Just an idea (also inspired by twenty one pilots; The run and go)
It's been one year since Sherlock "died"(the fall), it's raining/night time(one in the morningish), John's still at Baker's street *alone*, and nothing is currently trying to kill John/Sherlock in about a 5 mile radius.
He was awake. John was awake, and while his body begged for a merciful sleep, his mind had other plans, which turned out to be the case that remained unsolved most nights. This night was no exception as he continued to toss and turn with a head full of memories. All painful and ceaseless. Not that he kept count of them anymore. They all were some varied repetition of war trauma or of his dead-no, not dead. Not dead, his best friend, Sherlock was not dead. He couldn't be. John couldn't believe he was dead.
Everyone, other then Anderson, who'd gone bat shit crazy, believed it though. Believed the greatest detective, the greatest person he'd ever known or would know, was dead. And John just couldn't do that. He'd stay awake for hours just trying to work out another possibility, uncover the mystery, solve the puzzle! But nothing would come up. Nothing... nothing that would alter what he saw.
"God, Sherlock...Damn it." John muttered to himself rubbing his hands over his face for the 12th time that night. Anger momentarily replacing his grief. "Couldn't you have been a damn showoff this one time!" He yelled at the darkness, the sound of rain pattering outside his only response. Hands curling into the sheets beneath him, he seethed and dwelt in his thoughts.
After a few moments, though, his body called for a different relief. Getting up and heading to the bathroom, John didn't hear the creak of the window being opened in the living room. Nor did he hear the creaking of the floorboards as someone of familiarity ghosted through the house. No, John didn't notice a single thing even as he plopped back on his bed. He did, however, notice the abrupt "Ahem" that came from across the room.
Diving off the bed and quickly darting whoever was in the room into the wall he stuttered out, "W-who are you? What are you doing in my room and...and.." John trailed off as the figure loomed over him a good foot at least. Dripping wet from the rain and breathing raggedly, as if they'd just run a mini marathon, the person almost seemed familiar...
John's throat constricted painfully and he could all but stumble back, releasing the other who stood motionless against the wall. His mind racing and body shaking as he finally mumbled out, "Sh-sherlock...?" When said man didn't respond John crumbled to floor and scooted against the side of his bed. Curling further into the fetal position. "Oh my god... Oh my god, I've finally lost it!" He proclaimed, his hands flying to his head and massaging his temples. His own breathing rising a notch or two as the man, Sherlock, slowly approached the other.
He flinched even further when the other walked over to him, put his hands on his knees, looked him straight in the eye and said, "John would you like me to proof to you that I am Sherlock Holmes, or can we skip this little game for another time as my time here is limited as is." And with that a full minute passed between the two with John's breathing slowly going back to normal.
And then came the fist landing quite fittingly on Sherlock's left cheek. Followed by a desperate set of arms crushing Sherlock in a bear hold just as quickly. Gasping, panicked breathes, John muttering only half coherent words saying, "I...I thought you were d-dead all this t-time and you never, never responded!" Sherlock in response stiffened slightly. Before slowly standing, John rising with him, and pushing them forward to land on the bed. Flopping down on John, Sherlock wrapped his lengthy arms around John's waist and pressed his face into his chest. The faster then normal beating heart of John Watson quickly becoming the greatest sound Sherlock had ever heard.
For a few minutes they remained in this position. One trying to truly believe that this was happening, the other enjoying the moment. But when John started to laugh, Sherlock was very, very concerned. Lifting himself on his elbows, Sherlock was about to ask when John finally giggled out. "You're actually here! Sherlock bloody Holmes is alive and soaking wet on my bed!" "I must say John, your taste is truly impeccable." Sherlock replied smiling as they both chuckled to the other.
"Also, get off me. This position is weird and your fucking wet still!" John said pushing the other off him and to the side of the bed. Sherlock in response, arms still around John's hips, curled cat like around him even more. "Ughhh." John sighed in bemusement and turned to face the other man with the cocky grin on. "You know, I always imagined I'd get to hit you more then once for this." He said half tempted to do just that, but to comfortable to move.
Sherlock smiled in response and hugged John more. Which was actually starting to disturb John a little. "Sherlock, something the matter? You're usually not this clingy.. And how the hell are you here?" John asked trying to scoot back a little. To his surprise, Sherlock just tightened his hold and placed his head atop of John's. "Sorry... But I can't help doing this occasionally." "Doing what occasionally?" John peeped, growingly worried. "This. What we're doing currently, this isn't the first time and it won't be the last. I just can't help not stopping by... Again, sorry about this." And with that something connected to the back of John's neck and his body stiffened as the liquid entered his veins.
"What...?" "You can't remember me being here, just like the times before, not now." The needle left John's neck and was flung non-too-quietly off to the floor. "Also, don't worry, you're not an active Ketamine user so you'll just be experiencing a bit of a black out, memory loss, and some hallucinations. I won't leave until you're knocked out or until absolutely necessary." Sherlock continued putting a quick kiss to the top of John's head as slurred incoherent words tried to make out a reply.
For a few minutes, this is how it stayed. Then John started giggling madly and Sherlock couldn't help smiling a bit. The drug was setting in, and from the sounds of it, they were good hallucinations. Heaven only knew what happened when they went bad. Content with John out of it and himself still holding him, Sherlock allowed his eyes to close briefly.
When John woke up several hours later, a blinding headache greeted him... along with an aspirin he didn't remember placing on the bed stand. "Wonderful, god I'm starting to hate stormy nights." He muttered to himself. The usual stormy night blackout had occurred, and just like always, he took the aspirin he couldn't recall putting there. Standing, he continued to mutter to himself, completely missing the text message from a blocked number.
"Good morning, enjoy the aspirin."
A/N: Yeahhh, not too good at ending stuff and what not. Anyway, hopefully that was entertaining for a spur of the moment fanfic.