Dear Sherlock,
Everything is okay.
Except for when it isn't, and that seems to be all the time anymore.
I'm not really sure what to do, now that you're gone. Mrs. Hudson is still letting me stay, even though I can hardly afford rent at Baker Street without you. Your disgusting experiments have been cleared away, but I miss them.
I miss you. So does Lestrade, even though he won't admit it to anyone.
I've applied for a new job in the Intensive Care Unit at Bart's, but Molly recommends that I don't take it. She says it wouldn't be good for my health to work around all the memories. Of you, I think she means. Maybe she's right. I'm not sure I'm ready to go back to Bart's. Not since you - well, you know.
I really wish you were alive to read this, because I don't know what to do without you. That sounds stupid, I know. But everything is so… bland. Lestrade won't let me in on cases, because, let's face it, I wasn't supposed to be there in the first place. The damn limp is back, too, and I can't seem to remember what I did with my cane, after the man from the restaurant brought it back. Do you have any idea?
Of course, if you did, I wouldn't need it.
Sincerely yours,
John H. Watson.
As John finished typing, he closed his laptop and sat it aside. No one had read his blog in months, since Sherlock had been "exposed" as a fake, and of course had… died. The counter remained on zero.
John sighed, and stood to limp his way into the ridiculously clean kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. As the water warmed, he opened the cabinet and grabbed his favourite mug. When it was finished, he poured it into his mug, and returned to the living room, where he collapsed into his chair.
For a while, he sat in silence. He sipped at the freshly made tea absentmindedly, before placing it down on the table beside him and pick his computer back up. Opening it, he noted the still-open blog, and refreshed the page. The counter said 1.
He blinked. That was odd. After all this time, and 1 person visits his blog? Shaking it off, he figured someone must have just gone to the page by accident.
John put the computer away again, and stood up to go and get dressed for his appointment with his therapist. She'd be happy that he'd written something about what was happening to him.
When he was finally dressed, John lumbered down the stairs and walked out the front door, muttering a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as he passed. The streets of London were already busy, as per usual. John stepped out to the edge of the road and hailed a cab, which came rather quickly, much to his surprise. He had never had much luck getting a cab before. Climbing in to the back seat, he tried to ignore the fact that the driver was wearing a deerstalker. He muttered the address of his therapist, and gazed out the window, watching everyone pass by.
As the cab pulled up to his destination, John climbed out, tossed some money at the cabbie, whose face stayed hidden as he looked down, and turned for the door.
"Goodbye, John," he thought he heard a whisper behind him. He turned around, and the cab had pulled away.
He decided it was his imagination; Hearing Sherlock's last words to him.
Several uncomfortable topics later, John emerged from his therapist's office, pulling his phone out of his pocket to find an unread message.
Baker St. Come at once, if convenient. - SH
He froze. Blinked his eyes. Stared at the message. Looked wildly all around him.
If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH
He felt as though he was about to collapse. Who would play such a cruel joke? His phone buzzed again.
Could be dangerous. - SH
By now, John's rage had gotten the best of him. He dashed off down the street, forgetting his limp, and arrived at Baker Street in record time. As he approached the door, he noticed a note, written in an uncomfortably familiar handwriting.
Crime in progress. Please disturb.
For gods sake, this person was going too far with this practical joke. John ripped the note off of the door and dashed inside and up the stairs, prepared to kill.
Just as he reached the landing, he froze.
The familiar scratching of a violin was coming from the living room.
He turned the corner very slowly, climbing the last of the steps with wide eyes. Through the door he could see, quite clearly, the tall, thin - thinner than John remembered - form of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes.
He was in the doorway before Sherlock finally turned around, putting down the violin and looking directly into his eyes.
"How -"
"Can't explain now, John. I have one more thing to take care of."
It was then that John realized there was a man sitting in his chair, tied up and badly beaten. Sherlock quickly grabbed the man, looking at him with utter disgust.
"Phone Lestrade. Tell him we've had another break in at Baker Street, and that this one miraculously fell through the window, too. But, tragically, he didn't survive the fall."
He then snapped the man's neck, and he slumped, lifeless, into Sherlock's arms as he was heaved over to the window and thrown out.
John just stared the whole time, not moving, not blinking, barely even breathing. Sherlock turned back around to face him.
"That," he said, by way of explanation, "was the last of Moriarty's web, and the reason that I am no longer dead."
"You mean you -" John started. Sherlock had approached him and was quite close when John suddenly realized he had tears forming in his eyes. He swallowed, hard. "You dick."
Sherlock smiled. "This wasn't exactly how I'd imagined our reunion."
"And uhm, just exactly how did you imagine it then?"
Sherlock's hand reached up and gently touched John's face, feeling the stubble there, gliding down to his neck, wear his pulse point was. Elevated. Just as he'd expected it to be. He took a half step closer. Erratically elevated. Leaning down, Sherlock pressed his lips lightly to John's, whispering against them, "Something more like this."
John at first did not respond out of pure shock. Then, as Sherlock started to shyly pull away, John attacked him, pulling him closer and burying his hands in Sherlock's hair, kissing him harder than he had ever kissed anyone before.
Several minutes went by and they stayed like that. Pulling. Kissing. Feeling.
Until, that is, they were distracted by the sound of a siren outside of the flat.
Sherlock chuckled. "Perhaps it's time to make that call to Lestrade now."