Disclaimer: The lovely Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do not belong to me. Alas.
John stumbles into the flat, dropping his briefcase on the kitchen table (empty of chemistry equipment now, empty for the last three years) and then stands for a moment, blinking in confusion. He thought—but no.
He thought he caught a whiff of that smell that signified Sherlock—something sharp and vaguely chemical, mixed with the muskiness of the London drizzle and the faint acrid leavings of cigarette smoke—but Sherlock is dead and buried and never coming back.
So he stands, staring unseeing at the wall, lost in his miserable memories, and that is when the door to the (what was once his, and then theirs, and now John's) bedroom opens and existence stops.
"John."
John gapes—there is no other descriptive for his shocked, open mouth—staring at familiar dark curly hair, too-thin (much too thin) limbs, forbidding, overbearing (and depressingly shabby and well-used) black jacket, and then falls to his knees.
"John."
There is a thump, and then bony legs slide into John's line of sight, and pale fingers wrap around his arm and card through his hair and hot breath ghosts along his neck and then unbearably, unbelievably, chapped lips press to his forehead.
"John."
This was not real, couldn't be real, Sherlock could not be here, impossible.
"I'm here, I'm back. For you, John, I'm back."