2 years. 2 fucking years to the day since Sherlock Holmes had jumped off that bloody roof. Two years that John Watson couldn't fully remember. The first six months, he spent in denial, six months of pretending that his best friend hadn't hurled himself off a roof. John would constantly do things he would have done before the fall. The Reichenbach Fall, that's what people called it. John would find himself making two cups of tea, buying enough food for two people, before the newspapers painfully reminded him that Sherlock wasn't around any more. He was aware that Sarah visited often during those six months. He couldn't remember what he said to her though, her presence had only been a temporary comfort. That was when he realised he was missing Sherlock, like he'd lost a part of himself. And in those six months, John refused to visit the grave.
The next six months were a blur, John didn't talk to anybody, he barely ate, he never left the flat. He didn't see the point any more. His life was just one long grey blur, a blur without Sherlock Holmes in it. He cried, a lot during those months. He ached for Sherlock, he wanted his best friend back, he didn't want live in a world without him. It was during these six months that John considered taking his own life. Although the media had forgotten about Sherlock, John hadn't and he didn't think he ever would.

A year passed after the fall and John began to piece his life back together, he started to go out again, he went to the shops on occasion and he finally began to visit the grave, and he found it brought him some small comfort to be near to Sherlock, it made him feel less alone. During the twelve months, John went back to work, put on a front that he was coping, that he was over the loss of Sherlock, that nothing was wrong. But when he went back to that flat every evening, he still cried, he was broken, he was floating around, looking for something to bring him back to earth, to give him a purpose. But the only thing that could do that, was lost and John had no hope of finding it again.

And its two years. Two years since John's world fell apart and he's just got back from Barts. Well, the roof of Barts, because he considered joining Sherlock, but he didn't, because he knows it isn't what Sherlock would want. He'd want John to keep on living. So now John's just sitting in the flat, lost in thought, he doesn't know what to do with himself now that the reason for his existence is six feet under. The thought makes his eyes tear up as he stares at the empty chair opposite him. He knows the time's passing but he doesn't want to move. Just in case. But he's being stupid. He's not coming back. He's dead. And sitting here moping isn't going to bring him back. And John falls asleep. But he doesn't dream. Never dreams any more. Apart from the nightmares but they don't bother him so much.

A door slams, and John assumes its the leftovers of some dream that he's forgotten but he opens his eyes and realises he'd been awake when the door slammed. Must be Mrs Hudson. She sometimes comes into clear up whilst John's sleeping and John's grateful. He doesn't often get round to it. His shoulder's hurting him again so he decides to go and sleep in his bed, it'll be more comfortable at least. He's halfway across the room when he sees it. A blue scarf slung over a chair. Sherlock's scarf. But it can't be, because he's dead. He jumped off the roof of Barts. John decides he must be still dreaming. John picks the scarf up and sniffs it. It smells like Sherlock's aftershave, and John's head hurts when he remembers. A crash echoes out of the kitchen. That's funny. Mrs Hudson doesn't make so much noise. He walks to the kitchen and sees a silhouette against the dark window. One he didn't think he'd ever see again. A lean, tall figure. John flicks the light on. And Sherlock Holmes is standing in front of him.

'John' says Sherlock softly and steps forward so John can see him properly and he's different from the Sherlock in his dreams. He's thinner, he looks ill and dishevelled. But still Sherlock. And John considers the possibility that he isn't dreaming.
'You're dead' he says, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. 'You're not real'
'I am' Sherlock says quietly. 'I promise, I had to pretend so you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson would be safe.'
John's barely listening. He steps forward and grasps Sherlock's shoulder. And he doesn't vanish. He always vanishes so John gasps. He's not dreaming and he's not going mad, Sherlock's real and he's alive. And he put John through two years of torture, thinking he'd gone. So John hits him. Draws back his fist and hits Sherlock in the face. And it feels good to let his anger out. Until he sees Sherlock's expression, he looks hurt, upset and John melts. He doesn't want to hurt Sherlock, he's been hurting for too long, missing him. John doesn't want him to disappear again and before he knows what he's doing, he's running towards Sherlock, wrapping him up in his arms and letting the tears spill down his cheeks.

They stay like that for a long time. Neither of them speak. They don't need to. They understand. Sherlock ends the embrace, of course he does and hold John at arms length.
'I missed you' John whispers. 'I truly did'
'I know' Sherlock says. 'I am sorry. You have no idea. It was the only way to save your life'
John laughs at the irony. 'I nearly went the same way.' he says. 'Barts and everything'
Comprehension dawns on Sherlock's face and it darkens. He pulls John towards him and kisses him with such force that John almost falls over. But its a good kiss and John likes it. He pulls back and smiles and Sherlock's smiling too.
'If you EVER think about killing yourself again, I will never forgive you. Don't take yourself away from me.' he says.
'I love you too' John replies, his smile growing even bigger.
Sherlock doesn't reply, he simply looks at John, studying his face and even though he doesn't say it out loud, John knows Sherlock cares about him and that's good enough for now.
Sherlock's phone buzzes and he looks at the text.
'Lestrade' he says in explanation. 'I dropped in on him. Nearly gave him a heart attack. Double murder. Probably going to be dangerous. You in?'
John's stomach backflips. 'Oh god yes' he says and follows Sherlock out of the door.