It had been six months.

Six months since Sherlock called John and told him goodbye.

Six months since he plummeted to the pavement below St. Bart Hospital.

Six months since John had been okay.

Molly was sympathetic, and Lestrade, though unconvinced of his fraud, was secretly happy he did not have to arrest the consulting detective. However, his grief for the loss of a friend overshadowed any relief he could possibly have felt. John was in shock for about a month after. Convinced Sherlock was going to reappear, as he always did.

Sadly, that did not happen.

Instead, John took an emergency response job at the hospital, not St. Bart's, the memories too painful to bear. He worked with a stone face, hoping to recreate the excitement he felt when he worked a case with Sherlock, but he never felt that thrill.

John began to use his cane again. He lost weight. His eyes grew dark and constantly had bags beneath them. His depression since the detective left him took the doctor to a new low, causing horrible nightmares to rob him of his sleep.

But he could handle nightmares and lack of sleep. Hell, he could even stand losing the weight. But, the fact that caused him to develop his limp once more was simply this.

He loved Sherlock.

And he never knew.

John didn't realize it himself until he watched the detective sail through the air and land hard on the pavement.

"Sherlock!" John yelled as his friend hit the ground. He sprinted to the spot where the broken man laid, blood oozing from the wound in his skull. As he felt for a pulse, only to find nothing, a ripping sensation flung through his body.

He felt like a saw had just cut him open as he knelt over the body of his friend. Tears found themselves streaming down his cheeks and onto the bloodstained cheeks of Sherlock.

"No! This, you said you cared about me! Well I never told you! I-Sherlock, I love you. And you need to come back. For me?" John pleaded into the corpse's neck as he hugged the body close to him.

John stumbled up the stairs of the flat he once shared. He threw his keys onto the table and fell into the chair Sherlock once called his own. His head fell into. His hands as he wept.

John had not cried like this since the day Sherlock died, and it was all because of that bloody idiot, Anderson.

"I for one am glad that freak is gone. He won't expect us to fawn over the murders he committed just so he won't be bored. And also I-" Anderson was unable to finish before a wild flurry of fists rendered his face useless. John was screaming at the imbecile.

"How DARE you talk about Sherlock like that! We all know he was not a fake! Moriarty just wanted us to think that! You know that!"

"JOHN!" Lestrade yelled as he walked into the main space from his office. He quickly pulled up the former army doctor and pushed him away.
"Anderson. What did you say?!" Lestrade demanded.

"That bloody lunatic attacked ME! And you ask what I did?" Anderson spat at the Detective Inspector.

"Yes, because you are an idiot and I know John. He would not have assaulted you without proper motivation. So, I will ask only one more time. What the hell did you do?" Lestrade roared as the man flinched away.

"I was just saying that I was glad Sherlock was gone, so he wouldn't commit more crimes." Anderson said, rubbing the crimson from his mouth before it dropped onto the carpet. He defended his words, but they had struck a deep chord in John. It was exactly six months since Sherlock had jumped, and he didn't need any reminders.

John wept for hours. Only getting up once, to fetch the bottle of whiskey he had placed in the cubbord for occasions such as this. The days when the pain took over.

Before he could even realize it, the bottle had been drained of its bitter liquid. The familiar taste burned in his mouth, the alcohol dulling the sharp memories that surfaced.

The awe he felt when Sherlock first deduced his life. The adrenaline after their first case. The fear he felt at Baskerville, and the calming effect Sherlock's voice had had when he spoke to him. And last, and most painfully, the emptiness and longing he felt after Sherlock jumped.
Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was that the memories won in shaming him. But for whatever reason, John made a decision.

He staggered over to his desk, dropping the bottle on his way. He fumbled slightly as he opened it, his fingers stiff. John reached into the drawer and found what he was looking for. He took the object and walked back over to the chair and sat.

Harry would probably miss him. But she wasn't too sentimental. Lestrade would be upset, but not too bad. Mrs. Hudson. Oh, she would be horrified. But John wasn't thinking about that.

He was thinking that he could get to Sherlock. HIS Sherlock. The man he loved.
He closed his eyes as he put the barrel next to his head.

A single tear rolled down his face, light traces of joy inside. He was going to see Sherlock again.
His finger fell on the trigger, ready to squeeze.

"I am coming Sherlock. I love you." He whispered into the darkness.

"As I love you, John."

Long, pale fingers gripped John's head and wiped away the tears that stained his drunken face.

"She-Sherlock?" John whispered, his eyes flinging open to meet the stormy blue eyes in front of his face.

"Hello John." Sherlock said, a smile forming on his face, wet from the salty tears. The detective slowly pushed the gun away from John's head and took the man into his arms.

"Oh, my dear John," Sherlock said, stroking the back of the weeping doctor, l had no idea. I am so sorry."
John pulled away from the embrace and looked into the eyes in front of him.

"Sherlock, I-I didn't get to tell you. But, I love you. I realized it when you fell, but I think it really happened when Mike Stamford first introduced us and you deduced me. I never want to let you go." John stammered to an end. Sherlock smiled and took John's face and crushed their lips together.

John wrapped his arms around the neck of the detective, licking his lip in order to gain access to Sherlock's mouth. They melted together and made their way slowly into Sherlock's room. Dropping clothing as they went before finally getting what they had both craved for the past six months.

"SHERLOCK!" John sat straight up in the bed. His head ached and he was alone in the bed. His fingers searched the bed for another sleeping figure, but only grasped sheets. He was lying in Sherlock's bed, not uncommon of him. Especially after a night of drinking like the one before.

"But, I swore it was real." John murmured to himself as be got out of bed. His leg ached in response, as he put on a dressing gown and walked out to the kitchen.

"Good morning John!" A cheery, familiar voice said as John slouched into the room.

"Oh my God! Am I still asleep?" John asked himself as he looked at the half naked detective attempting to make some sort of breakfast food, but failing miserably while he poked the black charcoals that were once pancakes.

"No. That is preposterous. I am here. You are there. We had a brilliant time last night. After I stopped you from shooting yourself." He narrowed his eyes as he turned off the stove and walked over to John. He placed his hands on the shorter man's shoulders. "Why would you kill yourself John? You are an amazing human being. The only man who does not bore me to death and also, the man that I love. So why?"

"Because you were dead!" John snapped. Immediately regretting his tone as he saw the wounded look in Sherlock's eyes. "Sherlock, I realized I loved you. And I couldn't stand another day without you. And, after a lot of alcohol, suicide was the best option." John admitted, his voice softening.

"But here I am. And there is one thing I promise you." Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around John's waist. He pushed his head down and kissed John lightly on the lips.

"I am here. And I love you. And I will never. Ever. Leave you alone again."

FIN

YAY! Happy endings are fun! I loved writing and I hope you enjoyed this. PLEASE REVIEW! I love you all!