John sat there, casting his mind back to the time he was happy, back when Sherlock still walked, back when he was alive and real. Now all he saw was images of Sherlock that his mind had created. 3 years to this day since Sherlock had taken that fall over the hospital, after he left John alone, to wither away. At least that's how John felt. His phone was filled with unsent messages addressed to Sherlock. He could never work up the courage to send one. He couldn't face not receiving a reply, only proving more how un-real Sherlock had become, how he was only part of the past now. He picked his phone up, sat in Sherlock's chair, curled up in his own jumpers. He'd long ago stopped wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. He told himself it was because he had moved on, but he knew the truth, no matter how much he feared to admit it. It just didn't have that Sherlock smell anymore. He was reading through his texts, wondering how people would think of him if they saw he was texting a dead man. John never really believed he was dead, deep down he knew it was true. The images of Sherlock walking through the streets had caused him to go back to his psychiatrist. He saw Sherlock everywhere, but he was dead. Lost in thought he was caused to jump when his phone buzzed. Not many people texted him now, only Mycroft occasionally to tell him he was keeping his eye on him. Expecting the same he sighed and opened the text.

John, I'm coming home. –SH

At first John was stunned, receiving a text from the dead man he wished to be alive every day. For a moment he believes it true. He was excited, his flatmate was alive he was texting him. John hadn't felt this good in 3 years, that was until he realised what was going on. He felt his heart drop and fill with anger. This was a cruel trick to play. He sat in thought for a minute, attempting to compose a reply. Something clever, something to play back with, but he just ended up upsetting himself. Cursing himself for believing that Sherlock could actually be alive. " I took his pulse for God's sake, there wasn't one!". He couldn't reply with a smart comeback, in fact he couldn't think of anything at all. He was upset and angry. He was suffering enough without this aggravation and torment.

Who is this? Stop joking and leave me alone- JW

John couldn't deal with this now, he couldn't deal with it any time. There was rarely a day when he smiled, if he did it was forced out for the benefits of others. How could he smile when his best friend had killed himself over some silly game? His phone buzzed again, he was nervous this time, not sure what to expect.

John, it is me. I am sorry. –SH

He knew this person wouldn't give up. John knew he was in for a long night.

Who is 'me'? Please just stop this. –JW

He couldn't help but beg, the emotions inside him started to dwell on him again. Another text came through, almost instantly. The same number. He put his phone down and went to make a cup of tea. Two cups taken down from the cupboard, one heavy sigh, a fight to push back the tears, and one cup placed back in the cupboard. He could hear his phone going off, once, twice, three times...

The kettle boiled and he made his tea and walked back into the room. As he sat back down in Sherlock's chair the phone went off again. Four texts. Preparing himself for what he knew to be a torturous night he opened the texts.

Sherlock, it's me John! Do you not see it is me! –SH

Ha. Likely, why not play along John, play the broken hearted best friend. Give this sick bastard his kicks.The next texts he read one after the other, no thought or break between. Why he did this he did not know.

Do you remember the time we played cluedo? –SH

And you lost your temper with me because the rules were wrong? –SH

We got into an argument –SH

Oh... oh my god he thought to himself. How would they, how would they know this. There's no way anybody could know about this, this was an evening in, in a dry spell as John liked to call it. Sherlock hadn't had a case in week and was unbearable. " If only I could have known how we would end up, I would have enjoyed his quirks more." He started his reply. He started to believe it was Sherlock. That maybe, just maybe there was a chance he was alive.

Oh my god. It's really you, isn't it? –JW

The texts came through before he had even sent his reply. He wasn't sure what to make of himself, what started off as what he thought to be a cruel sick joke, was rapidly turning into false hope. His mind cast back to that day, started looking into it in more detail, trying to find any possible way he had survived.

Now the board is stuck to the wall with a knife? –SH

Not convincing, many people paid visits to the flat, it wasn't exactly something hard to spot. He wasn't convinced, but still the hope grew in him. He tries to fight it, push it down. He doesn't want to be let down again, he doesn't want to lose Sherlock twice. Especially when he hadn't even got him back.

John Watson, it's me. Sherlock Holmes –SH

I'm alive. I am sorry –SH

There was no way around that. Either somebody's really done their research into our history and studied Sherlock. But that day he saw Sherlock fall he had stood there on the phone as Sherlock handed him his note, stood there as that body fell to the ground, ran to the ground where he lay, surrounded by people. The blood covered corpse that had no pulse. The pulse that John Watson himself had searched for. He didn't want to believe anymore, all of a sudden he wanted it to be true. For Sherlock to just be dead, and not be in this situation. He hated himself for saying that. He had to believe, he'd believed for three years, driven himself insane over the thoughts going over in his mind.

How can this be? I saw you fall! I checked your pulse! –JW

This time the text took a while to come through. He still wasn't convinced it was Sherlock. Sherlock had died, right in front of his eyes. There's no way he could have survived that fall. ' But then again. It was Sherlock...'

The text finally came through, two at once. They had been delayed. Both at once, he read them straight away, read them as one.

It was a trick John! I told you to keep your eye on me but you didn't! –SH

John, I died for you. I died because I care for you, but I'm coming back. I'm alive –SH

Caring? There's no way this could be Sherlock, he didn't care for any one. John wasn't sure what to make of this or himself. Thoughts rushing through his head, he couldn't type out the reply. Not yet, he knew what to say, but he had to think it through. Think it all through. Caring isn't like Sherlock, but the random nature and bluntness in which this information was being told, no one else would do this. No one else would die for three years and declare their existence through text. No one's that thoughtless. Sherlock was alive.

No, no. This isn't real. –JW

The next couple of texts came through almost instantaneously. John barely had time to think, or make heads and tails of things.

I've missed you John, and your jumpers. –SH

John, this is real. Remember what I've always said to you? –SH

John raked his brains, trying to remember. There wasn't anything, this was all happening much too quickly, and the chance of it still being a prank was high. He wasn't willing to make a fool of himself by allowing himself to believe. But still, curiosity got the better of him.

What? –JW

Remove all the factors, and whatever remains, however impossible, must be true –SH

Again, John's mind flashed back to times Sherlock had said this, causing him to follow Sherlock blindly, maybe he should grant this one more time, more texts came through before he even had time to decide.

John. I am alive. Please, believe me –SH

How can I prove to you this is real –SH

John was fully aware that this could be a hallucination again. He was scared more than anything, he was hoping that this could be Sherlock. That he could be alive, that maybe just maybe this wasn't fake, or a cruel joke, or his mind playing tricks because he couldn't cope with the death of Sherlock. How could Sherlock prove to John he was alive and that this was real. Sherlock was stood outside 221 B, his coat turned up against the wind. He wouldn't go in to visit the doctor until he was sure it was safe. He couldn't put the doctor through more trauma then needed. He wasn't even going about this very well. But it was either this or just turning up, and even Sherlock knew turning up wasn't a wise idea. He had to convince John he was alive first. Convince him he wasn't mental and that this was actually happening. His fingers froze in the cold, but he would sit here in the weather. It was the least he could do for John after the 3 years he had put him through. Sherlock still wasn't aware of the full extent to which he had ruined Doctor John Watson.