[Slightly longer than the first chapter. I'll probably revise it later, edit some bits out, but for now I just want to get the story written down and uploaded. Chapter 3 will be written and uploaded tomorrow. ]
The year had passed ever so slowly for Sherlock. Every day he had longed for a case, for a cigarette and, most of all, his only friend, John.
Molly and Mycroft had both played a part in Sherlock's "death", Molly more so than Mycroft. It had been tedious for him having to work with them. First, they each tried to talk him out of his plan, convince him there was another way to go about it. Then, after that had failed, they began refusing to do what Sherlock asked. They had only two days to sort it out and Sherlock grew impatient. He gave up with the idea of having Mycroft's help and swore him to secrecy, then attempted to flirt his way into receiving Molly's help. While Sherlock had thought his acting had been terribly unconvincing, Molly fell for it anyway.
Poor girl, he thought.
It wasn't as if Sherlock had wanted this to happen. Why would he want to leave John, the only person he truly trusted? However, he valued John's life over anyone else's, including his own, and while Sherlock couldn't fathom why this might be, he saved John's life anyway – however much it hurt them both.
So Sherlock spent the year in hiding in Molly's flat. She had been delighted; he found it torturous. Every day he'd walk into the room to find himself face to face with her lustful eyes, when more than anything he wanted to be left alone to think of John.
After five months and seven days, Sherlock deemed it acceptable to ask for Mycroft's help again. He needed to know how John was doing. Was he well? Was he still living in 221B? Was he with some new unbearably dim-witted woman?
So he sent Mycroft to try getting John's acquaintance. At first, it seemed as if it might fail. John refused to forgive Mycroft for, as he put it, "selling Sherlock out". But, finally, after a month or so, he finally began to accept Mycroft's weekly visits and apologies. In fact, they were now quite good friends – or at least Mycroft had stopped whining every time Sherlock sent him out to check on John.
But even with the constant stream of information, Sherlock missed him. He had refused to accept this for a while; normal human emotions were of no interest to Sherlock. However, after a while, the uncomfortable little ache Sherlock felt whenever he thought of his best friend grew too frequent that he could no longer ignore it. He hadn't been sure of what to do with this feeling other than try and get more information on John's wellbeing, but it wasn't enough.
After almost a year passed, he took to secretly visiting John's flat. He didn't think anything of it, but Molly and Mycroft had both deemed it rather inappropriate and made many attempts in vain to convince him not to. Despite this, Sherlock made his way towards John's flat once a week.
It had been slightly disappointing for Sherlock when he found out that John had moved from 221B. So many memories had been made there, ones that Sherlock actually felt the need to hold on to.
John's new apartment showed many signs of sadness, from the collecting dust all over the furniture, to the worn out channel button on the Sky remote. Despite this, Sherlock felt a sense of being at home when he stood in the flat. John's presence was everywhere, and this comforted Sherlock somewhat.
Sherlock didn't intend on showing himself to John. His intentions were to visit occasionally to make sure that Mycroft wasn't lying to him and to fill the loneliness in his heart, until John moved on. Then he would go back into hiding and... Well, Sherlock hadn't worked that out yet. What did normal people do when they were indoors? Watch drama on BBC? Read fan fiction? Molly spent a good amount of time doing that.
However, on the anniversary of the day Sherlock pretended to kill himself, he could not hold himself back. He snuck into the flat in the evening to the strong smell of cider and other various alcoholic beverages. As quietly as possibly, Sherlock walked into the living room to find John passed out on the floor, a can of beer crushed in his hand with a small amount of blood dripping onto the carpet from where the can had clearly cut his skin.
Idiot, Sherlock thought, slightly affectionately.
And that was when the sadness overtook him. He looked down at his best friend, the depression so clear on all his features, even in sleep. Yet something looked peaceful about John's expression, as if he was experiencing a pleasant dream.
Sitting cross legged on the floor beside John, Sherlock watched him cautiously at first, hardly daring to move. Then he gently took John's bleeding hand in his, stopping the blood dripping onto the carpet and instead letting it drop onto his lap.
"Sherlock..." John muttered under his breath, unconscious. Sherlock jumped slightly and whispered back "John?" Of course, there was no answer, but Sherlock was blinded and confused by the tears now pouring out of his eyes; he craved to hear John's voice again.
"John!" he shouted, desperate.
John woke up, disorientated. He looked at Sherlock incomprehensibly. Sherlock's lips began to form into a small smile when John's fist collided angrily with his cheek.