A tired, nearly lifeless John H. Watson peered into the mirror, examining his reflection off the dingy glass. All that once seemed wonderfully bright about him now seemed dull and useless. His eyes, which were once filled with laughter and sparkled with happiness, now appeared listless and unappealing. Over the past six months, John had begun a deep, downward spiral into an abyss of depression so deep that he had no hope of digging himself out. It showed in his overall appearance. He'd not showered in over a week, and his hair was a mess. His cheeks and chin had begun to grow stubbly, as he had given up on shaving. He did not find any real reason to do so. He couldn't even find a reason to change his clothing, which had begun to smell rather oddly.
John stepped back, examining his wrinkled dressing gown that he'd worn for a while. You're a mess, John, he told himself. His hand shook out of habit as he reached toward the nearly unused cane that rested against the wall. It'd recently gotten an abundance of use, especially in the days following his best friend's unexpected death. He then reached up with his right hand and patted the pocket of his robe, feeling his mobile phone against his chest. The phone had gone unused for months. Text messages and calls from Mycroft faded and eventually disappeared as he gave up on apologizing for John's loss. Old, meaningless messages from his companion were now archived in his mobile. They were all John had left beside the few things that'd been left in the flat that reminded him of his curly haired friend.
A knock on the door startled John, and he turned toward the open door. The landlady stood in the doorway, a somber look in her eyes.
"Oh, John… You need to get out. Perhaps a visit to the grocer will do you some good. It's nice outside and your fridge could use filling." She said, obviously trying desperately to get John to leave the flat for even fifteen minutes.
John shrugged. "I don't really want to."
Ms. Hudson shook her head sadly. "Then perhaps a cup of tea would make you feel a bit better?" she asked, hoping to be helpful to the miserable man that stood before her.
In reply, the former army doctor shook his head, allowing his gaze to slip to the floor. Ms. Hudson sighed audibly and turned to leave.
"If you need anything, don't hesitate to shout, John." She shouted as she headed down the stairs.
After John heard the door to her flat close, he trudged to the couch, lying across it and groaning. He allowed his cane to drop onto the hardwood floor. Deep within his abdomen, John's stomach growled in hunger, but he didn't care enough to feed himself. If his only friend could survive during cases without eating, he could survive until he came back. He WILL come back… right? John's eyes stung with sleep deprivation. He closed them to ease the pain a bit, laying his hand across his stomach. A few moments passed, and John's deep breathing slowed as he slipped into a deep slumber.
The calm, nearly empty field in which there had been a case to solve unfolded before John. The wind blew through his sandy blonde hair, messing it up considerably. A taxi pulled up on the twisting road behind him, and John instinctively got in, half expecting to see a man wearing a trench coat and deep purple scarf. He didn't, though. The cab drove quickly, and John watched the scenery whiz past the clear windows of the car. An uneasy feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. Though the cab was undoubtedly traveling at hundreds of miles per hour, the time seemed to elapse incredibly slowly. Following what seemed like an eternity, the taxi pulled onto a familiar street, slowing to a stop. John got out, looking up to see St. Bart's. The façade of the hospital was dampened visibly with rain. As John turned and closed the door, a shrill ringing broke his concentration. The ringing grew louder and more urgent until-
John sat upright on the couch, sweating unbearably. His once idle mobile now rang aloud in his pocket. Groggy with unfinished sleep, John reached into his pocket and produced his phone, pressing the green button and lifting it to his ear.
"What in the name of bloody he—" John began to rant, furious with having been woken up.
"Hello, John." A deep, welcoming voice mumbled.
John's jaw dropped. The familiarity of the voice hit him deeply as he searched his mind for a response. He's waiting. Don't make him wait. The phantom pain in John's leg shot through him.
"She-Sherlock?" John stammered, unable to form any other cohesive sentence.
The man on the other end of the call chuckled. "Of course."
"N-no! You're dead! You jumped off a building! You're dead!" John shouted, overwhelmed.
An eerie silence followed John's shouts, and the call cut off. For a moment, John stared at the mobile in his hand, wondering just how he'd managed to dream up such a call while being so sure he was fully awake. He'd probably yelled at some poor stranger that they were Sherlock Holmes, and that they were dead. You really need to sleep better…
The sound of footsteps echoing through the normally quiet flat caught John's attention. He looked up toward the front door. Black, well-polished shoes, followed by long black pants and a trench coat told John that his mysterious caller had found his way in. The higher John's gaze went, the more uncomfortable he became. Finally, John felt the icy gaze of two sharp blue-grey eyes which could only belong to one person. John gasped and shook his head, pulling himself off the couch and wrapping his dressing gown tighter around himself.
Sherlock laughed softly as John ran toward him, nearly tripping over his own feet. John's arms wrapped hard around Sherlock's neck, squeezing tightly. Sherlock hugged his dear friend back, not daring to let go. John took in everything about him. His scent, the dampness of his coat, his warmth and the gentle beating of his heart within his chest. John loved it all. He inhaled every single detail of his friend, trying hard to forget his six month absence. Sherlock breathed deeply, trying to avoid the possibility of crying. Crying, of course, would ruin everything that Sherlock tried so hard to preserve in his long year and a half that he'd spent with John before the accident. He found it hard, however, to contain his overwhelming amount of emotion. Hot tears formed in his eyes, but he tried desperately to keep them back.
"Welcome home, Sherlock." John whispered into Sherlock's long trench coat, causing a few tears to slip down his pale cheeks silently.
Silence followed, and for a few minutes, the slim consulting detective held onto his companion. Neither of them said a word, but all the emotion changed the aura of the room. John, still very tired, closed his eyes tightly. He felt them burn with lack of sleep as he let Sherlock hold his weight. Sherlock felt the extra weight leaning on him, and he pulled John into his arms. He carried him to his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. He provided a soft lullaby. Though he would have rather played something on his violin, it was nowhere in sight. Sherlock looked down at John, cradled in his arms. A soft smile played on John's lips as he slept.
Pulling John closer, Sherlock whispered, "I won't let go this time…"