It had been a year. One year since he had seen Sherlock jump. One year since the love of his life died, and part of his soul had died too. Here he was...where he always ended up at the end of every day. Staring at Sherlock's grave. "Please," he whispered brokenly, having run out of years a long time ago. "Come back, come back, or I swear, I will sh-shoot myself." He pulled a fun out of his pocket with trembling hands and held it to his head, looking around desperately, waiting for a sign, any sign. There were none. He bowed his head, allowed a year to slip down his cheek, and put his finger on the trigger...
(—-—)
"NO," yelled a familiar voice from behind him , and suddenly the fun was knocked out of his hands, and he was engulfed by a warm body. Not able to take anymore, he broke down in the man's arms, sobbing and screaming out all the grief he had locked away since Sherlock's funeral. After what seemed like hours, he composed himself, the person still rocking him and stroking his hair softly. He inhaled the scent, and was shocked at it. It couldn't be. Slowly, he lifted his eyes, still blurred from years and saw a beautiful face looking down at him, one he had never thought he would we again. "Sherlock?" he stuttered unbelieving, not daring to hope hope he was actually there. "Yes John.. I'm sorry darling, I never meant to cause you I'm back now, and everything is going to be ok." The familiar baritone soothed him, and he gave a small, wet hiccup of laughter. And though they had much to discuss and a lot of explaining to do, he knew that everything would be fine. Because now Sherlock was back, he could weather a thousand storms, as long as they were together.
