Joyous laughter filled the flat. John looked elated to be there with all of his friends. Lestrade could hardly believe the change in his aura in such a short time.

Susan had met John about three months after the fall and two months after his attempted suicide. Within weeks he seemed almost made for her. Whenever she spoke, he hung on her every word as though it was the most meaningful thing he had ever heard, regardless of the actual content. And he was so eager to hear what she said that he would awaken at all hours of the night to check his phone. It was like an addiction but this one had no downside. He never really cared about looks but instead on intelligence and wit but she had it all. She was beautiful and had a brain to challenge him at every turn. She had quite the sense of humour as well. By their fourth date his heart was surely stolen.

Now, a mere ten months later they were hosting an engagement party in the flat he had once shared with Sherlock. Everything was left the same after the fall. A yellow smile and bullet holes added character to the living room. The books remained on the shelves. There was the scratch in the table, although he never did discover where it came from. The only thing that was different was that the fridge was now filled with food instead of heads and the microwave had been thoroughly cleaned after an explosion Susan had caused. Even Sherlock's room was exactly the same- well, almost.

Once Susan had moved in she began to take it upon herself to do the cooking and cleaning. John was fine with this because the flat was in better shape than it had ever been in before. One day, however, she overstepped her boundaries. She decided to clean out Sherlock's bedroom. When John returned home after an especially long night at the hospital boxes were stacked by the door with the words "donate" or "Mycroft?" inscribed on them with a black Sharpie.

He opened the top box and stared upon chemistry books, dictionaries, and a book on the universe Lestrade had bought Sherlock as a gag gift that Christmas Sherlock had offended Molly. That couldn't be. That book was on Sherlock's nightstand.

He opened up the second box. In it, there were a few folded shirts. There was an oddly shaped object covered in newspaper. Slowly and cautiously, he picked it up. Once he had a firm grip, he unwrapped it with one smooth movement. Now there was newspaper on the floor and a skull in his hands. He placed it above the fireside once more and darted into Sherlock's room.

"Hello, dear." Susan piped.

"This is Sherlock's stuff! What are you doing?"

"Honey," she said calmly.

"It's not okay!" he screeched.

"He's been dead for half a year. Isn't it about time to clean this out and give it to Mycroft?"

"When he wants it he'll come and get it."

The argument grew in intensity until finally, Susan went to stay the night at a friend's and John spent the rest of the night replacing Sherlock's things. He fell asleep in Sherlock's bed about half way through at around three in the morning. Every so often he would toss around and struggle to remove another article of clothing until he was in his red pants and one sock.

Sherlock had watched the entire fight unfold, John perfectly replace his things, and fall asleep in his proper bed. He put on a sweatshirt and made his way from 223C to 221B Baker Street. He moved silently through the night and passed unnoticed as he lit a fag in order to not look suspicious to any late night travellers. He opened the door with the key he had refused to give to his brother and made his way upstairs, cautious not to awaken Mrs. Hudson. He opened the flat and felt home for the first time in a year. Everything around him was the way it should be. This was where he belonged. Carefully, he took off his shoes and walked to his room. Unsure of what to do next, he began to unpack. John began to moan in his sleep about the fall.

John dreamed a dream of days gone by with his best friend and running through the city chasing criminals, giggling at crime scenes, and arguing with machines. O, how he missed it all. Heads in the fridge eyeballs in the microwave, a flatmate covered in blood when he came home. It was all so light and bittersweet but suddenly it turned dark and sour. John stood a block away trying to move but his legs would not. He had seen this before as his best friend, his Sherlock, tossed his phone to the side spread out his arms and jumped. John ran as fast as he could, his feet stumbling over themselves as he struggled to make it in time to catch his friend. This time would be different, this time he would make it in time. He avoided the biker for the first time and he saw Sherlock's body smash into the pavement. John got close enough to hear his last words "It's a trick. It's all just a magic trick."

At one point, John almost woke up while Sherlock still stood in the room with him. He swooped down and slyly tricked John into dry taking some sleeping pills. He lingered though. Much longer than he should have. His hand resting against John's face, he repeated his last words, "it's a trick, it's all just a magic trick," kissed him on the forehead and stayed there for nearly half an hour before finishing what John had started.

John awoke in a cold sweat late in the morning and began to panic because of his unfamiliar surroundings. He soon remembered he was in Sherlock's room but somehow everything was back in place. He could have sworn—he must have finished sometime during the night and blacked out because he was so tired. Putting his hand where Sherlock's was he remembered all he would do to get his friend back, all he had done since that day, and all he hadn't finished yet.

**AN- you can always review and guess who the killer is! Chapter after next is looking like the reunion.**