Chapter Text
The days drag on for a long time after the funeral. The funeral. Never Sher--'s ... Never that.
John has taken only to speaking Sherlock's name inside their apartment. While he's alone. He has taken to pulling an abstracted expression, as though he does not quite know what they are talking about, whenever Molly or Lestrade happen to mention him. They are beginning to correct themselves more quickly these days. Sherlock's name has almost entirely disappeared from conversation.
And John is starting to wonder whether he's made a big mistake.
But no. The dead are meant to live on in the lives of the living. But Sherlock isn't dead. That's what John keeps on telling himself.
Another day spent filling time comes to an end, and John looks down in disgust at the obligatory cigarette butts he's grown used to greeting him at home in the place of his best friend.
"That punk in the hoodie's been by again," John calls up, as he takes the stairs to the apartment two at a time.
"What was that, dear?" calls Mrs. Hudson from her own rooms.
"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson," John calls back, and hear's a distracted, "Very good, dear," as he shuts the apartment door behind him.
"Why do you suppose he keeps hanging around here?" John asks the question into the air as he takes off his scarf and jacket and hangs them on the coat stand just inside the door. "It can't be the ambiance. And, I've got to say, with our history, I just don't like it very much when unexpected people hover outside our apartment." John takes off his shoe, and scrunches his face in distaste as he finds a flattened cigarette stuck to the underside of his shoe. "Especially when they leave cigarette butts lying everywhere. Seriously, Sherlock, I have never known anyone but you who needed so much nicotine in their system."
Heaving a disgruntled huff, John nonetheless stores his shoes neatly beside one another. No need to make this place into a mess. He goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on, glancing out through the kitchen window on his way through.
"Look, there he is again. Smug bastard." That last, under John's breath. "Why do you think he keeps hanging around here? I keep looking for some kind of give away; something on his lapel, a hair out of place or a colour not his own, maybe even a shiny piece of jewellery, you know, one of your answers."
Shaking his head, he moves to the fridge where there is milk. Of course there's milk; Sherlock hasn't drunk it all and then neglected to replace it.
Seriously, Sherlock, I have never known anyone but you who needed so much nicotine in their system.
And then, an echo of Sherlock's voice, as if his best friend is finally standing in front of him once again,
Be wary that you not only see, but also observe, John.
John's eyes widen, even as the milk carton slips from his hand and falls onto the linoleum of the floor. John rushes to the sink, his knuckles whiten as they grip the side of the bench.
For once, he's not noticing the cigarette butts littering the front doorstep, nor is he begrudging the punk his place on the sidewalk. Instead, he's peering into the mouth of the hoodie.
And then the punk lifts his face towards 22B Baker Street, and John's heart drops to his stomach, his mouth goes dry, because those are pale blue eyes staring out of a gaunt face, sharp cheekbones giving way to dark brown curls that frame that familiar face. His full lips are slightly parted as he stares up at John as though there are not two levels and a pane of glass separating them.
"...Sherlock?"
John pushes himself from the sink, dashes towards the front door. His arm darts out on the way to grab his jacket and scarf. It's a reflex, only costing him precious seconds on the way out, but he'll beat himself up when he reaches the front doorstep and there's no punk in a hoodie, no Sherlock, no anybody there at all.