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Four years, Sherlock waited, hoping and praying that Jon would come back to him in one piece. Four years of listening desperately to the radio. Four years until he heard. Four years until they announced the dead, and John Watson was one of them.

At first, Sherlock had gone into shock, not believing it. Until a package arrived at his doorstep, and when he opened it, John's dog-tag's fell into his palm, broken, burnt but his John's jus the same. That was when it sunk in. This was real. John was dead.

Grief had consumed him completely, and in a fit of desperation he grabbed his wand and polished the tiny piece of metal and mended it.

He was inconsolable, he shut out everyone. He moved away from home and into the muggle word in London. He only wore black as a sign of his silent grieving.

He made up his own job and made enemies rather than friends. And, all through it, he wore John's dog-tag's a reminder to himself that this was real. Besides, it was the only thing of John's he had left.

Sherlock attended the funeral, weeks afterwards. Not just John's funeral, but the funeral of all the men who had died in the war. He was the last to leave, and wouldn't budge when Mycroft tried to talk to him. He threw a single white rose onto the gravestone and turned his back, lifting his head to the sky and praying for strength in this dark time.

Numbness was the only thing he could feel, except for the occasional pang of sadness or annoyance.

This was who he was now. No-one could fix that, except for John, but John was dead.

*.*.*.

It was two years from then, and Sherlock was at the lab again, solving another crime for the dim-witted police.

He heard the talking outside his door, but ignored it. It was just Mike trying to convince another person to be his flatmate.

The door opened as Sherlock was dropping a drop of acid into a tray, and a gust of wind came through to his nose. He didn't believe his nose when it insisted that it could smell pineapple. It was just another one of his body's cruel tricks to torture him.

He listened to their short conversation, but dismissed it as irrelevant.

After a lengthy pause of Sherlock ignoring the two of them, he heard Mike's companion whisper, "Oh, god."

That simple sentence spiked his interest and he looked up, the dog-tag's thumping lightly against his chest.

He froze, tray bubbling underneath his hand, acid dropper clattering to the floor.

John. HIS John.

Mike chuckled, "This is an old friend, John Hamish," he introduced.

"Hamish?" Sherlock questioned immediately, and John stiffened slightly.

"And this is Sherlock Holmes," Mike said to John, as if Sherlock had never interrupted, and then winked and left the room.

Sherlock was frozen in place, eyes scanning over John's body.

He looked older, and more haggard, worn and tired. He was holding himself stiffly, and Sherlock deduced that he had a limp and was shot somewhere, most likely Afghanistan, going by the tan-line.

"Sher," John breathed, face open and vulnerable.

"John!" Sherlock's mind finally caught up and he rushed over to John, enveloping him in a gigantic hug.

Sherlock noticed that he was now quite a bit taller than his love, and he bent down and smashed their lips together, both of them moaning and clutching at the other desperately.

"I thought I would never see you again," Sherlock whispered into John neck, burying his face in it and inhaling the sweet scent of pineapples.

"And I you," John replied softly, gripping Sherlock's jacket in his fists and bringing them even closer together.

They were together, at last, and neither John nor Sherlock had any thought of letting that change.