Ever since the death of Sherlock Holmes John Watson lived only as a shell of a man.
He would return home at 5:38pm and put a TV dinner for one in the microwave. John would eat his dinner in silence the only sound is of the cars driving past his flat. John would then sit and watch what ever he could find on TV until 8pm and at that time John would shower, shave if necessary, climb into bed, curl up and sob until he fell asleep only to be greeted by nightmares plagued by the images of his deceased best friend.
On the weekend, John would do the same routine but instead of going to his work he would go to the store, buy some flowers and walk up to the heart wrenchingly familiar cemetery where he would sit beside the cold hard grave stone which was marked with the name of his lost best friend. He would sit there clinging to the hard marble sobbing and whispering pleas for Sherlock to return to him. He would sit there for up to an hour before composing himself leave the flowers and a quick cold kiss on the black marble and would whisper his final plea ''Don't make me wait much longer Sherlock'' before turning around and walking in a military fashion back to his apartment and waits for something he isn't sure will ever come.
Sunday 3rd of January was one of those rare occasions his routine varied. John was just about to walk into his local store before a black car pulls up beside him and a familiar slim girl pokes her head out of the car.
''Get in John''
''Mycroft could call me. I don't like this. What happened to us meeting at cafes? I thought he'd warmed to the idea''
John complains in a flat tone whilst he climbs into the back of the fancy car.
He sits in silence waiting for the car to stop. As he suspected the car stopped outside a huge warehouse he had never seen before. He gets out not once looking back at Anthea who was like every other time texting on her phone.
As John entered the building he spoke aloud waiting for Mycroft to show himself.
''He isn't even here to follow me anymore Mycroft. Why must you insist on taking me miles away from home.''
John begins to walk further into the center of the room. Until he hears footsteps and he stands and waits. The figure John sees before him is not one he had been expecting. It was the figure he'd ached for over the last 3 years. The figure he'd begged to come back and now it was stood in front of John looking no different from the day he killed himself.
John stays silent but moves slowly closer and closer towards Sherlock. His breathing is steady and from the outside it would look as though he was calm and composed. Well that is until John reaches Sherlock only 3 feet away and his fist collides into Sherlocks face which causes him to fall into a heap on the floor leaving John to cradle his fist hissing in pain.
''You bastard! 3 years Sherlock! 3 Fucking years!'' John shouts as Sherlock starts to stand up.
''I know John I'm-''Sherlock began to apologize once he was on his feet.
''No!'' John cuts him off slightly hysterical ''No don't even say it! Standing on some ones foot is worth a sorry, Barging into someone in the street is worth a sorry, spilling some ones drink is a sorry. This Sherlock is not a sorry. sorry doesn't quite cover it''
John finishes shouting and marches towards Sherlock who closes his eyes tightly accepting
he is about to be punched again. But John stops again his whole body shaking before a single tear escapes his eyes soon followed by a flood of them and he collapses into Sherlocks arms who pats his hair lightly holding the shorter man close. For a few long moment Sherlock tried to blink back tears until he hears John whisper into his shoulder
''I knew you'd come back to me'' this drives the detective over the edge and tears fall freely down his pale face.