“He said you do that.”

#skdjajkaygh #i just think about sherlock being alone during his hiatus and talking out loud and then looking around and realizing john isn’t there

“…and then, when I told her about the cologne on her boyfriend, she tried to—” Sherlock looked up to find that, once again, John wasn’t there. It had been almost month since his ‘fall,’ but he still couldn’t seem to get used to not having John around. He had managed to get used to nearly everything else, but not having John around was going to take some work.

He sighed and got up, wishing he had his violin, even though he knew it wouldn’t help. He picked up his phone and flipped through the texts he had received since the fall.

Went to your funeral today. You would have found it boring. Sentiment and all that. You pretended not to understand it, didn’t you. -JW

I made two cups of tea again. I left yours by your chair. Maybe you’ll come back. -JW

The tea was still there when I woke up. Maybe you weren’t thirsty. -JW

I’ve started working again. Not at St. Barts, though. Can’t deal with that place right now. -JW

I got a call from Harry. Says I should go live with her. I can’t, though. I keep thinking that you’ll come back. -JW

Please come back, Sherlock. -JW

I won’t even complain when you play the violin at three in the morning. -JW

I met a new girl today, but could already tell that she was a chronic cheater. I guess you rubbed off on me. -JW

My therapist says I should stop texting you. Maybe she’s right. Then again, I don’t know what’s right anymore, though. -JW

You’re probably not even getting any of this. -JW

Lestrade visited today. Offered to let me stay at his for the night. Just for some company. I couldn’t do it. -JW

Anderson was gloating about how he knew you were a fraud all along. He left with a bloody nose. -JW

I don’t think Sally’s too pleased. -JW

They tried to take your violin away. I wouldn’t let them. I wouldn’t let them touch anything in your room, in case you do come back some day. -JW

I’m having the nightmares again. But this time, I just see you falling. And I try to catch you, but it’s always too late. Always. -JW

I was supposed to protect you. I guess I can’t do anything right. -JW

I thought I saw you at work today. My heart literally lept, but you disappeared. You always do. -JW

God, just give me a sign. Anything. I just need to know you’re alive. Please. -JW

Sherlock looked away from the phone. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He was already running risks, checking up on John in various disguises. He had nearly been caught a few times, too. He leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles, phone dangling from a hand that hung off of the arm of the chair.

He missed John.

A year and a half passed. He was getting closer and closer to completely eliminating the web. The texts still came in a steady flow every day. It kept Sherlock sane. Kept him from using. Kept him alive.

I was watching crap telly again. Not the same without you shouting abuse at them now. -JW

Your brother was quite insistent that I go back to my therapist. I’d rather not, though. It’s not helping. -JW

It still hurts, Sherlock. It’s been over a year and it still hurts. Why does it still hurt? -JW

I still make two cups of tea a day. You still never drink yours. -JW

Two years later, he had finally cornered the last member of the web, taking care of him with one clean shot in the temple. After the man was dead, Sherlock sat down, staring at the corpse for a good two hours.

It was done.

The web was disintegrated.

And then, out of nowhere, he felt an almost manic explosion of laughter burst out of him. He was laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. Or was he crying? Emotions of glee and desperation racked his body, reducing him to a shaking pile next to a dead man. Finally, he managed to stand up and pull himself together, leaving the corpse where it lay and quickly typing out a text before heading back home.

Put the kettle on. -SH


Oh god I wasn’t ready for all these feels…




Sweet mother of fuck, this was not the first thing I wanted read when waking up.









The tea was still there when I woke up. Maybe you weren’t thirsty. -JW

I still make two cups of tea a day. You still never drink yours. -JW

these two lines made me bawl like a baby and you ought to be ashamed of yourself ;_;

Put the kettle on. -SH

John stared at the message on his phone. A part of his mind (which had always sounded oddly like Mycroft) noted that his hand wasn’t shaking, but the rest of his thoughts were in too much turmoil to even consider that.

Sherlock. A text from Sherlock.

