TWO YEARS LATER

"Well, Mrs. Tawney, it looks like your daughter's just fine. Just a mild bout of the flu, should clear itself up in a few days time." John Watson scratched out a prescription onto his pad, then tore it off and handed it to the woman sitting on the other side of his desk. "But, do give her this medicine, it'll help to speed up the process."

"Oh, thank you, Doctor Watson." Mrs. Tawney said with a smile, gesturing to her daughter, young Annie, to come over to her side from the examination table. "Thank goodness, it's been going around at her school, but I just wanted to make sure."

"Better safe than sorry, that's what I always say." John said with a smile, then pulled out a lollipop from one of his desk drawers, handing it over to the young girl, who accepted it with a grin. "Drink lots of fluids, Annie, and don't forget to wash your hands. Wouldn't want to pass it onto your mum, yeah?"

"Yessir!" Annie chirped in response, saluting him as she unwrapped the sweet and stuck it into her mouth. "C'mon, Mummy, Doctor Watson says I'm fine!"

"Yes, dear." Mrs. Tawney gave a tired chuckle in response, shaking her head as she was tugged to her feet by her eager daughter. "Have a good day, Doctor Watson."

"You too." John bid her goodbye, then sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair before he got to his feet and began to clean up his workspace.

That had been his last appointment for the day, luckily, and now it was time to head back to the mundaneness of Baker Street. Working at a doctor's office and diagnosing other people's problems helped him to forget his own, although he was always painstakingly reminded of what he had to go home to at the end of the day. It had been two years, two years, since his best friend had committed suicide, and John had never completely gotten over it, no matter what he told everyone else. He had considered moving out of 221B, considering all the memories it held, but he just couldn't. Baker Street was his home.

A breath hitched in John's throat as he stumbled upon a picture frame, shoved deeply away where he wouldn't have to see it. He and Sherlock had been taking pictures for the newspaper the day it was taken, and whilst John smiled, Sherlock wore an extremely serious expression. The detective was never really a fan of all the newfound fame, and it showed. Although, once the newspeople had turned off their cameras, Sherlock had leaned down to John's ear and whispered a deduction about the cameraman, to which John had laughed heartily. Lestrade had managed to snap a photo of the moment when they both weren't looking, and sent it to John, who had gotten it framed and kept it in his office. The pair of them were both smiling and laughing, and while back then it had been a good memory, now it was just a painful reminder of what had been.

The doctor sighed and shoved the photo back in place, slamming the drawer shut as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, locking the office behind him. The woman at the desk said goodbye to him, like always, and he merely gave a nod in her direction, like always. A familiar routine, which he always stuck to. Today was a Tuesday, which meant it was time to go buy groceries at Tesco so the fridge and pantry weren't bare. He kept his shoulders hunched and head down as he walked, the sidewalk quite busy at this time of day, as it always was. Tesco was only a short walk from here, and from there, a short walk back to the flat.

Upon reaching Tesco, John took out that week's list of groceries from his pocket, scanning over it before he gave an affirming nod, taking a cart and pushing it into the store. The music in here was always far too cheery for his opinion, but he was focused on his shopping, and nothing else. He didn't use the self checkout once he was done, instead going to the manual checkout lanes and making small talk with the cashier as he fumbled for his wallet in his pocket. Everything seemed to remind him of Sherlock, especially the chip-and-pin machine, but he swiped his card and went on his way.

John's feet were starting to ache once he'd arrived at the familiar door of 221B, and he was grateful to be back home. His limp had become more pronounced since Sherlock's death, but he was stubborn, and refused to use a cane. I don't need it, he kept telling himself. He was fine, and he could manage. He reached into his pocket for his keys, unlocking the door with a bit of difficulty, since his arms were both weighed down with grocery bags. He shouted a hello to Mrs. Hudson, never rude, before he made his trek up the stairs.

But something was wrong.

The first thing that threw John off was the door to the flat being open. He usually shut it before he left for work, and it was always that way when he got home. Maybe Mrs. Hudson was getting a late start with the usual dusting she did, although that seemed unlikely. Had someone broken in? Well, John certainly wasn't afraid to defend himself. But then, as his hearing adjusted to the quietness of the building, that was when he heard it.

The sound of a violin lovingly being played.

John blinked rapidly. He refused to listen to violins, or any song remotely containing a violin. It brought back too many hazy nights and boring days in 221B, where Sherlock would play his violin and compose, and John would sit in his armchair to listen. He loved Sherlock's violin playing, absolutely adored it, and it was something that he missed a lot. But this violin sounded like it was being played live, like it wasn't a recording at all. John was almost afraid to step into the flat, but he did so anyways, his breathing shaky.

