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Three years to the day after Sherlock's funeral was when John walked in the front door of his flat to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair. He was reading the newspaper John had left on the seat.
In the early days, right after he'd moved and everything in the new place was in the wrong spot, and it was too clean and too quiet and no one else was around to make him tea--right around the time he'd heard the words 'legal will and testament' out of Mycroft's mouth and Mrs. Holmes had been trying to get him to come round the country estate for tea and a good sob--now and then, John had found himself stopping to imagine Sherlock miraculously returning from the dead and what he might say or do. His imagined reactions had ranged from relieved tears to raging arguments to a good snog up against the fridge.
But three years on, John simply said, "Of course," and turned to hang up his coat.
Sherlock stood up, folding the paper and dropping it back into the chair.
"Where've you been?" John asked with all the weariness of his third double shift this week.
"Spain. America. India, for a bit." Sherlock paused, looking him up and down with a puzzled expression. "I was expecting you to hit me."
John just walked into the kitchen, heading for the kettle. He didn't speak to Sherlock.
He didn't speak to Sherlock for three weeks.
Sherlock kept coming round anyway, either turning up just after John got home from work or sitting in his armchair, waiting for him. Sometimes he'd made tea. John wondered now and then how much time Sherlock was spending in his empty flat while he was off setting bones and looking at tonsils. John would just ignore him, sometimes drinking the tea since it was already made but mostly just going about his business as if Sherlock weren't there.
"Why did you move?" Sherlock asked eventually. "This flat is tiny and ill-situated, and the nearest cafe has the worst coffee I've ever tasted. Anyway, you've left Mrs. Hudson alone."
For the first six months, John and Mrs. Hudson had met weekly for dinner. John took a deep breath to keep from responding and went back to poking at the boiling pot of pasta.
"Honestly, John, I had thought you might manage better without me than this."
John set down his spoon and turned off the burner without registering that he was doing so. "What the hell else is a widower to do, eh, Sherlock?" he asked, turning suddenly. Sherlock took a half-step back, which made John feel irrationally proud. "Without the consulting detective, I'm just the blogger. I went back to work," he said. "This place is near my job and the rent's decent. I didn't want a flatmate," he hissed.
Sherlock's gaze darted away to fix on the fridge. There was nothing remotely interesting there, but it was the farthest thing away from John's face. "I left you everything, you should have been comfortable."
"It was certainly an impressive sum of money for someone who needed a flatmate to rent from Mrs. Hudson," agreed John. "I didn't touch it. Mycroft's been looking after it, I suppose."
"Mycroft?" Sherlock sounded mortally offended. "Why would you do that?"
"Why would you spend three years touring the world while letting me think you were dead?" asked John. "Who the Christ knows?" He stormed past Sherlock and went to sag into his armchair.
"You were safer with me gone," said Sherlock from the kitchen doorway.
"Safer from whom, exactly? Moriarty ate a gun, apparently in front of you. Or have you got other mortal enemies you haven't yet mentioned?"
Sherlock was apparently now taking a turn at saying nothing.
John rubbed at the tension building in his temples. "I also notice that you've been breaking into my flat to stare at me and complain about how much stupider Americans are than even the British for three weeks now, and yet you still haven't thought to offer an apology." The words really came out without his intending them to; obviously Sherlock wasn't going to cater to John's silly need for social niceties.
"I knew you wanted an apology," said Sherlock tightly. "I've yet to figure out whether you want it for pretending to be dead, or for coming back."
John stared sightlessly at the coffee table for a long time. He wasn't sure which he wanted it for, either.
"Your pasta is congealing," said Sherlock, and then he was gone.
***
The next person to call on John was Mrs. Hudson.
"Please, dear," she said, eyes wide over her mug of tea. "He's written two and a half symphonies this week. The violin's beginning to shriek a bit." She reached out to pat John's knee. "Really, I think he's already done all you can expect from him."
John saw her safely into her cab and then went back up to his flat to sit in the dark for a while. Finally, he pulled out his phone and sent a text.
Your apologies are crap, anyway.
The reply came a few minutes later.
There's a second room for let. Unfurnished.
SH
John hardly had time to roll his eyes before his phone was buzzing again.
How do you feel about skulls? Except mine's gone missing.
John shot a glance at the closed bedroom door. There was a skull tucked in the back of the top shelf of his closet, hidden under a folded blanket. Probably Sherlock had already found it.
That's a terrible shame.
He pressed 'send' with a little smile.
***
The old flat had new wallpaper and was cleaner, owing to the fact that most of Sherlock's possessions had long ago been donated to charity shops and school labs. The same furniture remained in the same places, though, and as John let his gaze travel over the front room, he felt settled in a way he hadn't in years. Sherlock was already banging on something in the kitchen, either making tea or doing something ethically unsound in the name of science.
"I haven't rented it to anyone else," said Mrs. Hudson from behind him. When he turned to her, she was smiling sadly. "Didn't feel right."
John laid a wordless hand on her shoulder, unsure what to say but enjoying the moment, and then Sherlock yelled something incomprehensible followed by, "John! I need a second set of hands!"
Mrs. Hudson's smile turned wry; John patted her shoulder lightly before taking a deep breath and going into the kitchen.
THE END