John didn't know what to be believe after he pulled out the card. All he could do was stare at it numbly, while wondering what the hell was going on. The note read:
221B Baker Street, Thursday 2am
Come if convenient.
If inconvenient, come anyway.
Something like this isn't possible, John thought. The handwriting was exactly the same as the writing on the back of the letter. This was all Sherlock's hand, and John knew it but his brain refused to accept all this information. All this was in contradiction of what was real! The only way for something like this to be possible is for Sherlock to be alive and breathing, somewhere roaming around London, but it wasn't. After rolling all this over again and again in his mind, standing awkwardly by Sherlock's grave, John suddenly became furious. He throws his own hand-written letter to the ground and crushes the note in his other hand. Who the hell had the right to do this to him?! There was no way Sherlock was alive, no matter how much he wishes it to be true. This was all some sick joke conducted by somebody who wanted to see him driven insane by all of it. Weren't all the problems he already had enough?! Now some idiot was going around, getting Sherlock's notes from somewhere and driving him nuts.
To an observer, anyone would have been able to tell John was fuming over the situation. He was stomping around the grave, mumbling angry remarks to himself and to however did this to him and kicking dirt around trying to release his anger onto something. Then, all of sudden he stops, looks up from his dirt-kicking activity and grins.
Whoever was doing this may be serious about showing up at Baker Street at the allotted time, if they were dumb enough, and he would be able to catch them red handed. Thursday 2am, that's what it said. Today was a Thursday, John thought. How the hell did they figure I would be here right in time to read the note and head over there? Was whoever who was doing this spying on him, or did they just get lucky? Or if they weren't spying, would they have gone there every Thursday at 2am until he came? Or was he too late? Was it left here many weeks ago? John had too many questions about all this, and he was quite unsure of what do to all of a sudden.
"Damn it, I'll take my bloody chances tonight and go have a look to see what the hell this is all about. Take a risk, John. You need to get this off your mind and out of your life as soon as possible, doing this tonight will help."
John knew what he had to do, his military senses were kicking in and he already had a strategy planned out. Forgetting his crumpled and torn letter in the dirt, he holds on tightly to the note, turns on his heel and heads towards the graveyard entrance, preparing himself. John was leaving to prepare for tonight.
1:30am: Sherlock was early; he just couldn't wait to see John, if he decided to show up that is. He knew the method in which he tried to lure John to Baker Street in order to meet him wasn't full-proof and it was a pretty pitiful excuse of an idea, for Sherlock that is. He just couldn't risk anything more than what he did; he only wanted John to know about him, no one else. Even staying out on Baker Street at this hour was a risk let alone leaving John that note and asking him to come there. Sherlock knew the risks, but for John he was willing to take them and accept the consequences.
Sherlock hadn't been to 221B since the fall, first of all he couldn't come by here without being noticed by somebody, and secondly even if he would be able to come by, un-noticed, he wouldn't have had the heart. Well, rather, he was scared to come by. He was scared of the emotions and feelings it brought up, even being there at that moment made him feel something so painful; a heavy weight over his heart, a hole in his chest nothing could ever fill, apart from being with John in 221B, solving curious cases once again. Sherlock impatiently waited, sitting on the cold damp steps leading up to the door of 221B, leading up to home. To Sherlock 221B Baker Street will always be home, no matter what, but it would truly be home if John would be there with him, but he knew that because of John's engagement, there was less than 1% chance of John moving back in. His future wife would never allow it. Sherlock felt slightly jealous on John's wife-to-be. It meant everything will change, IF anything got back to normal after all this. Sherlock knew the consequences of faking his death, but the benefits outweighed them all. In faking his own death, he saved John's life, and Lestrades, and Mrs. Hudson's. It was worth it in the end, he thought. It was all worth it.