The sight before him took his breath away entirely, grocery bags dropping to the floor with a loud clatter. The flat was clean, thanks to Mrs. Hudson, but that wasn't the thing that had captured his attention. There was a tall figure at the window, a violin cradled in his arms, bow moving rhythmically and smoothly across the string. The figure wore a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a blue house robe, and his hair was dark and curly.

No, this has to be some cruel joke, John thought to himself. There was no way in hell that he was seeing what he was seeing at the current moment in time. Sherlock had been dead for two years, and John had seen the body at the bottom of the fall, so this was certainly some hallucination John had somehow managed to conjure up, or some lookalike trying to mess with him.

The man seemed startled by the loud noise of the grocery bags hitting the floor, the violin abruptly stopping as he turned around. John's heart immediately sped up as a smile slowly stretched across those familiar cupid bow lips, excitement lighting up those familiar blue-grey eyes. Those cheekbones, those thin fingers, John knew them all too well. Everything about this man, as he strode across the sitting room toward John, seemed so surreal.

"John. Welcome home." Even the voice of this man, a deep silken sound, was oh-so familiar, a noise that played over and over in John's head, a melody John had thought he'd heard for the final time.

"Sh-"

And that was all it took for John Watson to faint on the floor of 221B.

When John came to, he was laid neatly on the sofa in the sitting room, covered with a throw blanket and feeling quite dazed. The last thing he remembered was seeing . . . Sherlock. No, that couldn't be possible, Sherlock was dead. John must have been hallucinating, and then he'd fainted. But how on earth had he gotten to the sofa? He didn't think Mrs. Hudson was strong enough to carry him.

"Ah. You're awake, good."

John's heart just about stopped when he heard that voice, his head turning so quickly to his right that he twisted his neck, wincing as he rubbed at the sore spot. Perhaps he was still dreaming, as Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, still dressed in his house robe and pajama pants, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Am I . . . am I dead, somehow?" John weakly asked, struggling to sit up.

Sherlock laughed as he rose to his feet, striding over to John and taking his hand in a strong grip, pulling him up to a sitting position. "If this were heaven, I certainly wouldn't be there. I'm hardly an angel. Far from it, actually."

John's breath stuttered in his throat, his hand moving up Sherlock's arm, underneath the fabric of his sleeve. He then pinched the detective's skin, hard, and Sherlock edged away from him, his nose scrunching in confusion.

"Just checking." John muttered to himself.

Sherlock felt surprisingly solid, more solid than a pure apparition should be. John's eyes scanned over Sherlock's figure once more, who looked like he wanted to step closer, but also didn't want to get poked and prodded again. If this wasn't just a figment of John's imagination, that meant . . .

"Oh, god. Oh, Jesus." John felt like he was going to pass out again, and he mutely felt Sherlock's hand clamp to his shoulder to steady him. "You . . . you're . . ."

"Yes, John, I'm alive." Sherlock said, crouching so he could get to John's eye level, a small smile twitching at his mouth. "I'm glad you finally came to that realiza-"

Smack! John slapped Sherlock in the face, hard, and Sherlock fell backward out of a sort of shock, his eyes going wide as his hand raised to touch the quickly reddening spot. John was on his feet now, hands firmly clenched at his sides as his chest heaved with heavy breathing.

"What the fuck, Sherlock?!" John snarled, and Sherlock watched in silent wonder. John hardly ever cursed so vulgarly, only when he was extremely upset. "You let me think you were dead for two years, two yea- I bet you heard everything I said at your funeral, didn't you? And you just had a great bloody laugh to yourself! How could you do this to me?"

"John, I can explain, alright?" Sherlock got to his feet, although he didn't back away from John, merely stepping closer. "Just calm down. I had my reasons why I couldn't show my face right away, I really did, and they were important. You have no idea how much I wanted to come back here, how Mycroft tortured me with the video footage of you in here, around London, whenever I was in the country. I'm sorry."

Sherlock had just apologized, a rarity for the detective to do. He normally just spoke his mind, not really realizing how rude the facts could really be. But he was telling John he was sorry, and somehow, that mollified John just the smallest bit.

"Fine. Fine. Okay, we'll talk. I'm going to put the kettle on for tea." John said, trying to keep his voice steady before whirling off into the kitchen.

It was going to be a long evening.