Hello fellow Sherlockians! How are you coping with the start of this horrendous hiatus? I have to admit, since I wasn't part of the Sherlock fandom for series 1, I'm not used to this. However, with the aid of Tumblr, fanfiction and my sister's constant nattering about it, I think I'll get by.

This fic has nothing to do with "The Notebook" film/book. I've never ever read or seen them.

I think this fic is very itty-bitty, but also necessary for my well-being. I needed to get it out of my system and join the bandwagon. It's a lot longer than I had initially planned but I think it's better that way. Please tell me if it's shit and need to revise my methods!

Knocks at the door of 221B Baker Street were rare these days. Once a month when Greg or Molly would knock to make sure John hadn't done what everyone thought was inevitable. John knew that's why they came, and they knew he knew, but it was never mentioned out loud. They just came and shared a pot of tea with him, then left.

When the door was knocked firmly three times in July 2013, John thought he was hearing things. Molly had come over the day before, making sure he didn't want to go out with the crew from Bart's. He wasn't due visitors until the end of this month, at least. He didn't answer it, deciding his newspaper was more important than whoever was at the door.

Nothing interested him enough for him to completely ignore the second round of knocks – six this time. Pretty urgent. Sighing, he tossed the useless paper across the room and went to answer the door, slippers scuffing against the hard floor.

He stood in front of the door and stared. By answering this, he was messing up the routine he had built for himself in the last year. When he thought about it like that, he didn't feel much like turning the knob.

He jumped slightly as nine knocks – yes, nine – interrupted his thoughts. Sighing in frustration and locking away his daily habits to experience perhaps one minute of spontaneity, he opened the door.

A cold breeze shot through the door like ice against John's partially exposed legs. In the back of his head John wished he could have at least wore pyjamas to bed last night; his dressing down just wasn't thick enough to keep him protected from any outside air. However, the thought wasn't prominent.

Sherlock stood at the door. Sherlock with his upturned collar, pallor skin and high cheekbones. Sherlock who was – is – the smartest man John ever knew. Sherlock who is dead.

Sherlock who is speaking. "John, you've lost weight."

John's mind was surprisingly blank for a response. What do you say to a very-alive dead man? Did that even make sense? It didn't, John realised, and he ought to think of something to say.

"You're dead," John said matter-of-factly, pointing a stern finger at Sherlock's animate face.

"Right you are, John. But only up…" Sherlock lifted his hands and tapped John on the forehead, "here. You lost weight; more than Mycroft could have ever done. How is he doing?"

John could feel something in his stomach. It felt like what would actually happen if you had a frog in your throat. Blocked. Difficulty with breathing. "But you're– ". Before John could continue, Sherlock bodily removed John from the doorway to his armchair and collapsed on his own.

"Oh John, don't be dim. Clearly, I am not dead."

John huffed out a sigh which was an extraneous reaction, considering the 'frog in his throat'. "Where have you been?" he croaked, voice betraying depths of emotion he had blocked for a year.

Sherlock just looked at him for a few seconds, eyes thin and darting from John's hair to his bare feet. Bringing his knees up to his chin and turning his collar up from the non-existent cold, he replied, "Why don't you tell me?"

John didn't seem to understand until he looked around the living room. Of course; the notebooks.

About 3 months after Sherlock's apparent death, John finally decided to open the door to Sherlock's room. Quite a feat, considering he'd hardly entered his own in those few months. The smell had hit him with horrible strength. It was a smell that he didn't know he associated with Sherlock until that moment; paper, burning wood (the result from an apparently burnt backboard) and scented shampoo (passionfruit, apparently). Mesmerized by the smell, he had begun to wander in.

He had passed the footboard of the bed, brushing his hand along it like a child with reeds, and reached the built-in closet. When entering the room, he hadn't been sure what he was going to do. Now it seemed obvious; scarf. He wanted one to wear in memory. In some twisted logic, it made sense; it might've helped him get over his friend's death.

Opening the wardrobe doors, he got to work. Brushing delicately through the racks of suits and shirts, he became gradually more frustrated. The scarves weren't hung up. Even though Sherlock only ever wore one, John knew there was a stash somewhere.