1:55am: Even though it wasn't time yet, Sherlock began to feel uneasy. Was John really going to come? Di he wrongly deduct when he would place his next letter? Of course not! Sherlock was sure on himself that his deduction on that situation was thoroughly correct. Maybe John didn't want to come, or he thought it was all a big joke, which was more likely than the former. Either way, Sherlock decided to wait as long as possible to see if John would turn up. Deep down Sherlock ached for the sight of John.
It was pitch dark in the streets of London leading up to Baker Street, so John didn't see a thing. The last thing we was able to see is Sherlock's silhouette sitting on the steps of 221B. The atmosphere of the street was eerie, and John felt as though something was off about the place, like he was missing something. He was on full alert, using his military senses and trying to observe as much as he could through the blackness of the autumn night. Heading towards 221B John also felt a sense of melancholy; so many great memories resurfaced, and it made John weak at the knees thinking about it all. Those were some of the happiest years of his life and even though he found Mary, the woman he loves to bits, he still felt so upset. Sherlock wasn't there and it hurt like hell. He hadn't had the heart to come by 221B since he saw Sherlock fall to his… death. It was hard for John to even think about it, especially now. He was quite in his footsteps, treading as carefully as he could in order not to alert however was out there to his presence. He had taken his handgun with him, and placed it in the back of his pants, and he felt it rub against his back as he took his steps. It reminded him that he really wasn't going to see Sherlock, because if he would he wouldn't dream of taking a gun with him, or making other plans for that matter. Just metres away from the steps he notices a figure in the dark, which stops him dead in his tracks.
"There you are you little freak." John thought quite aggressively.
He stops, and brings his hand round to reach for his gun but as he reaches for it he notices the figure rise, and one distinct feature brings John to a halt; the hair, curly, bouncing and somewhat all over the place. Sherlock's hair, he thought. NOT POSSIBLE. John's heart starts pounding as the figure starts towards him, trying to reach out what looks like a hand. John panics and pulls his gun.
"Stop. Right. There." John's voice was weary and frightened. Whoever this was, was trying to make the most of their sick joke.
"I have a gun, and if you take a step closer I will shoot you in your knee which is worse than having a clear shot to your head." He breathed out heavily as speaking. He was shaking, the adrenaline pumping through his body was incredible and this was not what he expected. His stomach churned and felt as though it was doing backflips and he felt as though he would vomit anytime. What was going on, he thought.
John thought rapidly, "It can't be him. He's dead. He's dead. It's not Sherlock. It's not."
He couldn't even hold his gun steadily, he was shaking so much. You could hear him rattling.
Sherlock was surprised at first, why on earth was he pulling his gun on me? This doesn't seem like something John would do. Sherlock was quite hurt by John's reaction, but it quickly occurred to him what was going on; John thought it was a practical joke, so he took extra measures before showing up. But he showed up, Sherlock thought quite happily. He grinned to himself in the dark. He knew he would have to turn on the street lamps soon enough or he would lose the ability to walk thanks to John, and he quite enjoyed to walk. Sherlock may have been "dead" but he still had some contacts in order to arrange small things here and there such as turning off street lamps on certain streets and all he had to do to turn them back on was to send a quick message (already prepared and ready to send in his coat pocket) and POOF they would turn on again. He knew John wouldn't notice him reaching into his pocket, as he seemed to be shaking more than focusing his gun on his knees. Just as he reached in his pocket to send the signal, he thought he saw John reach into his pocket and fiddle around with something which most probably a mobile phone, in his coat pocket. How curious, Sherlock thought. Quickly dismissing it, he sends the message. In about a minute, all would be revealed.
Roughly a minute later the street lamps on 221B Baker Street turn on. At first John is blinded by all the sudden lights and encases his head in his arm, blocking the light from his eyes. As he slowly lifts his head, having adjusted to the light he looks up to find Sherlock Holmes grinning at him just metres away. John drops his gun, and he himself drops to his knees, ignoring the pain that comes along with thumping hard onto the pavement on ones knees, and just stares up at the smug, grinning face of Sherlock Holmes.
"Hello John. Miss me?"
