It's been three years and John's all but lost hope that he'll ever see Sherlock again. He's tried, really tried, to keep going like Sherlock asked him to but today … today he's had glimpses of long coats and dark curls and his heart is aching fit to burst. He holds on until he gets back to the flat but then lets it shatter, leaning against the door in the dark living room as tears boil down his face and shake his whole body.
"Oh!"
John's head jerks up at the pained exclamation to see a silhouette detach itself from the shadow next to the window and move purposefully towards him.
"Stay back," he gasps, yanking his gun from the back of his jeans and levelling it at the intruder. The man doesn't stop and so John - certain that this means the worst has happened, that Sherlock has failed and Moriarty's henchmen are fulfilling the contract - clicks off the safety catch and starts to squeeze the trigger.
Then the scent hits him and the gun is clattering to the floor as he surges forward, sobbing and laughing as familiar arms wrap round him, holding him blessedly tight.
"I missed you," John chokes into Sherlock's neck. "Oh God I missed you."
"And I you," Sherlock murmurs back, "So much I could barely breathe."
