There was no reason to bring him back, so a long time ago, Sherlock had stopped trying.
He came back in broken drunkenness, when Sherlock was spinning between dreams and reality. The enigma of his arbitrary appearances was a mystery Sherlock didn't try to solve.
Like, Sherlock would be walking to school one day, and he could swear he could see him; somewhere, lurking, quiet, waiting.
He would be walking, and he would notice someone's dark blue eyes, the way they flickered across Sherlock's face for a second, the smile, the same, but not. And Sherlock would pretend it was him, he would pretend he was here, but then he would look away and it wouldn't be him, it never was.
It was never John.
John...
Listening to music with him until he turned it off.
Taking away the pain until there was nothing left to take.
Making everyone seem colder and sadder and never good enough.
John tearing open his chest.
John whispering lies.
Saying that he'd never go.
John, gone.
Sherlock had stopped trying to bring him back.