due and then chatter on about the news. They never talked about Sherlock. But then John would look over and he'd be missing. The illusion would shatter, leaving nothing but dust and empty silence.
Sometimes his mind would play tricks on him. He could swear on several occasions that he heard breathing. The breath of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. It would ghost through his brain; a wave, a soft comforting whisper, misfiring neurons. But then it would be gone.
Outside of the apartment not much made sense. He was lost again. Sherlock gave him purpose and that had been lost. He tried to get a job, not that he really needed the money anymore, Sherlock had taken care of that, not to mention Mycroft dropping off a cheque every now and then via one of his cronies. Mycroft never faced John anymore. Too cowardly.
He was alone once more.
He became more isolated than he'd ever been.
He would spend hours and hours just reading Sherlock's blog until he knew every word inside out. It would start as an accident, usually the address popped up on his browser and it would turn into a marathon read, every post detailing the correlation of pace to height, the different types of nervous shakes...
And he would wake up the next morning at 3 in the afternoon, his laptop battery dead and his face marked from the way he fell asleep. His eyes would be dry and tired, too emotionally exhausted to cry. He hadn't cried at anything in months.
Molly kept trying to keep in touch. She would be sure to drop by and talk with him for a while in his small studio flat. Sometimes she'd bring food to cook. On one such day, she looked at him curiously, "John, you know I believe you. I believe him."
"Yeah. I know, Molly, you've been such a terrific friend over the past few months. I know- I don't say it, but thank you." John smiled weakly.
"I know you can't get over what happened. No one can. Not after someone so important disappears." she said, handing him a mug of coffee.
"Disappears. That's an odd wording for someone who's... dead."
Molly said nothing, just stirred her tea.
"You think he's still alive." It wasn't a question. It didn't have to be. John knew the feeling of hope, tucked safely in a corner that he never touched.
"Don't tell me you don't too. After that girl? Irene? And you and I know what he's like. You especially."
John sighed and put his coffee down. "I know. I just... It's impossible to imagine him actually dead. And I've got all this- this hope... and I- I can't." He sighed deeply, staring at the faux wood pattern on the table. Molly took his hand from the other side of the table and they sat in silence once again until she left.
He stopped going to therapy soon after. She was trying to make him let go of Sherlock, stop thinking of him, stop remembering him. But how could he forget the thing that made him so much better? How could he forget a man that made the world better, in his own way?
On his way home, on the busy streets of London, he grabbed a paper for the first time in six months. He turned to the first murder story he could see. Librarian, killed in cold blood at noon in the stacks of a major public library. No surveillance- wiped. No witnesses- threatened. No murder weapon or signs of a struggle- she knew beforehand.
Which is how Dr. John Watson, former assistant of Sherlock Holmes, found himself in a cafe, with a notepad, deducing.
Deducing like Sherlock used to do.
He needed to see the body.
"John? Is that you? Oh I'm glad you're in I need a hand with this tap. it's getting a might leaky!"
The voice of Mrs. Hudson welcomed him the moment his key was in the lock. He very nearly smiled.
"Yep it's me. And... I think... I'll be here a while, actually," John told her slowly. "I'm not going to move things around much, I just need to be here, I think."
"Oh, well it'll be lovely to have you around again, dear. Now, could you grab a wrench from my tool chest if it's not too much trouble?" She gave him an understanding smile and that tone that could make him walk to the ends of the earth if she said please.
He followed her into the kitchen and began to get to work.
"So now what brings you back, love?" She asked a few minutes later. John reached under the sink on his back, wrench in hand.
"Oh. Just. Feeling better."
A lie. obviously.
"Oh. Good. You know, I've been wondering about the new neighbors. I heard them shouting last night! Oh, what a row! I never could stand for such carryings-on..." John tuned her out, focusing on the task at hand, but already his the ice that had overtaken his heart was beginning to thaw in the slightest.
About an hour later, when John was finally making his way upstairs (without tea, no thank you Mrs. Hudson but I could go for some nice homemade food for later), he realised he'd missed several important texts.
Must talk. MH
Oh Mycroft. Really? After all this time? He usually didn't warn John unless- oh.
"Hello Mycroft."
He was seated on one of the more comfortable chairs, thumbing through a book he clearly was not reading. His umbrella was rested against the armrest, even though it was a perfect day outside.
"Figured you might be coming back here. I am sorry for intruding..." John hadn't forgiven him and let him know with a withering glare that he didn't plan on it anytime soon.
"Regardless. I've been informed that you've taken an interest in the Britsh Library case." Mycroft turned to face him (and his glare) and closed the book.
"None of your business what I get up to, is it?" John said sharply. Mycroft merely smiled.
"You are a British citizen and a friend-of course it is." Mycroft stood and went to put it back on the shelf, making a show of taking the care to do so.
"I am not telling you anything, Mycroft. Not what I ate for breakfast, not which cab I took, and certainly not anything I take an interest in." John met his gaze and kept his voice even, highly reminiscent of their first meeting.
"Well, regardless. If you need access to certainresources, you can feel free to let me know."
Mycroft stood and met his eyes, shaking his hand. "It's good to see you again, John. And... I am sorry." John thought he saw a shimmer of sadness cross the man's face, and then it was gone.
John collapsed on the nearest couch as soon as he hears the door downstairs click shut. He was back. There was no use playing the game anymore. Sherlock wasn't here. He knew it.
From a great distance, a figure intently watched the live feed of 221B. John Watson was home.
He found himself with Molly at her work the next day, doing research into the case. She smiled patronizingly and he looked at her.
"Don't make that face. I know, I'm not even half as good as him, but... The world isn't the same without him. I've memorized his blog, I've read all the papers he's got lying around the flat. The very least I can do is provide a few suggestions, do my best. Don't need to worry about expenses now, I can at least remember him."