When he got to the end of the racks, his face begun to heat up in anger. Typical Sherlock, hiding his precious scarves. He looked to the ceiling in frustrating and that's when, in the bottom of his vision, he saw it. A small piece of grey fabric hanging from the shelves above the racks and just out of John's reach.

He bolted through to the kitchen to grab a chair and jogged back through with it over his shoulder. He needed that scarf. Slamming the chair down and jumping up, he grabbed the bottom of the scarf and pulled. Weirdly, he felt resistance so began to pull harder until he got the scarf out. His exclamation of success was cut off by what seemed to be a lot of sharp-edged hail falling down and landing on the ground.

Yes, the notebooks. Of course Sherlock kept a record of all his cases. The police report that he could no doubt easily steal just wouldn't be enough for his brilliant mind. He needed to keep track of his deductions somewhere. It probably helped him refine his methods.

It was very helpful that each case was titled with an end date. For the month after that, John never moved as he flicked through them all and sorted them chronologically, Sherlock's scarf sitting on his knee or round his neck at all times.

His older entries – older meaning John wasn't in Sherlock's life at that point – were written carefully and legibly so it was easily read. They normally lasted 2-6 pages of an A5 notebook, depending on the difficulty of the case. Sometimes, phrases would jump out at John and make him ponder about Sherlock's life 'earlier':

"After recovering from my latest shoot-up, I remembered…"

"Lestrade came round at the most inconvenient of times; the needle was prepared…"

John didn't realise how bad Sherlock's addiction might have been until he read these journals. It was clearly worse than John could have ever imagined. However, it was the entries when John had finally arrived on the scene that interested him most.

Honestly, he had never imagined that he had affected Sherlock's life much. But looking through these notebooks, he realised that he was mentioned at least on every page. Whether Sherlock was frustrated, kindly, or shock by or with John, it was mentioned. The most mundane things that John had always pictured would be 'deleted' were actually stored in his reports of crimes. Because of all this additional information, these accounts often covered ten pages. It was written in scrawls and scribbles, like he'd had to scribble it out before rushing off somewhere again. Often, John was mentioned at the end. Sitting in the living room reading the paper; picking up milk; ordering a Chinese. Whatever he was doing, it was mentioned at the end of every entry, Sherlock planning to join him.

It was surprising to John, even though, looking back, it shouldn't have been. Sherlock did rely on him quite a lot, so it's not startling that he was mentioned often.

It was the last few entries that really got to John. He kept the last few notebooks next to his bed, trying to decipher just what was going on in Sherlock's head before he jumped. John knew he couldn't be a fake, and these notebooks pretty much proved that completely. It was just so warped that Sherlock had jumped. Also, it was very warped that he had cried.

Even more so now, as he wasn't actually dead. What made him cry?

John finally decided to answer, "Sherlock… I don't know – "

"You do know. You see, but you do not observe. Where have I been?"

John cast his mind back to the last case, the last notebook. He had read it more times than the number of organs and bones in his body. He could recite most of it word-by-word now, with only a couple of missing conjunctions and the like.

John cleared his throat of the frog and began reciting parts of the entry out loud. "'John is out buying the milk. I'd rather he didn't go alone'," he began.

"'He may be my only consistent ally.'"

Sherlock looked surprised, "You learned it?" When John glared at him, Sherlock swore silently not to interrupt again.

John decided to skip the next part. It was merely the recount of their arrest which wasn't entirely important; or, at least, that's what John thought. He began again at a part which might be important. "'Moriarty came to visit when John was out. He tapped his leg numerous times and wrote "IOU" on an apple with a toothpick. Interesting. He's good with continuity.' What does that even mean?"

Sherlock just looked expectantly at John, which made him sigh and continue.

"Hmm, I suppose… 'I have the code. The code people want.' Then later on, you say, 'I'm going to die. I'm going to die a disgrace and Moriarty will go on. Except I can't die, not quite yet. John would hate me.' That's the last thing you wrote. I don't know the relevance – "

Sherlock sighed dramatically, and John's rage caught up with him, "We're not all bloody geniuses like you Sherlock, least of all me! Can you not tell me?"

"I want you to figure it out John," Sherlock said irritably. "You mentioned a key word. You remember all of it?"

John nodded, "Everything, apart from the odd conjunction."

