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Sherlock was always there. At his funeral, John saw him hover over his own coffin, peering at the roses on top. Judging, no doubt. He probably thought roses were overly sentimental. John didn’t care. He was too overwhelmed by sadness. He was slightly startled to see him though, and didn’t stop looking at him through the whole funeral. Mrs. Hudson looked over, but registered it as grievance, that he couldn’t pay attention to what was in front of him.
Sherlock was there the next day when he made tea in the morning. His eyes followed John around the room. He didn’t say anything.
The third day, he was sitting in a pulled-out chair wearing his beige dressing gown. John made two cups of tea that day. John spent the whole day drinking his one cup of tea, staring at Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson checked in late afternoon and looked at the second untouched cup but didn’t say anything.
A week later, he went shopping and was putting the groceries away while Sherlock was standing next to the toaster in his long coat. John missed that coat. It had perished when Sherlock did—too covered in blood to be salvageable. John had thought about replacing it, just so he could have something that reminded him of Sherlock, but it was too far out of his price range.
Two months went by, and Sherlock had yet to say a word. John considered touching him to see if he was real, but decided against it. He didn’t want the illusion to end.
John did everything in two’s. When he went out to eat at a restaurant, he ordered two meals, one that would go untouched, and later be boxed up to be taken home. The waiters thought he was stood up, and John wished that was true. It was much better than facing the reality of the situation—he was most likely crazy, and that Sherlock was actually dead. He made two cups of tea every morning, even though it was a waste. Four pieces of toast, always leaving the knife on top of the jam jar in case Sherlock decided he wanted to have some. He never does.
He began to feel bad for Mrs. Hudson. John always left utensils out for Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson was always the one to clean it up. John would clean it up, but he was too afraid Sherlock would need it, and it wouldn’t be there for him.
When John decided to go back to work, he didn’t see Sherlock. He was slightly relieved. He supposed it’s because he never saw the real Sherlock at his work, so he wouldn’t have seen this Sherlock at his work. John spent more and more time there. He lost himself in his work and became one of the hardest working people in the company.
He met Mary and Sherlock starts showing up less and less. He left Baker Street and eventually he stopped seeing Sherlock altogether. John is still undecided about how he feels about that.
One day he visited Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street and bought groceries with her. After bringing them up to her kitchen, he visited 221B. He saw Sherlock sitting in his chair with a book. John was startled for a minute, thinking that he had seen the last of Sherlock months and months ago. He sat down across from Sherlock in his old seat, and sighed. It was good to see Sherlock again. He forgot how much he had missed him. Or, no, he didn’t forget. He was just distracted for a while. With Mary.
John stared at Sherlock for a long time before he puts down his book to meet his eyes. He was startled by the bright color of his eyes. He didn’t remember Sherlock’s eyes being that bright before. John’s face scrunched up into a frown and he thought he was going to start crying. He barely managed to hold back his tears. He’s done crying over Sherlock Holmes.
“Well?” Sherlock said, “Are you just going to sit there all day or say ‘hello’?”
John blinked. In the past three years, he had never once heard Sherlock talk.
“Oh,” John breathed. “I forgot what your voice sounded like.”
Sherlock frowned. “John? Are you okay?” He put his book down and leaned forward.
John laughed somewhat hysterically. “Am I—am I okay?” John had tears in his eyes, barely holding back from breaking down completely. “Oh, listen to that. You, asking me if I’m okay!”
“John,” Sherlock said again, placing his hand on John’s knee.
John flinched backward. That was real. That was so real. The heat of his hand. The pressure on his knee. The deep vibration of his voice. John’s tears escaped his eyes. He blinked rapidly.
“Sherlock?” John asked. “Is that really you?”
“Okay, John, now I’m really worried. Do I need to get Mrs. Hudson up here?”
“Mrs. Hudson knows you’re—?” John asked. He still wasn’t sure if Sherlock was really here or not.
“Yes, she was the first one to find out, since you evidently don’t live here anymore.”
“I—” John started.
“Oh, I see you two are reacquainting yourselves!” Mrs. Hudson said, bumbling up the stairs. She started preparing some tea for all of them.
“She—” John said, leaving his mouth agape.
“Mrs. Hudson, I think there’s something wrong with John…” Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off of John. His eyebrows were scrunched together—the face he usually dons when dealing with peoples’ emotions.
John felt his eyes prickle up. He’s alive? He saw Sherlock die… He saw his head hit the pavement. The sheer amount of blood coming from the crack in his head…. The devastation he felt at not being able to pick up a pulse. Sherlock shouldn’t have been able to survive that. Yet, here he was. Sat in his usual chair, talking with him like he has just gone for an extended vacation.
John didn’t even notice the tears escape his eyes until he felt them running down his face. He quickly wiped them away, but not before Sherlock noticed.
“John?” he asked, alarmed.
Mrs. Hudson rushed into the room and put a comforting arm around John. “John, dear, are you okay? It’s Sherlock! He’s back!”
“He is indeed….” John muttered to himself. He shook off Mrs. Hudson’s arm and stood up. His posture was stick straight, standing like he was back in the military.
Sherlock shot out of his chair too. He looked down at John, confused and still concerned.
John reached up on his tiptoes to touch Sherlock’s face in amazement and then reached behind his neck to drag him down into a heated kiss.
When they broke for air, John murmured, “It’s about time.”