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Sherlock Holmes had jumped. Committed suicide. Topped himself. Kicked the bucket. His metabolic processes were now history. He shuffled off this mortal coil. He used to be a consulting detective, but then he took a footpath to the face.
Two and a half years later, and John Watson was back to living a “normal” life. He had a fiancée, Mary, a mortgage, and an offer from some producer to turn his blog into a TV series. He had his own practice, a dog named Gladstone, and a hole where Sherlock used to be.
Obviously. One does not go through psychotic cabbies, assassins, bombs and dogs from hell with someone without forming an intensely close bond.
Two months after Sherlock … did what he did, while John was still grieving, a letter was found amongst Sherlock’s possessions, detailing why exactly he had … done what he did. 'To save the people I care about,' it said. 'No other choice,' he wrote. Dated the day he died, apparently placed there by one Molly Hooper (she came forward later, saying it had been his last request to her). And so, exactly two years, five months, and twenty seven days after Sherlock died, John Watson was content with his life. He felt guilty, though. His best friend had died because of him. But entirely convinced that Sherlock was not a fraud, Moriarty was real and dead (his body had been found three days later) and almost all was right with the world.
In another four months, John would be marrying the lovely, stunning, absolutely beautiful on the inside as well as out Miss Mary Morstan. Harry, who had finally gotten off the alcohol, would be his best woman. John wished that it was Sherlock instead of Harry, but it couldn’t be helped.
Almost all was right with the world. Almost.
John still had nightmares. Not of Afghanistan or bullets tearing through men faster than he could patch them up. No, John Watson dreamt of Sherlock. Not just of the roof of Barts, though. Of every single time Sherlock could have died, but had miraculously survived. The Cabbie and the Pills, the Chinese smugglers, the Pool, the Hound, and numerous cases in between. They all turned sour in John's subconscious, and no amount of soothing from Mary, sleeping tablets or, when they got so bad he couldn’t sleep at all, hypnotherapy, could help. But of course, John was a soldier at heart. And he had gone days without sleep during Sherlock’s cases. He soldiered on. He did his work, loved his fiancé, lived his life.
Two years and eight months after what he came to think of as The Fall, John still had afternoon tea with Mrs Hudson. He still occasionally went to the pub with Greg and other Yarders, and sometimes brought Molly lunch down in the morgue. He kept in touch with everyone he had become friends with because of Sherlock. He often brought Mary with him to these meetings. Mrs Hudson adored Mary, and she and Molly had been friends right from the get go. Molly had even agreed to be one of Mary's bridesmaids.
John even had “coffee” with Mycroft a few times, wherein Mycroft’s assistants kidnapped John from the streets in one of his many dark cars and took him to some deserted warehouse, where Mycroft would be sitting at an immaculately set table. These meetings were mainly to work out some of the legalities to do with Sherlock's possessions and the flat. Apparently he had left it all to John, which was nice in a weird, Sherlock-esque sort of way.
The wedding of Dr John H. Watson and Miss Mary S. Morstan went off without a hitch. The weather was perfect, an amazing feat for England, no one was ill, and the ceremony ran smoothly. John suspected Mycroft had something to do with it, but when John sent Mycroft a look, he just smiled peacefully back at him from the third row.
When John finally looked away from the new Mrs Watson at the reception, he saw something that felt not quite right, but at the same time so completely perfect. Standing in the doorway on the other side of the room was a familiar mop of curly black hair. The man caught John's eyes, blue-green-grey piercing John’s deep blue, but before John could move or speak, the man turned and disappeared out the door.
Approximately two years and ten months after the death of Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective, John laughed.
You see, John knew. Doctor John Hamish Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, knew. Of course he knew. Sherlock was his best friend. And Molly Hooper was quite bad at keeping secrets that were forced upon her. The knowledge didn’t stop the nightmares. His subconscious was a fickle thing. But still, he moved on with his life. Because he knew. And how could he not know? Even if Molly hadn't told him, how could John Watson, who had been learning to deduce under the best teacher there was, not notice?
Every three to four months, John would see him. Not all of him, but enough to recognise- the curl of hair, his sharp cheekbones, his confident walk. Generally, he only saw him out of the corner of his eye, but after two years of keeping him in the corner of his eye, making sure he didn’t kill himself or blow up the kitchen, John would recognise him anywhere.
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Sherlock Holmes fell. But he didn’t die. Obviously. This is The Sherlock Holmes we're talking about here. A plan for every situation. Though he will admit he was inspired by one Irene Adler, because hell, if she could deceive him, he could deceive anyone. Sherlock would also admit under pressure that years of owing Molly a favour also helped a bit.
As he sat in Molly’s lab, cleaning off the last traces of blood that wasn’t his, Sherlock wrote a single letter, and bequeathed it to Molly’s infinite care. He called his brother, taking glee in the shock in Mycroft’s voice, then set out after the network that was Jim Moriarty’s sadistic gift to society.
Sherlock travelled the world, hunting down every single strand of Moriarty’s web. It took him two and a half years, several thousand cups of tea, too many hours on planes, boats and trains, numerous anonymous tips to the necessary authorities and just enough bullets to take everyone but that final missing the last piece of the puzzle down. Sebastian Moran; James Moriarty's second in command.
Every few months or so, Sherlock would find himself back in London. Sometimes because that’s where the web led him, or because he needed to consult with Mycroft (shuddering at the thought every time), but he returned mainly because of John. Sherlock knew of John's history, he knew what John could do to himself. He needed to check on John, make sure he was okay, that nothing had happened. Sherlock always disguised himself, blended into the crowd. When Sherlock saw the woman, holding John's hand, a diamond sparkling on her finger, Sherlock was pleased. John had his life back.
It just so happened that on the day of John's wedding, Sherlock was in England, tracking down Moran. The trail led Sherlock right to the church, then past and away, to an abandoned office block. This was by far Sherlock’s favourite chase. To him it was the final act of justice and revenge.
It just so happened that Sherlock killed Moran, shot him in the head as Moran would have done to John, just as, two miles away, John Watson said "I do".
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After the reception, after the 'first night', after the honeymoon, after all the little details that had to be changed were dealt with, John Watson went to 221B Baker Street. He still rented the flat, though Mrs Hudson wouldn't let him pay any more than half the rent. John had kept the flat exactly as it had been, though his stuff had slowly transferred to his house with Mary, because of course he knew Sherlock would be back, and would demand the flat be exactly how he left it. John was sure that he would be yelled at if he even touched Sherlock's experiments, so he left it all.
Now, exactly three years after The Fall, John used the keys he hadn't touched in months. He called a hello to Mrs Hudson, before climbing the seventeen steps. As he reached the top, he heard the soft voice of a violin singing the song John and Mary had their first dance to. John pushed open the door, just as the man wielding the instrument turned, his long coat billowing out behind him.
John smiled. Sherlock smiled.
"Hey."