Gone (BBC Sherlock: Johnlock)

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or John Watson and their BBC universe, and neither does your mom. Unless your mom is Mark Gatiss. Then we can talk. Enjoy :)

Pill bottles on the table. Prescriptions for pain and depression, for sure. Less clutter now, even though the place still remains a place filled with light junk. The books lay strewn on top of the higher shelves, and straight where the good doctor could reach. Some lie piled around on the tops of the tables pressed against the room.

Most of the things left in the room were his. His moth collection in the center of the mantle, flanked closely by his skull. His old case files are still lying on the table beside his chair.

The yellow smiley face has kept it's residence on the wall, the bullet holes still lining it's circle. But if you look closely, you could tell that the depth of the holes have increased. Someone has perfectly replicated each shot three or four times. The mark of a soldier, hitting the mark each time.

There are several pillows at the end of the couch. Indications show that someone has been sleeping there more often than usual. Signs of tossing and turning, sweating and screaming. Nightmares. Tears. Pain. Sorrow. Grief.

Sherlock Holmes stands in the living room of 221b Baker Street, on the three year anniversary of his death. He notices the flat carefully, eyes narrowing and brow furrowing. A sting runs through his heart. How bad had John got? This wasn't how it was supposed to go, leaving for three years. Things got complicated and 9 months became a year and a half, and then 2. It got out of hand. Moriarty's web of connections and crime was bigger than just London, and taking it down took much longer than expected, even with the help of the British Government. Of course Mycroft knew that he had faked his death. He couldn't keep away from the surveillance status his brother had placed on him. Getting help was easy, but the help wasn't so helpful in the end. He was still gone for three years, and he was certain that John had moved on. So certain that he was shocked into freezing when he heard the door down the stairs unlock and slide open with a soft whine.

Sherlock heard the good doctor make the climb up the stairs with a clink each step, his cane making a reappearance. It was a slowly process. His heart jumping with each step. John's footsteps sounded forced. Tired. Weary.

John Watson pushed open the door with a speak. Upon first look of the tall detective, a small and tired grin formed on his face. "Good evening, Sherlock. Fine day for you to show up," John chuckled, putting down the shopping bags he had been holding. "Always knew that you'd be the last one I'd see, but I had guessed it would be the last one."

The one of Sherlock falling. The one of him on the floor below St. Bart's, bloodied. The one of his tombstone.

"John." Sherlock could barely breathe. He couldn't. His heart was beating fast in his chest, almost painfully. John looked at him again, studying him. "I guess my mind isn't that bad," he said. "Lucky for me you're just the way I remember you. You're hair is shorter, though, and you look more muscular than before." The doctor looked down again. "Look at me, talking to figment of my imagination," he sighed. John moved towards the kitchen, cane slamming into the floor.

"John. Please. I am really here John. I'm back. Please." Sherlock's voice cracked, his pleading and reasoning voice. This was all wrong. John couldn't have gotten this bad. Mycroft had assured him. Now, it seems as if he was lied to. John shook his head. The doctor looked distraught, weary, his eyes were baggy and his face cold. The witty, bright, strong John Watson was gone. Replaced by a tired man who just holds onto life. Alone and bitter.

Sherlock felt a stab of guilt. If only he had just told John, didn't make him watch, things would have been better from the start. John would still be grief stricken, alone, and bitter, but he wouldn't have felt guilty about the whole thing. Sherlock knows that John feels like Sherlock's death was his fault, that he could have done something to stop it, maybe before, maybe in a way that is unimaginable.

"Fine day for you to show up. The anniversary of your death," John said, moving towards the kitchen. "Sit, sit. Your chair is still there, after all. It's still yours." He motioned to the kettle. "You want some tea?" John moved the kettle to the stove after filling it with water. "You know, you don't talk much for an apparition. He would have said something by now, something about my living habits, and what I've been doing. Would have noticed everything that I've done and mouthed off about it. Stupid git."

Sherlock didn't move. He stayed where he was, debating his next move as if John were a dangerous yet fragile creature and if Sherlock made one wrong move, the doctor would either attack or fall apart completely. And for the first time in his life, his mind faltered.