"Brilliant," sighed Sherlock, and John felt uncomfortable but safe with the role reversal.

"Not really. Give me a clue."

Sherlock's eyes were sparkling. "I already did."

John huffed and lay back in his armchair. Irritation was still lingering from before, but he settled it and concentrated on the words that Sherlock had written all those months ago. He was concentrating so hard, going through the 29 pages of writing so carefully in his head and attempting to pick out the important parts. As he thought, Sherlock looked on with something akin to fascination which was disconcerting but easily ignorable in this state of thought.

"Ally; most likely allies. I'm your only ally but you meant friend. Moriarty, though…"

Sherlock grinned and John was happy to see him smiling, albeit stiffly. "Good John. Well done. Took you less time that I had originally thought."

"You've been going around killing Moriarty's accomplices?" John said in a tone that suggested anger which was completely irrational in Sherlock's opinion. He understood it.

"Look, John – "

"I could've helped!" John shouted, standing up for something to do. He scanned Sherlock's appearance properly this time, looking for evidence of injury. He noticed something different.

Sherlock was stick thin at this point, his purple shirt that used to be well fitted – too well fitted, is what John used to say – now hanging off of his torso. His eyes were red and slightly bloodshot; lack of sleep or… something else. The redness continued its theme to Sherlock's nose that was bright pink and it couldn't be a cold. It may be Britain, but it was still Summer. What gave it away was the constant wetting of lips and thick swallows. Jesus…

"You've been taking again." It wasn't a question. They both knew what John meant. "Sherlock, for bloody hell's sake. Why in the world would you do that?"

At least Sherlock had the decency to look ashamed. "I suppose you could say… I was lonely."

Then it all made sense. If there was one language John could speak perfectly after reading those damn notebooks, it was Sherlockian. "Oh, Sherlock," John whispered throatily, the illogical guilt bubbling up to the surface. It wasn't John's fault, yet the feeling remained.

It was like the bedroom incident all over again. Before John could really consider it, he was swept over to Sherlock by his emotion and fell to his knees at his side. He began to do a standard check-up, as was his routine; temperature (slightly warm, but he is wearing his jacket and scarf in July), pulse (quickened but not unhealthy)… he couldn't help but be worried.

"You didn't share needles?" John inquired.

"I didn't have anyone to do that with." He replied almost amicably, and John sighed. He'd missed his Sherlock-sigh, and smiled when he did it this time. Curiously, so did Sherlock.

"You are an unbelievable bastard, you know that? Complete and utter dick. I swear, if I had the energy I would bloody well punch you." This was all contradicted with a Cheshire cat grin.

Sherlock smiled softly. This helped him remember something he wanted to ask. "Your therapist said there was something you wish you had said."

John stared, smile falling. "Did she tell you that?"

"Of course not, I stole her notes. How about you tell me now." It was Sherlock's turn to say a question-that-wasn't-a-question.

John ran his hand through his hair. "It's not as easy as that."

Leaning in, Sherlock languidly whispered, "Oh, but it is."

John felt a knot being pulled tight in his stomach, and he looked at Sherlock's hands that were currently clasped on top of his bent knees. He cautiously placed his right hand over the arm of the chair and on top of Sherlock's. Sherlock looked down as if it was an extremely rare butterfly.

"I don't know how to say it," John said finally, after a minute of silent observation on Sherlock's part. Because, of course by now, Sherlock knew what it was.

"I want to hear it. I want to hear it now. I… well, I suppose I need it," begged Sherlock softly, his watery eyes displaying all the emotion required.

John sat up straight and tightened his hand around Sherlock's as he reached with his other to trace Sherlock's jaw line, eyebrows, nose, lips, cheekbones…

"You're really here," John said. "I missed you so… so much." He cleared his throat. "I, well… yes. I am very much in love with you," said John slowly, stressing each syllable. He giggled a little, "You're an absolute idiot."

"You too," replied Sherlock. "On all accounts."

The first few lines in Sherlock's next journal entry read:

I am glad to be back. John is very warm. Tomorrow, we have to break the news of my consciousness to the world. John promised to be there and, in return, I promised to love him for it.

Just as an additional note, I got most of my information about physical appearance of a drug-user from the internet, so I apologise for any inaccuracies. Thanks for bothering to read this!