Hello! So this little fic is based on this post on tumblr and the comments bellow:

post/42713243916/fedorawearingwhovian-p-ensieves-lolerica

It's definitely not something I am particularly proud of, but I thought I'd better share it anyway. I do apologise in advance for the grammar - I tend to write in the fluid way that people think and talk and I use sentences to add emotion. I can hear the gnashing of my English teacher's teeth already.

The practice of drinking tea is a ritual that is shared all over the world. Japanese tea ceremonies are an art form and in Russia tea is an event which indicates a host's hospitality. Turkish men sit and play chess in the courtyards whilst sipping warm apple tea from gold-rimmed glasses and in France the well-to-do enjoy blends from Mariage Frères in fine china.

For Sherlock and John, tea was a binding force and a silent communicator. The simple call of 'cuppa?' would often take the place of an apology for an experiment gone wrong, a piece offering after a heated argument or a reassuring 'you're a twat but I'm not going anywhere'.

In the cupboards in 221B there would have been an assortment of at least 14 possible tea-drinking vessels, but at the end of each day, the same two would appear beside the sink, ready for John to wash along with the crumb-covered plates and petri dishes.

Sherlock's mug was tall and navy blue, his colour of choice. It tapered outward at the top, had a large handle, suitable for the user's long spindly fingers and was, according to Sherlock, the perfect balance between polished and matte (John would never forget the hour and a quarter they spent in Marks and Spencer while the detective analysed every cup in the store and ranked them from 1st to 49th according to weight, handle structure, durability and ergonomic quality before finally deciding that one named 'Stanton' was superior, just as John's eyes began to water of pure desperation).

John's on the other hand, was stout, white and thick rimmed with the coat of arms emblazoned onto the side of it. Mrs Hudson had knitted him a cup cosy last Christmas; porridge coloured with a cable pattern to match his favourite jumper. At first he used it only to spite Sherlock, whose look of disgust at the object was something John wishes he had caught on camera, but gradually it grew on him, and soon he never was without it.

I had been 3 months since Sherlock left John. Spread his wings and flown away from this hell and into the clouds where he belonged.

But John… John was stuck; firmly planted on the ground like he had been all his life. He had always been one to stand through the storm, one to hold his own. But really, he had no idea what he was waiting for. So he chose to pass the time by being normal. Doing normal things. Going to work, watching TV, going for drives in the country, walking in the park … well, that's what everyone else saw. It was a brilliant façade that John had constructed, if he did say so himself – this moving on business. But if anyone was to see what truly was happening behind his brown eyes, he would be institutionalised for sure.

When John watched TV, it was always Johnathan Creek. It's always Johnathan Creek because it's Sherlock's favourite, and so John manages to enjoy it no matter how many times he's seen the episode.

When John hires a car and drives for hours on end along tiny village roads and between fields and crops, he doesn't listen to the radio. Sherlock would have despised that. Instead he talks to his best friend. Replays the conversations they shared out aloud. Imagines what snarky comment Sherlock would have responded with, laughs at jokes that were never even said.

When John goes for a walk in Hyde Park, he'll get himself a coffee and limp down the path the exact way he did over a year ago. But Mike Stamford never arrives, never whisks him off to meet the most amazing man to grace the Earth… so instead John keeps walking and bites down on the inside of his cheek to stop the tears.

When John had tea, he never had it without Sherlock. The ritual was always the same - fill the kettle, switch it on, stand on tip-toes to reach the handle of the top left-hand cupboard, pull out two mugs: blue in the right hand, white in the left. Wait for the whistle and click of the jug, dump in the PG Tips and marvel at the lick of steam that wraps around his hand as he pours. Wait for those few glorious minutes where everything is softened by the aroma of the infusion and breathing seems easier. Only a dash of milk goes into the white mug, but a rather ludicrous amount is tipped into the blue, along with a spoonful of sugar. In the living room, any attempts to find coasters are abandoned, but really John likes the rings left on the coffee table. Artistic, storytelling; he tells himself. For the fifteen minutes that it takes for him to drain his cup, life is bliss. John watches Sherlock's tall blue mug as if it is the man himself, remembering, reminiscing on the only time in his life that he could call himself truly happy.

It's over far too quickly. Now all that's left is to wash up, and the liquid he pours from the Sherlock's full mug may as well have been blood.

Today make-believe isn't enough, it seems.

His thigh is searing and the tea in his mouth tastes metallic and every time he looks at that damn mug all he can see is blood-soaked curls and vacant steel blue eyes.

John can't stand the sedimentary state he's in so he resolves to do the washing up now, desperate for a distraction. It crosses his mind briefly just how utterly sad that is.

He was walking – just walking, nothing special or exciting or out of the ordinary – when his leg seized. It was worse than usual; a stabbing pain deep and close to the bone that catches him unawares. His knee buckles and his arms reach out to the bench top to catch him but it's no use. Before he knows it he's on the kitchen tiles and everything is blurry. He sits there for a while, unmoving, eyes closed. It is several minutes before he even registers the dampness seeping through the leg of his jeans.

John is frozen. You would think that by now he would be used to shocks. But at this moment he is incapable of movement. Of course, the liquid on the floor was tea. And now blood, he supposed. Around him, the floor is littered with shards of china, some of which are imbedded into his palm. Slowly he raises his hand to eye level, observing. It might have been what pushed him off the plateau of shock – that deep navy entwined in dripping crimson. It is too real, far too familiar. His friend was broken on the ground and he was losing him again despite never have truly gotten him back in the first place.

It had been three months. This was the first time Dr John Watson let himself cry.

When Sherlock Holmes appears at the door, just two months later, the tall curly-haired (god that's what his hair looked like) man is braced as if ready to endure some sort of physical abuse. John doesn't really know why he so concerned, because it had always been so hard for him to hurt Sherlock, even when he was asked. John also detects a gleam of anticipation in the other man's eyes. He couldn't understand that either. But then, Sherlock hadn't yet seen what John had become.

A breathless "You…" was all that John could muster as he fumbled around trying to grasp the correct words from the absolute lack of anything sensible that was taking place inside his brain.

Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street, alive.

Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street, alive, if not looking a little worse for wear and nervous.

Sherlock Holmes looking nervous.

Sherlock looking nervous?

Sherlock.

Apparently Sherlock was not a ghost/spirit/thingy because John felt himself being lead towards the couch by cold hands and he most certainly heard the words "I'll make us some tea and then I'll explain" and there was no way the kettle could on by itself.

John gasped when Sherlock reappeared because it was so ridiculous to see the man in full colour, instead of the transparent fragments of his imagination. His stomach promptly proceeded to drop to the floor as he recognised what it was that Sherlock had in his hands.

John had tried, so very desperately hard, to put the pieces of Sherlock's mug back together. He sat for hours at his desk, superglue at the ready, willing his hand to stop shaking. And he did, eventually, get it back together… but of course it never looked the same. The clearly visible cracks held far too many obvious metaphors and so John had pushed it, along with his own substantially chipped one, to the back of the cupboard.

And now Sherlock was holding them.

John sprung to his feet and grabbed them away from the other man, before placing them down on the coffee table.

"John…?" Sherlock's voice was very quiet.

"I – I – Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I fell and… it just…."

Sherlock's eyes rose to meet John's. "You put it back together."

"Well… I tried… it was never the same," he said blushing a little.

There was a long pause before he heard a little "Oh" come from the consulting detective that made John wonder just how much he knew about what John had been through.

And then John was wrapped up in a wonderfully warm, wonderfully real hug that made him wonder just how much Sherlock had been through himself.