It was weeks before John forced himself to stop going to the grave every day. As the visits grew rarer, the less it hurt each time. He looked at the grave this time, and fixed the flowers. It was three years to the day that Sherlock had committed suicide. At first John thought about going to the spot he had died, but the thought of remembering everything that happened that day was too much to bear. He purposefully avoided going by Saint Bart's for that reason.

It was also for that reason he avoided seeing Mycroft for the last three years. The last time he had seen him, he made a fool of himself in his office. Now he avoided them all, Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade. It was too much. He wondered if, by chance, he would run in to one of them putting flowers out or something, but he knew deep down he wouldn't. All of them had continued their lives as though nothing changed. For most of them, nothing had.

"It's been three years." John started. "I almost can't believe it. Some days, it feels like it was yesterday. And others, it feels like decades. No matter how far away it is though, I still miss you."

He glanced around to make sure no one could hear him. "You'd laugh at me, but I've been trying to use your methods. I found myself hanging around in the market, watching people. Or reading the paper trying to find clues. I had a success or two, but nothing like you. The world lost a great deal when it lost you, Sherlock. Bye, friend."

John began his walk home. He had moved out of Baker Street almost a year ago and hadn't been back since. He thought about Mrs. Hudson and wondered how she was doing. It wouldn't hurt to go back and say hullo. He continued towards Baker Street, pulling his coat closer to him. It had started drizzling and he hadn't brought an umbrella.

He hadn't expected the emotions that accompanied seeing Baker Street again for the first time in a long time. He remembered the first time he had walked in, not knowing in the slightest what he was getting himself into. He remembered how Sherlock had pulled him out of the deadness he had felt from his return from Afghanistan. If only Sherlock could pull him out of this deadness.

The door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson. She hadn't changed in three years. She smiled and laughed when she saw John and grabbed him in a tight hug. John couldn't help but smile back.

"Come in!" she cried, pulling him inside out of the drizzle. "Come in."

He pulled off his coat and hung it up. She insisted on making him a cup of tea, just this once, she joked.

"How have you been?" she asked finally.

Mrs. Hudson had been upset whenever she heard that Sherlock was gone. Though Watson heard her tell someone once, that suicide hadn't surprised her. In her words, the boy always had a death wish. John wondered if it was true. He had a destructive personality, to be sure. But the puzzle had always seemed to be a big enough pull to keep him alive. Watson knew eventually he would have gotten bored with the world anyways.

"I've been good," John said truthfully. "I've been really good."

Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to believe it, "You know there are times when I almost miss the noise, the moods, and especially the violin."

John smiled, "I know what you mean."

An awkward silence settled between them.

"Have you rented the room out?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "No. Mycroft delivers an envelope for rent every month. He had strict orders to keep it exactly as it was. I only rented it to you boys for the money, so even now Sherlock's taking care of me."

John's face winkled in confusion, "Why…?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged as she rose to put her cup up, "How should I know? I never understood anything any Holmes ever did."

"Mycroft delivers it personally?"

She nodded, "What an odd fellow he is, too."

This confused John even more.

"Do you mind if I go take a look?"

"Go right ahead dear. It's unlocked. Take as much time as you need."

John climbed the steps slowly. He didn't know what compelled him to see the rooms again, but he couldn't help it. He could practically hear the voice of his therapist telling him to go back downstairs. Immediately following though, he could practically hear the voice of Holmes telling him to continue.

He pushed the door open. There before him was his old flat. Exactly as he had left it when he moved out. Holmes's stuff was still strewn about. His skull was safe on the mantle and there was even a letter with the knife stabbed through.

He sat in the chair and looked around, wondering how long it would take him to forget this life ever existed. Pulling himself up again, he moved towards the knife. The letter that had been stabbed through was dated two weeks ago. And it was addressed to a Mr. Sigerson. John skimmed through the broken English and saw it was a request for services in Germany.

"Has it really been three years? It seems like so much longer."

