John truly believed that home was about the people in it. People whom you loved and who loved you, people who made your life a little more colourful with their presence. People gave you something to return to.
John knows he had a home once, a long time ago. He doesn't remember that feeling very clearly any longer. John doesn't really remember a lot of things. He doesn't really remember bright eyes lighting up with sudden realizations, he doesn't really remember a voice smoothly delivering that which was improbable but perfectly possible. Sometimes, if he closes his eyes and thinks very hard, he can almost conjure up an image of a tall figure in a long black coat. He thinks that if he can just remember properly, if he can just hold on to that image of Sherlock for long enough it will become real. But every time he tries to get a hold, the image dissipates into a cloud of memories and forgotten emotions. Then the tears begin to flow.
It's beautiful out as the cold wind and bright sunlight dance, casting a golden shadow on everything. John slowly walks to the black marble stone, smooth and inscrutable, just like the man it commemorates. John salutes it solemnly- it is his custom now. He slowly sits under a tall birch tree which has blossomed over Sherlock's grave, hiding it from the elements. His health wasn't what is used to be.
"Hello, Sherlock," he says, his voice filling the empty air. "How- how're you? I'm- I'm fine. Everything's fine. Molly's a grandmum, did you know? I sent her your best wishes. She looked at me a bit funny. I think it's because you would never give anyone best wishes for anything, but we've got to be polite, Sherlock. We've got to be- polite."
John sits in silence for a while. There is nobody else at the graveyard.
"You know when I said everything was fine? I lied. Well, you probably already knew that but I thought I'd best say it. I'm not fine. I haven't been fine for a very long time. My heart's giving out, apparently. I'd care if things were different, but…
"I walked past Baker Street the other day. I wanted to go into 221B but I couldn't. I couldn't. I didn't touch any of your things when I left. I bet your chemicals have all gone off by now. I didn't touch those either. They're yours until you come back for them. I give you fair warning though; the place is probably thick with dust. I don't think anyone's been in to clean for a while.
"It's been thirty years to the day you d-"John can't bring himself to say the word. "It's been shit, Sherlock. There's nothing left for me here anymore. You took it all with you. Thirty years. Thirty years. That's eternity. That's two eternities. Maybe this is what hell is. Nothing. Infinite years of nothingness. I don't think there can be any worse torture. I wonder I haven't offed myself long before now. I guess I never had the guts. I'm a coward. You're the brave one. Funny, I always thought it was the other way around.
"I wonder what you'd deduce about me if you could see me. 'Decrepit old man. Obvious heart problems. Clearly suffering from depression. He's lost someone recently, judging from his demeanor and overall appearance.' But I lost you thirty years ago. It feels like yesterday and last century at the same time. I miss you. Sometimes I miss you so much it suffocates me, it paralyzes me. I just lie there for hours, staring at nothing. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I scream. The screaming's the ugly bit though, so I shan't go into that."
John closes his eyes and tries to remember. Curly black hair. A pale, sharp face. A long neck. A black coat.
He laughs. "I can almost see you now, you know." Gleaming eyes. Slender fingers. "It's a lot clearer this time. God, remember that time when we ran after that cab? I didn't know you could run so fast! 'Welcome to London.'" John starts to laugh.
"D'you remember? Do you remember, Sherlock?" John's laugh dies on the wind and a searing pain seizes his chest.
An intelligent mouth. Nicotine patches. Slowly, the details begin to fill in.
John begins to wheeze, clutching his chest. The Sherlock in his head grows bigger and clearer, until it's the only thing he's aware of. He doesn't know what real anymore.
"Sherlock," he gasps. "Sherlock."
Sherlock smiles. John smiles back, and in an instant, all the world and all the past fades away.
The sun and the wind stop their dance. Everything is still. But somewhere, somehow, there are two men chasing after a London cab, their laughs flying on the air, casting a golden shadow on everything.