Can be read as deep friendship of slash, it depends on what you personally want :)
Three years.
Just thinking about it made Sherlock feel tired. Three years he had been hunting down the members of Moriarty's network.
Three years of living on scraps and airport food.
Three years of terrible motels and sleeping in back alleys.
Three years of disguises, hair dyes, ill-fitting clothes and fake accents.
And worst of all, three years of having to depend on Mycroft.
He hardly felt like himself anymore.
But now it was over, it was finally, finally over. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand assassin was dead, Sherlock had put a bullet in his brain only 24 hours ago in Venice. All through these past three years Sherlock had been stoic, he never smiled, he never cried, he never showed any emotion of any kind. Except when he thought of home and that was only when he was curled up alone and trying to sleep.
When he'd shot Moran he'd laughed, not out of some sort of twisted happiness that he'd just taken a life, but out of pure happiness that it was finally over. He could go home. He could get his old coat back, start getting cases again, eat some proper food and most importantly, he could see John.
Oh, how he'd missed John.
A few months in to his endeavor Sherlock had requested his brother send him John's dog tags, that way John could be with him in a small way. He'd also asked for regular updates, but no pictures, he couldn't stand looking at his friend. It made Sherlock miss him too much.
John had almost gotten married but then his wife-to-be, Mary, had left him for somebody younger and more whole. Though he knew it would of pained his friend greatly he was glad, that woman clearly had no idea how lucky she had been.
Right now he was back in London for the first time in years, riding in the familiar black cabs through the brightly lit streets. He'd gotten a new dark trench coat, dyed his hair back to it's natural colour, though it needed to grow out a bit more and finally he felt like himself again.
He'd already visited Mycroft, explained how the job was finished and practically flew into the first cab he saw. John still lived at Baker Street and Sherlock was determined to join him.
-oOo-
John felt empty, he'd felt empty for three years, since the day his friend had stepped off that building and smashed into a thousand pieces, just like his heart. He felt as if Sherlock was an extension of his own body and missing him was like missing a limb. He didn't feel complete anymore.
For months he didn't leave the flat, he'd spent days at a time just sitting in his chair looking into the empty one opposite himself. Wanting nothing more than to will Sherlock back into existence. Even when he did leave his limp flared up terribly, it was even worse than before now.
The first night he wasn't even sure how he'd gotten home, Lestrade probably drove him but that didn't matter. He'd gone to Sherlock's room, locked himself inside and promptly collapsed on the bed, it took only seconds for the tears to form.
Why?!
He'd thought desperately Why did he have to lie? Take his own life?
If he'd just been there! He might of stopped him, maybe he could of stopped all of it if he had just been a good friend. He'd called him a machine for goodness sakes! Every day John thanked God that he'd gotten a chance to speak with Sherlock before he...died.
He could never live with himself if the last thing he'd said to his best friend was an insult. Still it didn't change anything, he still felt the guilt on his conscience. The hollow pain in his chest.
Mary had made things better for a while, he had something else to live for. But there was no danger, no excitement, all the colour in his life was dull and grey. Eventually she had tired of the night terrors and finding her fiance sobbing in the bathroom late at night. She'd found somebody else and John had been cast out into the cold once more.
He'd contemplated suicide. More than once actually. The day he'd met Sherlock he was thinking about using his browning to put a bullet through his brain and end it all. Bu by the end of that day the thoughts were gone.
They had come back with a vengeance.
He had ignored them, or at least tried but the dark voices of his brain were getting louder and louder every day. Right now they were screaming at him as he tried to sleep.
"You're supposed to be a solider! A Doctor! Yet you couldn't even save your best friend. You can't even walk properly. You're useless, a cripple, nobody wants you anyway! Why not do the world a favor!"
He rolled over and tried to push the dark thoughts away but they were persistent, and true.
"Sherlock never needed you. He just kept you around to stroke he ego. He didn't care about you, nobody does!"
Stop it, stop it...
"He drugged you for an experiment. He always left you behind. Face it you were just kidding yourself."
Just stop it!
John tossed trying to focus his brain on more pleasant things, unfortunately, there was very little happiness in the veterans life to focus on.
"He killed himself because of you."
With a choked sob John jumped out of bed and grabbed a shirt and some jeans to get dressed. He wasn't going to be sleeping any time soon.
He made his way to the kitchen and started making tea, his hands were still shaking. He didn't really want tea but it gave his mind something else to focus on, keep the blackness from enveloping him completely.
Darkly he wondered how long he would be able to hold it back until he finally snapped and made use of the hand gun in his draw.
His ears pricked when he heard footsteps on the staircase.
It wasn't Ms. Hudson, these steps were quicker than her and besides, she was visiting her sister in the country at the moment.
"She doesn't want to me around your ugly face."
His brain jabbed at him, he shook the thoughts away.
Who ever it was paused at the landing outside his door, probably a burglar of some sort. John contemplated opening the door and fighting him off but found he simply didn't have the energy. He didn't have the energy for anything anymore.
Killed in a home invasion wasn't exactly exciting, but it would save him the trouble somewhere down the track. So he ignored the sound, took a sip of his tea, sat down in Sherlock's chair and waited.
The door opened.
"John?"
John felt the mug slip through his fingers and smash on the floor.
"N-no...that's not possible..."
Sherlock stood in front of him. He was skinnier, paler, his eyes had dark circles but it was him. He'd finally lost it, he was going mad and dreaming up his dead friend, Oh God.
"John I-"
John stood up, this was too much. Oh God he couldn't take this!
The apparition stepped forwards, John stepped back, he'd completely forgotten about the tea on the floorboards he felt himself slip. He didn't really feel the hit to his head, more heard the dull thunk it made when the table came into contact with his skull. The ghost yelled out his name and then everything was gone.
That is one hell of a prologue...
This will be updated somewhere in the next few days :) Reviews are very very very welcome.