Chapter 3:

*3 months later*

Sherlock was dead.

He jumped off St. Bart's Hospital.

John couldn't believe it. He was in total denial. It wasn't possible, his best friend, his flatmate, the man he had fallen completely in love with. Dead. In the ground, dead. John didn't know how to cope. He barely moved from his chair. Staring at the empty space that was once occupied by Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson worried about him, often having to force him to eat. The man's eyes were dead. There was no light anymore. There was no spark, no expression. John wouldn't move on, she know that.

John stopped blogging. The flat became unkempt. John lost an incredible amount of weight in a short period of time. He turned pale, emaciated. He had shadows under his eyes from not sleeping. He stayed in the same place, day and night. Only ever moving to shower or go to the bathroom. Everything stayed as it was from before. Sherlock's test tubes and microscope stayed on the kitchen island, surrounded by papers and books. His violin sat on the floor by the window, next to a stack of sheet music, gathering dust. Nothing had changed. It was as if he could have simply been on a vacation. Except for poor John.

A year passed. John slowly began to recover. Barely, bit by bit, he started eating again. He left the flat maybe once a week. He got a job to keep him busy, but that didn't keep his mind off of Sherlock. He was always thinking about him. His beautiful, flashing, blue-grey eyes. The way he knew everything about your life just by looking at you. His long coat he always insisted on wearing, his fresh pressed, fitted suits. The way he would always wear a pair of colorful socks that matched his shirt. Everything about him was wonderful, and that's what John missed the most.

One cold February morning, there was a knock at the door downstairs, followed by a surprised scream, and a thump. John stood up and ran down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, though, he stopped. A mask of shock covering his pallid face. There, standing in the doorway, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. Coat and all. At his feet lay Mrs. Hudson, obviously unconscious. Sherlock looked up at John.

"Well.." He hesitated. "I'm not dead."

John walked forward slowly, and poked him in the chest.

"But.. But.. But.." He stuttered. "I saw you fall. I saw you die! How can you be here.. alive?"

"That's an interesting story.. but.. I'll save it for later." Sherlock crossed the distance between them in one short stride, took John in his arms, and kissed him full on the mouth. He kissed him deeply, hard, filling John's mouth with his tongue, exploring every inch with it.

John pulled away, punching Sherlock hard on the shoulder.

"OW." Sherlock yelled. "I s'pose I deserved that. I'm so so sorry John. I couldn't tell you anything. Moriarty would have killed you."

John frowned, then kissed Sherlock once on the lips. "I missed you." He said. "More than you know. More than you could have ever imagined."

"I know." Sherlock admitted. "I watched you. From afar, of course. I couldn't make any contact. I had to wait to make sure the coast was clear. When Moriarty's men had left. I had to pick the right time to come back. You should have gotten over me, John. You should have forgotten. You should have at least taken care of yourself."

"Sherlock." John stared at him in disbelief. "How the HELL was I supposed to take care of myself, or do anything, or get over you when I thought you were dead. I had fallen in love with you. I love you. I was nothing without you, I felt empty. I felt like I could never be whole again."

"At least you thought I was dead. I had to physically restrain myself from coming to see you. Everyday all I wanted was to come see you, tell you how sorry I was, kiss you and hold you. I love you, too, John. I always have." He said, looking into John's eyes. He glanced down at Mrs. Hudson, still unconscious. "We should probably move her.." He picked her up and carried her into her flat before grabbing John's hand and leading him up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock slowly unbuttoned John's shirt while kissing his neck softly. He slipped the shirt over his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He threw his own coat and scarf into the corner before sinking to his knees to undo John's pants. He took John's hardness into his mouth, teasing the tip with his tongue. John moaned. Sherlock looked at him and started to go faster, taking his entire cock into his throat.

John knotted his finger in Sherlock's hair, pushing his head farther down onto his throbbing cock. Sherlock stood up, took off his shirt, and pushed John onto the bed. He let his pants drift down to his ankles as he squirted a sizeable amount of lube onto his hand. Using his first two fingers, he penetrated John's hole, going only so far as to make him gasp and wriggle. He kept going, deeper and deeper, faster and faster until John grabbed his arm and begged him to get inside him. Sherlock obliged, slicking his own cock with lube, and fucking John until they both came with spectacular orgasms.

The bed was covered with sticky cum, but neither of them cared. Sherlock fell asleep, moonlight reflecting off of his snowy white, muscular back. John lay awake tracing the planes of his back, until he drifted to sleep.