John sat in his chair, studying the pattern of the wallpaper before him. The wallpaper was riddled with bulletholes, and he sat and remembered how they got there. The memories sent a pang of remorse through his heart. The man who made them had been gone for a year now, and John wasn't any better off.
That was, until he heard the door of his flat creak open. Surely Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be up at 2AM? Standing to approach the trespasser, John grabbed his gun, but it clattered to the ground when he turned and saw the man in the doorway. The lank figure, the black curls, and god, those cheekbones. Nothing about him differed from John's memory.
"Sh...Sherlock?"
"Hello, John."
John swallowed. "You...you're dead. I saw you. You fell from a roof."
"Ah, yes. That took quite some thinking to pull off."
"You faked it?"
"Resurrection isn't scientifically possible, John."
John shook his head and let out a relieved laugh. "Same as always...Just the same..." To this Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, though his countenance turned to one of surprise when John's lips cascaded onto his.
The doctor pulled back after a moment. "I...Wow. Um. I'm sorry. It's just that I wanted to do that since I met you and I've waited long enough."
And much to John's surprise, Sherlock chuckled. "I don't know how you do it."
"Do what?"
"Surprise me. You're the only person I've met whose actions I can't predict."
"Is that...good?"
The detective suddenly wrapped his arms around John's waist. "It keeps things from getting boring."
John couldn't believe it. Sherlock was alive. Better yet, Sherlock was alive and not rejecting him. Nothing could possibly be better. He smiled and pulled Sherlock closer to him, resting his head on his shoulder and sighing in complete satisfaction with the world.
Lestrade looked through the bars of the window in the door. John was twirling around the room again, hugging his pillow to him tightly and muttering Sherlock, Sherlock, you're here over and over again. His hospital gown billowed around him until he fell back onto his bed, cuddling the pillow and kissing it.
His brain hadn't been right since the day after the funeral, when Mrs. Hudson found him passed out on the floor of his flat, empty pill bottle in hand. She'd had him taken to the hospital and saved, where he'd been ever since, but never again in the right condition.
Lestrade lowered his head in sympathy for the poor man, but there was nothing he could do, so he set off to pay his respects to the grave of the very-much-dead Sherlock. It had been a year since his death, and nothing was getting better.