It had been months -almost a year in fact- since the accident at St. Bart's, and John still found himself unable to go anywhere near the hospital. For some reason his mind still let him see the blood smeared on the pavement from...his swan dive from the roof. Even the name in his mind made the doctor's breath catch in his throat and his heart stop. Misses Hudson would call him at his new apartment from time to time to check on him, even though he knew that she had new tenants in 221b. John had gotten rid of the place after. He couldn't bring himself to set foot into it without tears coming to his eyes. Damn him. Damn that man to hell.

John had only been able to clean out their collective possessions with Molly's hand on his shoulder and her voice in his ears. The emptiness of the flat without the detective's constant violin playing was deafening, nearly impossible to stand. And there was the offending instrument itself. Just lying there innocently in its black case. John's shaking hands went for it, but he paused. The man's scent and voice suddenly filled his head and he collapsed to his knees on the carpet. 'This...isn't right. He should be shouting at me for even thinking about touching his bloody violin. And there shouldn't be dust on it! The bleeding case was open and he's going to blame- '

With that, he stopped and began to sob fully. The realization that he...that Sherlock wasn't coming home to have a row with him over the violin, or check the hanging man experiment in the doorway, or even to just lie on the sofa and thrash in a fit of boredom was too much. No more takeout ordered, no more disturbing Mrs. Hudson at all hours of the night with one theory or another that involved shooting at her walls. It was all too real.

'Molly, just...go. I need a moment.' John looked at her with tears swimming in his eyes and she quickly scurried out. He was alone now...or so he thought. A tall black-clad figure hovered in the doorway to the flat with a soft, almost nonexistent smile on his thin lips. He hadn't spoken in the few minutes that he'd been there, not even to Molly as she ran out the door. She hadn't seen him anyway, which was just as well. This needed to be a private moment, he thought. He'd seen John speaking to his tombstone that day, seen the way the normally strong doctor broke down in his absence. It wasn't right to see him so...broken. Like a child's toy. Sherlock coughed softly into his glove. 'John...crying doesn't suit you.'

At the sound of a voice, the man turned his tear-streaked face toward the source. That voice was unmistakably his, but that was impossible. Sherlock had been gone for almost 6 months by now. All the same, he couldn't distrust his eyes when they fell on soft curls, slate-coloured eyes and sharp cheekbones. Cheekbones that he'd once envied...and punched. '...S-Sherlock? It can't be...you're dead! You're dead!'John jumped up from the floor and wavered in place, pointing a shaking hand at the man he'd called his best friend, the man he'd witnessed falling from the top of a hospital building and splattering on the pavement below.

The tears kept coming though, as much as he tried to wipe them away with his other hand. 'I watched you fall! I held your hand and checked your pulse and...there was none! You were gone, dammit. Gone...' He stumbled slightly and in an instant, Sherlock was there at his side to catch him. 'I know, John. I know. I have a lot of explaining to do, I suppose. You are the only one to know I'm not dead. You...called me your friend, yes?'The man looked hopefully down at the sandy blond that was currently using him as a form of support for some kind of answer. He was, unfortunately, only met with tears and a stiff punch to the face.

'YOU BASTARD! YOU MANGY GIT!' The curses kept falling from John's mouth as he kept hitting any bit of Sherlock he could reach through the tears clouding his vision. 'DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW YOU HURT ME?! Any idea at all?' He finally went still and wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock and held onto him for dear life, though he still thought deep down that this was only a kind illusion. A way that his mind thought appropriate to cope with the situation. But the smells of nicotine patches, pipe smoke, and formaldehyde were unmistakably Sherlock. As were the ribs that he felt pushing against his chest even through the thick pea coat and scarf. '...Am I dreaming, Sherlock? Please tell me I'm not.'

'John, I assure you that this is no dream. I'm really here.' Sherlock's voice cracked on the last word and a tear began to track down his face. His best friend...one he hadn't been able to speak to in all the months he'd supposedly been dead. His only friend. Finally here in his arms where he'd been wanting him for so long, clinging to him as if he'd disappear. 'Do me a favour, John. Don't ever, ever let me go again.' John looked up at him through damp lashes and was able to nod jerkily, a tiny smile showing through as he did so. 'You have my word. Can't have a high-functioning sociopath out there all alone. People might talk.'

Sherlock laughed softly and pressed his lips to John's forehead with a sigh. 'They do little else, my dear Watson.'