Three years he's waited. And me, leaving him alone. What have I done?
Sherlock sighed and shook his head. He left Mycroft's house and began to walk home. When he saw Baker Street, he fairly sprinted to Speedy's. He unlocked the door- good old Mrs. Hudson never changed the lock- and went up to 221B. He stopped in the doorway and sighed. So many memories here. They could easily go bad if John took his return the wrong way. Sherlock shook his head to clear his thoughts and sat down at his microscope, waiting for John to get home.
******
Three years I've waited. I'll probably keep waiting for the rest of my life. Why can't I just accept that he's dead? I saw his lifeless body on the cold pavement, which was wet with his blood.
I saw it with my own eyes, and yet I can't quite grasp the fact that my best friend killed himself. Or that he was a fake.
I know that if I keep waiting, I'll be doing it ad infinitum. But there's always that small chance. Here's to hope.
John tilted his glass back and drank for a good thirty seconds. He slammed the empty glass back down onto the bar. He sighed. It was a Friday night, and he should be out, having fun, maybe even here- but he couldn't. It was the three-year anniversary since the Fall. John didn't want to be sober, to see everyone having fun when the whole world should be in mourning.
He should at least take his next drink to go. Sherlock was no longer there to make sure he got home in one piece. So John asked the bartender for a bottle. He grabbed it and put the money on the bar. Then he left.
It was pouring rain. It hadn't been when he'd come in, had it? Ah, well. John walked home- no stumbling yet, he had only had one drink. But he definitely didn't want to remember this night. He huddled next to the door, fumbling with his keys. But he saw that the door was unlocked.
"Mrs. Hudson?!?" John shouted.
The last time the door had been unlocked, Mrs. Hudson had been kidnapped. But no one was home. John shut the door behind him and wearily trudged up the stairs. He opened his door and walked into the kitchen.
There was the fridge, there was the table, there were the experiments, there was Sherlock, there was the oven. "Didn't bother to get the milk, did you, Sherlock?"
Wait a minute.
John rubbed his eyes. Blinked hard. Rubbed them again. The bottle in his hand crashed to the floor and shattered, soaking beer into his shoes, but John didn't notice. "Dreaming," he muttered incoherently.
"No, John. I'm alive, and I'm here."
Sherlock stood up. John stumbled towards him. He fell, and Sherlock caught him.
"I'm here."
