Eventually, John staggered upright with his cane, limped to the door and started back to 221B Baker Street. After Sherlock had jumped off the rooftop of St. Bart's, John couldn't bear to be anywhere away from the last traces of Sherlock. Sherlock's belongings hadn't been moved from their original places, either.
When he finally staggered through the door, he was greeted by a concerned Mrs. Hudson. "How are you, dear? Shall I make you a cup of tea?" She offered, hands fluttering as she stood beside John at the door. John forced a smile as he looked at Mrs. Hudson. "Tea would be great, thanks, Mrs. Hudson," he tried to say with a smile, but it dropped off his face the moment Mrs. Hudson turned around to head to the kitchen. "Just this once, dear," she called back to John, who was making a beeline towards the flat. "Not your housekeeper."
Although his blog hadn't been touched for nearly three years, John had a strange feeling in his stomach that today would be slightly different. Retrieving his laptop from the cluttered desk, John sank into his armchair and carelessly flung his cane down. He quickly flipped open the laptop and typed the password, stopping for a second as he remembered how easily Sherlock used to be able to hack into his computer. John sighed and looked back at his laptop as he logged into his blog. Strangely enough, there was a message left in his inbox. His eyes widened slightly as he saw it. Who would have suddenly sent him a message? All condolences about Sherlock's death had been left in the comments section of his last post three years ago. John shakily moved his cursor to click on the message icon.
"John, get me some nicotine patches."
At this, John's eyes positively popped out of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, slowly opened them and peered at the screen again. He almost dropped his laptop. The black letters stared boldly back at him, forming a request only capable of being sent by Sherlock. John quickly checked when it was sent. Five minutes ago. He collapsed back in his chair, heart racing as he took in the information. It couldn't possibly be anyone else. John knew he had somewhere to go to. For the first time in three years, John felt a spark of hope ignite within him, and it was steadily growing into a glowing ember.
Standing in front of the granite headstone, the name elegantly engraved in gold, John shifted his weight from foot to cane as he tried to gather his thoughts. Eventually, he blurted: "Sherlock, I know that you're alive. I want to see you again." John waited for a few seconds, half expecting Sherlock to appear behind him. Silently counting to three, he squared his shoulders and whirled around, eyes darting everywhere in their desperate search for Sherlock. The graveyard was still empty. There was no one standing behind John. John's shoulders visibly slumped down as he took in the empty sight of the graveyard. Like Sherlock really is alive, he thought sadly. No! John cursed and inwardly berated himself. I know Sherlock wouldn't just jump. He must be alive. He's just… somewhere else at the moment. John sighed and slowly turned away from the black headstone, which gleamed back at him. It reminded John of the spark in Sherlock's bright eyes.