John awoke groggily, painfully aware of the shaft of light that was spilling through a small gap in the curtains and on to his pillow. He squinted against the brightness, raising a hand to block his eyes. It was a Sunday. He rolled over and pulled the duvet up to his chin, determined that for once he was going to have a lie-in. After failing miserably to drift off to sleep, John sighed and sat up. His hair stuck up at ridiculous angles, sleep tousled and unkempt. He rubbed his eyes, yawning widely. His feet found his slippers without a moment's hesitation, and he pulled his dressing gown off of the back of his door with barely a second glance.

Now for the daily checks: His gun was still in the drawer, unloaded. His walking stick was by his bedroom door, waiting for him to leave. His blog was still open on his computer, telling him that nothing posted had been posted for 3 years.

John stopped. He checked the calendar on his desk just to be sure. It was. His heart stopped and his breath caught in his chest. It was 3 years today since the incident at St Bart's. He hadn't even remembered. He pushed it to the back of his mind; Sherlock would not have wanted him to grieve, not for this long.
The walk down the stairs took him slightly longer though.

As he limped into the living room, a wall of warmth greeted him. Mrs Hudson must have turned on the radiators, finally. It was definitely the weather for it. He made himself some toast and orange juice, picked up the newspaper from the side and sat down that the table. He started to flick through the pages, but in the cosiness of the room and the lull of passing cars outside, John drifted off to sleep. His chin fell forward onto his chest, as the warm air wrapped around him like a blanket.

John woke up, and a tartan throw slipped off his shoulders. He looked round, confused. Mrs Hudson was out, as she always was on a Sunday morning. Lord knows what she got up to, but she was never in.

He looked down at the table in front of him. There was a mug of steaming hot tea exactly where his toast had been. Tentatively, he picked it up and took a sip. It was perfect. The hot liquid ran down his throat like silk and he let out a satisfied sigh. He hadn't had a cup of tea that good in over-
For the second time that morning, John froze. Only Sherlock made tea that good.

He whipped around. There was a tall figure standing in the living room, a mop of black curls longer than John remembered.
His voice failed him. He shook. His eyes filled with tears of love, relief, and anger. The figure didn't move, but John could see tears form in his eyes too. He staggered to his feet, using the table to support him. He made a swing at the man before him but his strength failed him and he simply grabbed the lapels of the man's coat and sobbed into the fabric. Arms circled his shoulders hesitantly. When there was no resistance, they tightened into a warm embrace. John revelled in this touch. It was safe, comforting, and unmistakeably real. Sherlock Holmes had come back.

Eventually John managed to compose himself, and he looked up at the man he had been missing for so long. Sherlock smiled back, eyes twinkling familiarly. He moved his head towards John's and something stirred in John's chest. Sherlock planted a soft kiss on his lips, lingering for only a second. There was a moment, and then John returned the kiss with enthusiasm. John felt as though his heart was going to explode. He placed his hands everywhere he could possibly reach, solidifying the evidence that his best friend has returned; making sure he wasn't dreaming.
When they finally broke apart, Sherlock smiled, and motioned towards the table with his head.
"Your tea is getting cold."
And John laughed. He laughed harder than he had ever laughed before in his life. He laughed for the first time in over three years, and he laughed until tears rolled down his face. The comment had not been that funny, but the relief John felt at hearing that all-too-familiar voice was overwhelming. Sherlock joined in, and the two of them laughed until their stomachs ached and they were out of breath.

That was how every Sunday began from then on, with the addition of a good cup of tea and a long kiss. Only now there were two mugs steaming on the table, and John's cane began to gather dust by his bedroom door, almost entirely forgotten.