Sherlock paid the cab fair, then turned to face the old door that he had once called home.

It seemed so long ago now since he had stood on that particular piece of pavement. He used to unlock the door, and feel at home as soon as his foot crossed the threshold. And, even though it had been ten months, Sherlock still felt the same about the old place. This was still his home...he just hadn't lived there for a while. It would be the same as going on holiday for a long time, like everyone else in the country did on a yearly basis. Not that Sherlock saw the point in holidays...

Well. There was nothing else to do now but go and explain to John that he wasn't really dead. It couldn't be that hard.

Fishing his old, unused keys out of his coat pocket, Sherlock entered the building. It was quiet inside. There was deathly silence, and it was hard to tell whether anyone was in or not. Sherlock was unfazed by this, though. He jogged up the stairs and headed for his flat.

He was pleased to see that not much had been moved in his absence. His skull was still sat on the mantelpiece. The furniture hadn't been rearranged. All his books were exactly where he had left them – untouched and unread. And, best of all, his beloved violin was still in the corner; covered with dust, but yearning to be played.

All of his science equipment was missing, however. But Sherlock presumed it had just gone into storage. It could quickly be put back again.

After making a pot of tea and settling himself down into that familiar armchair, Sherlock brushed the dust off his beloved violin and began to play a tune he had composed himself, many moons ago. He was a little out of practice to begin with, but was soon playing smoothly and wonderfully, just like he used to do.

John, however, had just been to the supermarket. Mrs Hudson had offered to do it for him, but John had insisted. He couldn't sit around all day every day in the flat. There were too many memories there. He needed to get out and away, and had found himself just wandering the streets on many occasions, just for something to do. But, wherever he went, there was always something that reminded him of his best friend. There was always some graffiti that had looked like the code from The Blind Banker case, or a woman with a pink phone case that looked exactly like the one from A Study in Pink. Or a man with a high collared-coat, or blue scarf...

John sighed. It had been tough getting through Sherlock's death. When he first came back from Afghanistan, it had been incredibly difficult for him to adjust to civilian life and forget the horrific images he had seen in battle. But Sherlock had made all of that go away. And then, just as he was finding something that made his days seem a little less long, and his nights a little easier to sleep through, Sherlock had jumped from the top of Bart's Hospital, and fell to his death.

It had been a while since John had written a blog entry. His blog had consisted of his and Sherlock's adventures. But, without Sherlock, nothing happened in John's life. Nothing he did was worth talking about now. There was nothing to tell.

John balanced the plastic shopping bags in one hand as he fumbled with his house keys in the other. Only when he put the key in the lock did he realise that the door was already open.

"Mrs Hudson?" He called, as he crossed over the threshold, "I thought you were visiting your friend this afternoon?"

Silence.

"Mrs Hudson?"

John closed the front door then stood for a moment and listened. All was quiet for a long moment. But then, just as John was convincing himself he mustn't have locked the door when he went out, there came the unmistakable sound of a violin.

He froze.

It couldn't be.

John felt his heartbeat rise in both anticipation and fear. It wasn't possible. It just wasn't.

John had watched Sherlock fall. He'd seen his blood on the concrete. He'd felt his wrist, and there had been no pulse. He's seen the death certificate...

With a shaking hand placed on the banister rail, John began to climb the stairs up to flat 221B. He wasn't entirely sure what else to do. His curiosity was getting the better of him. He had to see for himself who the mysterious violinist was. He had to prove to himself that it wasn't Sherlock, even though the majority of his mind was telling him it must be – even if there was no rational explanation for his resurrection...

John reached out a hand and, slowly, he pushed open the door.

And there, sat in his armchair with his violin pressed underneath his chin, was none other than the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

The music stopped. Sherlock stood up to greet him.

"Ah! John!" He said, "Kettle's just boiled; fancy a cup of tea?"

John wasn't sure what happened after that. He felt weak. His brain refused to accept what his senses were telling him. And, before he could stop himself, he dropped the shopping, and everything went black.