John woke in the morning and rubbed his eyes. He didn't notice the violin playing in the background. His mind subconsciously thought it was a neighbor or something. John had fallen asleep in his clothes, like he has every night for the past 18 months. John has also become numb to most of the world. The only thing he really paid attention was too Mrs. Hudson and what time his shift starts at the clinic. He shuffled into the bathroom to shower. The violin stopped. After John was dressed he walked out of his room and into the kitchen.
The second thing he didn't notice was the human hand in a jar of unknown liquid. He had become accustomed to ignoring random body parts around the house since he moved in with Sherlock. John did notice his computer was open; though he thought he had left it open the night before.
Another thing he didn't notice was a blue scarf sitting in Sherlock's old chair. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs but assumed that they belonged to Mrs. Hudson. She has become concerned for the army doctor after Sherlock took his plunge. The last thing that John didn't notice was the steps were too heavy and moving too fast to be Mrs. Hudson's.
"Good morning," Sherlock threw off his coat and picked up his violin. John began to mumble something back but stopped in mid-sip of his tea. John looked up at the man by the window.
"What?" John asked. Sherlock turned around concerned that maybe John was losing his hearing. "You're dead." Sherlock gave him his typical glare when he believed John was acting particularly stupid.
"No I'm not." Sherlock set down his violin knowing that John wanted to talk; why John to talk is the part that confused the detective.
"You were gone for a year and a half." John stood up; it didn't help his height much but he felt better when he stood up. "I believed you dead. What was with all that crap about being fake too?!" John was almost shouting now. Sherlock just stared back at his flat mate when John reacted the only other way a half suicidal, semi-delusional person would. John punched the dick in the face.
"I think I might have broken your nose." John tried to apologize for hitting Sherlock. John pulled him onto the couch and ran for the first-aid kit. After a few minuets of examination, cleaning up blood and a lot of apologizing John decided that it wasn't broken. "Sorry about that mate." John said one more time before heading back into the kitchen to return the first-aid kit to where it belongs. "Can you please explain to me what happened." John huffed when he sat back down, thanking God that he had the day off. He cared for Sherlock more than he would like to admit. That's why his death hit him harder than Mycroft... or anyone really.
"Well it started almost three years ago..." Sherlock explained what has happened to him and why he ended up jumping off of Bart's. "If you want me too leave, I understand." He picked up his coat and began for the door.
"No!" John shouted a little too fast. "I don't want to pitch you out on the street." John tried to recover but he knew Sherlock caught it.
"You haven't slept in a few days." Sherlock noted and checked on his hand in the jar again. John rubbed the bit of stubble that has been growing in. 'Same old Sherlock,' he thought.