Disclaimer – Don't own, wish I did!

Sherlock knelt beside Mrs Hudson's chair, a hand placed solicitously on her arm, a little uncertain smile on his lips.

Across the kitchen, Greg Lestrade set about making a pot of tea to revive the elderly lady – he was not at all sure that she wouldn't still keel over from shock.

"Three years, Sherlock, you've been gone nearly three years" her voice was shaky, her eyes watery as she searched his face for a clue as to what had really happened.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, I couldn't stay. The lives of the only three people I have ever considered to be my friends were at risk, I had to do it!"

"Yes dear, so you say." She mopped at the stray tears with her handkerchief. "Would it have hurt you to at least have told John?"

Sherlock frowned and looked up at Lestrade. He had said almost the exact same thing, giving the impression that something really not good had happened.

Pouring three cups of tea, Greg put them on the kitchen table and took a seat opposite his friend's landlady.

"He has barely left the flat, Sherlock. Three years, and he virtually lives in his room."

The thin, sharp featured face creased in a confused frown, and his eyes flicked upwards.

"Oh yes, Sherlock, he's up there now." Mrs Hudson confirmed, her eyes also straying towards the ceiling. "Wasting away he is, barely eats enough to keep a sparrow alive. He thinks – well, we all did – that your brother kept up the payments on the rent because he felt guilty.." she smiled sadly as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak "..Yes, dear, he told us what happened – he was distraught."

"Seriously mate, if we hadn't taken your revolver – I might add your illegal revolver – away from the flat that night, he might well be serving time now for your brother's murder!" added, his eyes never leaving the younger man, as if to reaffirm his living presence.

"But…"

"You still don't get it mate, do you? John stood by and watched his best friend commit suicide. He visits your grave, you know, twice a year,"

"Twice?"

"Anniversary," Mrs Hudson supplied the details, "And Christmas. Each Christmas Eve he leaves here, and he sits by your grave until Boxing Day."

"I've tried to persuade him to come back to my place, " Greg added, shaking his head in despair, "but he won't have it – wants to spend Christmas with you, and nothing, nobody, can change his mind."

"Tomorrow will be the third anniversary, Sherlock. Tell him you're alive." The elderly lady's words unconsciously echoed words once spoken by John himself, years ago, in the ruins of Battersea Power Station.

Sherlock nodded and stood up. As he reached for his coat a nagging thought entered his head, but for a moment he couldn't quite place the significance. It was something Greg had said, something about….

"My gun?" his piercing gaze pinned the police officer to his chair. "You say you took my gun?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Did you also take his?" the question dropped into the silence like a clap of thunder. The two men stared at each other.

Mrs Hudson let out a little whimper of alarm, drawing their attention back to her.

"He said…." She was shaking now, her eyes wide, frightened, "He said that it was too much, that he was thinking of moving on….you don't think….?"

Galvanised into action Sherlock raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time with Lestrade close behind him. As his hand reached for the door handle they heard it….a single gunshot…..and then silence.