"John. It's not that. You're doing a great job," she assured him with a sincere smile.
"I can see it now. If he were here. Well, I wouldn't be touching anything. He'd just have me there. What did I even do?"
Molly shrugged, "You helped! And when you weren't helping... you watched him. And he watched you."
"He watched me?"
"All the time. Maybe you're the only other human he's ever really understood well." Molly adds the last bit as an afterthought, almost a question. Her phone went off, but she ignored it.
"He understood everyone." John retorted, feeling it obvious. Yes, he could see John, he could understand John, he could predict John.
"Yes, but... you... didn't borehim like everyone else. He could tolerate me or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson, but you... were different." Molly smiled. "Anyway, I've broken down the..."
John followed what she was saying quite easily. He nodded, and took notes of everything to go through it later. Like he would have done, but of course John wasn't a genius.
"Okay, I think I have enough data to sort through for now, if I need anything else I'll let you know. Anyway, what are you up to tonight?" John asked. He received a large grin in answer.
"I think I have a date. Of sorts," she said, giggling. John congratulated her. She of all people deserved to be happy. You deserve to be happy too, John, a small voice reminded him gently.
He returned to Baker Street shortly after, with a cabbie who spoke the poorest English in London. As he approached the door John noticed a note slipped under it. Perhaps for Mrs. Hudson.
He picked it up and went inside. Plain white paper, merely folded, addressed to John. STOP is all it said.
"Well tough luck because I've got nothing left to lose," John murmured, walking up the stairs to his flat. He unpacked his notebook, and retrieved the relevant papers and notes Sherlock had written, probably intending to have them published- he never wrote what he remembered unless it was for the boring people.
Three hours later, he thought he had a lead.
An hour after that, he disproved his theory.
Early into the morning, he spilled coffee on himself and on page 75 of Inferences into the Chemical Signatures of Various Fibers. And then came up with two more theories, only one of which was actually plausible.
The theory held strong into the morning. He texted Lestrade to look for the key missing clue that would mean he was right.
By the next morning, 11 am, he had awoken, amidst his mess of notes and papers, to find three missed texts.
Two from Lestrade- Found. Chased the guy down. Simple case after all. Good work, Watson.
-He'd be proud of you, I think.
From an anonymous number. - Excellent deduction Doctor.
A shiver went down his spine. Someone was watching him. Of course they were- especially after that note last night. But why would they still find him interesting unless-
"Sherlock is alive."
"Sherlock is alive."
A dark chuckle. The sound of fingers on the keypad of a phone.
He went to Sherlock's grave the next day. He was determined. He had brought flowers, of course, as was customary, with a note tucked inside, folded up small. The note said simply "I miss you."
Until you put it under blacklight. He'd written the whole thing to be seen under blacklight, a remnant of their last case together.
If you read this I am glad. If not you, then oh well, I suppose. I know you realise I still believe in you. I always have. I want to know what I have to do to get you to come back. Are Moriarty's men watching still watching me? Are you? Did your "death" not convince them? I need to know what to do, Sherlock. And I suppose I miss you as well. Not that my feelings would matter that much to you.
Find a way to let me know. Make it something I can recognise. Please. I will be watching.
He said nothing at the grave, just placed the flowers and hoped he was right.
John searched Sherlock's name that night, his heart aching at the pages with titles like "SHERLOCK'S A FRAUDDDD". But then, he saw a trailer on some video site for a sort of conspiracy film, titled simply "Holmes was Real". Most things in it were flat-out wrong, but they did get a fan-captured film of him picking out a murderer by his shoes.
The caption of the video read "Sherlock was NOT a fraud, but was FRAMED by Moriarty. If you've seen any of what he could do, you would believe him too. He was a genius. PRINT OUT A MISSING POSTER. ASK EVERYONE YOU KNOW. LET'S FIND SHERLOCK."
John sat back in his chair, just watching the video over and over.
"Those shoes. YOU! You're wearing the shoes of the killer. The treadmarks match, the distance between your thumb and forefinger match the killer's. The way you hold yourself suggests self-confidence issues, not in physical strength, obviously or you would have shot her instead. You killed Maureen Gibbons and you are going to jail. LESTRADE- OVER HERE!"
John felt himself smile for the first time in months. Oh yes, he missed this man. And he was alive. These people were right. At first, he'd dismissed his hope as denial that his best friend had jumped off that building. But he knew. Please Sherlock. Be alive. I need you so much.
He had to be.
He replayed the scene in his head- Of Sherlock standing on the top of the hospital, phone in hand, talking to John. The day his world stopped.
Mobile in hand.
Where was his phone?
Immediately he grabbed at his own mobile and texted Molly. No need calling, they could be overheard. Where was Sherlock's phone?
The response came quickly. Not on him. It must have been on the roof?
"Damn." John swore.
Who could have had his phone? Lestrade? No, he would have mentioned something. This was bigger, more fanciful. More... Mycroft.
Suddenly the image of Mycroft in the flat made more sense. If Sherlock was, indeed, alive, then his death was faked, then he would need friends in high places to make sure it looked real. John sprang to his feet, feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Mycroft had sat in this exact seat, reading, and then put the book back.
He jumped over to the nearest bookshelf, the one that Mycroft had put it back on. He pulled the book out gently and felt the warm feel of victory as the dim light reflected off the small plastic gadget.
He had Sherlock's phone.
Instantly, he grabbed it and then, remembering the possibility that he was being watched, he moved to the safest place in the flat- the kitchen. He'd once overheard Sherlock say that it was the best place to be if one thought that they were being watched from outside.
John pressed the power button and the screen lit up. Suddenly his hope didn't seem far-fetched at all.