It had been months. John wasn't sure how many. He just knew that everyday he forced himself to get up out of bed, and everyday he hoped it had all just been a terrible dream. But when he woke up and the residuals of sleep finally left him, he was faced with the crushing reality and the bitter truth. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

John hadn't had the heart to move out of 221B. He had come home after Sherlock's memorial, feeling numb and tired. That feeling of numbness was slowly replaced with anger, a dull rage that built up until he couldn't take it any longer. He'd almost destroyed the apartment, unloading a magazine into the wall, smashing mugs and plates, and tearing up books.

When Mrs. Hudson had finally arrived back at the flat she didn't say anything, just let out a small "tut" and a sigh and made him a cup of tea. John sat in his armchair in the middle of debris and stared out the window, the mug clutched loosely in his hand. Mrs. Hudson looked at him sadly, and decided he just needed the time alone, quietly slipping out of the room.

In the weeks and months that had gone by, John had keep to himself, rarely leaving the apartment for anything other than work. He feel into a routine. Wake up, shower, eat, work, home, and bed. He didn't have the spirit to do anything else. He didn't want to. He stopped visiting his therapist after a while, realizing he couldn't give a damn about what some snobby woman with a PhD had to say about his "emotional damage".

And maybe he was damaged. In fact, he knew he was damaged. He knew exactly why, and that nothing would ever make him feel right again. It was all because Sherlock had died, and he had died not knowing how John felt.

Because John Watson was a bloody idiot and he hadn't had the courage to tell him.

It didn't help that he saw him everywhere, either. Everywhere John went, there was the constant reminder that Sherlock was gone and that he was alone. In the months since his death, there had been a small cult following that had formed. People who believed in Sherlock... people who thought Moriarty was real and that the great consulting detective wasn't dead, but hiding off somewhere in Morocco.

John couldn't think like that.

But, oh, how he wanted to. And maybe that's why he thought he saw him everywhere. In line at the self-checkout at the store. Slinking through the crowd of people walking down Baker street. And John had thought for a second, that he had seen him in the mass of people in the 2012 London Olympics coverage.

Every time that would happen, John felt his heart jump into his throat and his stomach clench. Maybe it had all been a trick. A clever ruse that Sherlock had pulled off, one last jab at Moriarty. Maybe Sherlock would show up at the door one day, that little smirk on his face that John found so endearing, and with a small tightening of his scarf and a swish of his coat, they would be off. Solving crimes, stopping criminals. And together. Always together.

John hadn't wanted to, but slowly and surely, he had given up. He had given up hope that Sherlock was alive and waiting for the right moment to come out of the shadows.

One day, John was sitting in 221B with a cup of tea in one hand and a newspaper in the other. His mobile buzzed on the table beside him and he sighed, folding the newspaper and resting the cup against his knee. He reached for the phone and clicked the message, his throat constricting as he read its contents.

He threw the phone at the wall, standing up swiftly and the mug fell to the ground, shattering and causing tea to seep slowly over the floorboards. He had locked himself in his room, and hadn't heard when Mrs. Hudson came down to inquire about the noise. She let out a frustrated sigh when she saw the cup and shook her head tiredly, puttering off to find a tea towel and and a bin for the broken china.

She picked up the phone off the ground and stared at it warily. She couldn't understand why the message, "Hello, John-SH" had made him so upset. But then again, she never had understood cell phones.

She finished up with her cleaning and set the phone on the table. She shook her head, and muttered to herself how she still wasn't his bloody housekeeper.

Several days passed and John had not touched his phone. He wasn't sure who had gotten his number and why they thought it would be a good joke to send him that message, but Christmas was coming and he was already in a poor mood. He didn't need this as well.

Mrs. Hudson had invited Molly and Greg over for Christmas Eve dinner. It was a very quiet affair, all of them aware of the fact that last Christmas, though awkward, had had its silence filled by the soft, melodic hum of Sherlock's violin.

They left at 10:00pm, quite early in the night to be leaving a party, and John wasn't sad to see them go. He didn't enjoy their company as much as he once had when he had a tall, dark haired consulting detective by his side.

John went to bed, curling tiredly into his sheets. He fell asleep quickly, but awoke just two hours later when the sound of the doorbell rang through the flat. He groaned, pulling the blankets over his head. The ringing continued, and John cursed, sliding on his robe. Mrs. Hudson usually got the door but her medication must have kept her down for the count.

He stumbled down the stairs and looked at the clock on the wall. Who the bloody hell would ring someone's doorbell at 12:00am? On Christmas day none the less. He unlocked the door and wiped his eyes tiredly.

"Couldn't this have bloody wait, it's-" He cut off, having finally focused on the figure outside the door. He stood gaping, trying to make sense of what he saw. "That's-"

"Impossible? Surely not, considering the fact that I'm standing right here." John looked on stunned, as the man gave him a familiar smirk.

"You aren't..."

"Dead? Really, John. I would have expected better from you." John lunged at the man, laying a heavy-handed punch on the edge of his jaw. The man stumbled back, his dark curly hair falling into his shocked blue eyes. He clutched confusedly at his face, lightly touching the area where a bruise had already begun to form.

"That was... rather unexpected. I thought you would have been pleased to see me."

John was rather shocked too. But then again, maybe he wasn't. The anger he had first felt when he came back from the memorial was filling him again.

"You were dead. You were bloody dead, Sherlock. I saw you fall. I saw them cart off your broken body. I spent MONTHS hoping you were alright, and you didn't give so much as a BLOODY PHONE CALL!"

Sherlock touched his bruise gingerly, still surprised at the blow. "I sent you a text." John's face reddened.

"THAT WAS 7 DAYS AGO, SHERLOCK. YOU'VE BEEN GONE FOR MONTHS." Sherlock looked over the army doctor who stood in his house robe. He'd forgotten how much he missed him.

"I'm sorry."

John lunged towards him again, but this time he pulled Sherlock towards him. He pulled him into his arms and Sherlock paused, before returning the embrace. They stood there together, wrapped in each other's arms in the middle of the street. It was cold, but that didn't matter to either of them. They were together. Always together.

"Merry Christmas, John."