It had taken John a long time before he had even been able to realise that the great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and the strange planet that all of his existence had orbited around since the first time he’d met him had actually and truly died. It seemed to him like it took another half of his lifetime to somehow come to terms with it and carry on.
To carry on never ment to smother the little flame of hope deep in his subcounciousness that flickered with heavy reality but still lived on. It never ment not leaving his bedroom untouched apart from the fresh linen on the bed. It never ment to stop instinctivly brewing tea for two persons and ending up drinking all of it to decive oneself. It never ment to stop shivering whenever he saw a tall, distinctive figure on the streets.
It only ment he would never reach out for them anymore. He’d never call out that name again to some random stranger in the street.
It never ment he stopped saying it to the dark silent nights. A remembrance to the men while John Watson carried on living a normal life.
Normal… normal behaviour had always been the most irritating thing when it came to Sherlock Holmes. John had been suprised every time by the sight of Sherlock eating - or doing anything else out of the imense variety of domestics for that matter - for he had rather expected him to be working on some obscure and most of the time really unsavory experiments. Still in the kitchen, naturally.
Sometimes he hadn’t been sure if it was still an experiment or already ingestion. Or the other way around. It had been better not to think about it.
So as he returned to the flat it was only understandable that life caught John Watson, former army doctor, absolutely off balance with the sight of the great consulting detective at the breakfast table, casually reading the newspaper (Boring!) and - in fact - eating cereals without any guilt or scientific addition. Just with milk and a spoon.
“Sherlock… wha… Where did you get the milk from?!”, was the most coherents and therefore absolute irrelevant question his brain could come up with beside the huge storm of thoughts and other questions that clouded his mind.
“I got bored after my death and got into farming” was the snarky answer at the double, expressed between two spoons-full of cereals and without a single look away from his newspaper.
“You… what?!” proceeded John’s mouth to not participate in an expedient conversation.
“Oh come on, John”, Sherlock grinned as he finally folded the newspaper away. “I am merely a presumed dead genius. I still know how to do the shopping.”
And - if anybody was wondering - it is my headcanon that John punches him in the face after that. Very hard. And all is flying milk and cereals and wide grinning. Untill Mrs. Hudson comes up and complains about ‘the mess you’ve made!”