It was a quarter to three in the morning when Sherlock tiptoed up the stairs into 221B. This was it! He had been waiting for this moment for so long he could hardly even believe it was happening. The day he got to come back to John. He had imagined this moment a thousand different times over the past 7 months and could hardly wait to see his best friend's face again. This is what he had planned: he would sneak into the flat, make a wonderfully delicious breakfast for two and simply wait until John got out of bed and offer him a slice of toast and a nice hot cup of coffee. He would then proceed to tell John everything he hadn't before: how much he missed him, how much he depended on him, and most of all, how much he cared for him. He was finally going to confess his feelings that he has had for John for nearly two years now. I'll just walk up to him, he thought, and just say, 'John Watson, I love you'. It was a perfect plan, simple and straight to the point. He climbed up the last remaining steps and gently pushed open the door. He stepped in and inhaled a deep breath of the flats familiar sent. It was so good to be back. He glanced around and saw that the flat was much cleaner than he had ever seen it before; John must have spent forever trying to tidy it up. He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was plenty of food to make breakfast with and as he started to gather items for waffles, he noticed that something smelled odd. He picked up an almost empty carton of milk, opened it, and sniffed it. It was expired. How strange, Sherlock thought, John never leaves anything expired in the fridge. As he continued to look around he noticed some things that he had overlooked in his excitement of returning home. There where little signs everywhere that the flat had been vacant for a number of days: dust was beginning to gather on the desk and table, there was an old cup of half-drunk tea on the counter; everything seemed undisturbed as if it had been there for a while. Something was wrong. Sherlock put the milk carton down and looked down the hallway towards John's bedroom. The door lay slightly ajar and no sound at all was emanating from the pitch black room. If John was asleep he should have been able to hear him snoring. Very cautiously Sherlock approached the ominous room. Something was very, very wrong. He reached out his trembling hand and pushed the door open.
"No," Sherlock whispered. "No, no this can't be."
He fell to the floor as his knees gave out from under him. "No, this cannot be happening."
On the faded carpet in front of Sherlock lay John Watson's lifeless body with a small empty glass bottle lying next to it. Sherlock desperately grabbed John's wrist and checked for a pulse, already knowing what he would find. The hand was cold and stiff and there was no pulse. John was dead. Sherlock dropped his only friend's wrist and it landed on the floor with a dull thud.
"No, John," Sherlock whimpered as he gazed at the only person he had ever loved, his best friend, lying cold and stiff on the floor.
"JOHN! JOHN COME BACK!" Sherlock cried as he shook the dead man's shoulder, tears flowing freely down his face. "DON'T LEAVE ME! You can't do this to me... I need you... Please..."
Sherlock lay draped over his love's body and wept. He could never remember weeping for anyone before now, he had not even cried much as a baby. He had always been like that, indifferent and distant. As a young child he never had any friends. He knew what his classmate called him behind his back, the brainiac, the nerd, the freak. It had never really bothered him. Even then he knew that the only way to protect himself was to distance himself from everyone and anyone, including his own family. Never had he allowed himself to get attached to anyone because he knew that attachment would only lead to pain and heartbreak. But everything changed when he met John. He thought that just this once; he could let himself get attached to someone, to have a friend.
Sherlock wept now, he wept for John, he wept for the only friend he had ever had, the only one who he had ever loved, and the only one who had believed in him until the very end.
"John please. Please come back." He pleaded desperately, sobbing into John's striped jumper.
He laid there and cried, his unanswered pleas echoing down the ominous hallways and through the gloomy, vacant flat.
When he was suddenly blinded by an extremely white bright light.