No, he corrected himself. From Sherlock’s phone. Someone else had sent that from Sherlock’s phone, as a cruel joke or a malicious trap. It had to be someone else, because Sherlock was dead.

(He’d been telling himself that for three years.)

Fingers trembling, he typed a text in reply.

Who is this? -JW

Me, of course. You ought to know this number. -SH

He could practically hear Sherlock’s irritated, superior tone.

His phone beeped again. Twenty minutes, I should think. -SH

He swallowed, set his phone down carefully, and headed to his bedroom.


Sherlock tossed a wad of bills at the cabbie, not even bothering to count, and scrambled out of the car. It had taken him three years, but he was finally home.

The door opened when he tried to knob; John must have left it unlocked for him. Mrs. Hudson’s flat was quite obviously empty, so he bypassed it—plenty of time to see her later—and bounded up the stairs to 221B.

Reaching the top step, he flung open the door, smiling more widely than he could ever remember smiling before.


His mouth dropped open and he stared at John, who was staring back in equal shock. Staring back, and holding his gun.

Slowly, Sherlock turned to look at the doorjamb a few inches from his head. Then he turned back to John, finally making his mouth move.

“You shot at me.”

“The wall.”

“You shifted your aim at the last second. You were planning to shoot me.” Why would John do that? Hadn’t he missed Sherlock?

Quite literally, this time, his brain felt it had to tell him. And only by a few inches.

“I wasn’t.” John slowly lowered his gun, flipping the safety on and setting it down.

“You were pointing a gun at the doorway I arrived through, John, after I told you I was coming home. Even Anderson could deduce what that means.” Curious and more than a little angry, he took a few steps closer to John. 

“I thought—” His voice cracked, and he wiped at his face. “I thought it wouldn’t be you. You were dead, Sherlock. You were—and if someone, anyone, would take your phone and text me with your—” He stopped himself sharply, closing his eyes for a moment before continuing, “It could have been a viable threat. That’s why I had the gun. That’s why I told Mrs. Hudson to get out of the house for a bit.”

“You told—ah.” Sherlock blinked, swallowed, forced a smile. “You did learn quite well, John. That is… that is exactly what I would have told you to do, had you received a suspicious message from a dead man. I’m…” He nearly bit his tongue at the thought, but pressed on. “I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking, when I sent that.”


Sherlock scowled. “You should be flattered. I rarely fail to think.”

“Oh, yes. Flattered, absolutely. You bloody faked your own death, told me nothing, nothing at all for three years, let me think you were—” John clenched his teeth. “Flattered is not the word I would use.”

“…oh. You’re—you think I didn’t trust you. You think I…” His voice trailed off.

“I know.”

“You don’t know, you assume. And that makes for terrible deductions, John, I must have told you a dozen times at least.”

“Right. Yeah. Right. Just what I wanted to hear. Insults.” He shook his head angrily and sat down in his chair. “I didn’t make you any tea, since I know you’ll ask. And I’m not going to make you any now.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Whirling around, he made for the stairs, only to be nearly yanked from his feet when something snagged his coat.

He spun around again (careful of his new balance) and glared down—only to see John standing, looking dumbstruck, with his hand on Sherlock’s coat.

“What?” Sherlock snapped. “Hurry up, and I can be out of your hair. The way you want me to.”

“No!” John’s grip tightened. “No. I don’t want you to leave. I don’t—I just—I—” He stopped again. “I can’t get used to you being here if you… aren’t here.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, forgetting his injured pride. John had thought him dead for over three years. He had barely been able to stand being separated for that long, and he had known that John was alive.

What would it be like for John, who had seen him alive for a few scant minutes, if he left again?

Human emotion wasn’t Sherlock’s strong point, but he knew mathematics. A few minutes of “alive” could hardly balance out three years of “dead.” And without tangible proof of “alive,” who was to say that it held true?

He set a hand on John’s arm and smiled tentatively. “I’ll make the tea, then, shall I?”