The voice chilled John to the bone. Slowly he turned and saw none other than Sherlock Holmes standing feet away. His hair was longer than it had ever been and his skin a pleasant tan, but other than that, it was Sherlock. His Sherlock.

"What…?" he said, raising a hand and choking up, "Don't do this to me. Who are you?"

"John," Sherlock said carefully. "I can explain."

John continued to stare in disbelief. "Sherlock?"

"It's really me. Just as real as you are."

John moved forward as Sherlock moved back, unsure. His mind was spinning uncontrollably. Just when he imagined he was about to fall down, Sherlock hurried forward and held him up.

"I've got you, John. I've got you."

John's hands wrapped around Sherlock's back to make sure it was a live person standing in front of him and not a bizarre hallucination. John felt Sherlock's body stiffen as he embraced his dearest friend. Then, in a moment, Sherlock relaxed and hugged John back.

"You once asked for one more miracle, John. Don't be dead, remember?"

John replied that he remembered as he pulled away from Sherlock.

"I'm not dead. I never was."

"Explain everything." John said shakily as he moved towards the couch.

Sherlock sank into the chair in front of him, clasped his hands together and raised his two pointer fingers to the tips of his lips in the familiar gesture John had seen hundreds of times before. It was the posture Holmes assumed when he was about to explain the case step by step for Watson.

"Is it really you?" John asked.

"I know you have no reason to, but you have to trust that everything I did was to protect you. I never wanted to hurt you, John."

John watched Sherlock's face and didn't know what to believe anymore. Sherlock sighed, seeing the doubt.

"Dr. Watson," a voice called from the stairwell.

"Mrs. Hudson," they both said at once, turning to the door.

Mrs. Hudson had entered with a handful of mail and threw it everywhere with a shriek when she saw Holmes sitting in his chair. She had a much more violent reaction to seeing Holmes and passed out completely. They brought her over to the couch, and when she came too they were careful not to send her into hysterics again.

Once Mrs. Hudson seemed convinced of the 'big mistake', Sherlock pulled on Watson's arm.

"Dinner?"

John looked at his friend, stunned. It was like being pulled back in time. He never thought he would be standing back in Baker Street, Holmes asking him to go out, just like old times.

"It's all so much at once," John said, still stunned.

"I know," Sherlock said, genuinely looking concerned, "But we have three years to catch up on and not a moment to lose."

John ran his hand through his hair.

"Dinner," Sherlock repeated, "on me."

They headed downstairs in silence, John's head still swarming with questions. He had seen the body, he had checked for a pulse.

"You know," Sherlock said as he pulled on his coat in the dark drizzle, "I had emails written out several times over the last three years, but I was afraid sending them would only bring you more pain or trouble."

"I thought you were dead." John said indignantly.

Sherlock stopped walking and looked out at the city around them. John realized then for the first time that this was actually hard for him too. He would never in a million years admit it, but it was possible Sherlock might have human emotions as well.

"I don't know how to fix that." Sherlock said, "I'm sorry."

John knew he meant it. "Who knew?"

They continued walking, "Mycroft."

John nodded, letting the pieces fall together.

"And Molly," he added.

"Molly?" John cried.

"I needed a dead body. She had access."

John began to wonder back over the years of when he had talked to both Mycroft and Molly. They had known then and hadn't said anything.

"They would have taken your secrets to the grave."

"I know."

"As would have I, had you let me in on it."

"I know."

"I still don't get that completely."

"Moran," Sherlock countered, "I needed Moran to be convinced of my suicide and the only way to do that was have you spread the story of me being a fake. It needed to be as authentic as possible."

"Moran committed suicide a couple of years ago." John said.

"So you believed."

They continued on in silence, "So, why return from the dead now? What happened?"

John could barely make out the concern on Sherlock's face in the darkness, "Germany. That's what happened."

"Sigerson?"

Holmes lips crept into a small smile, "That's the name I used abroad. While in Germany I was kept up to date on things by Mycroft. There is a dark shadow in the criminal world of London. It requires my full attention. Since Moriarty's group is all gone or in prison, it seemed like a fine time to come out of hiding. Or at least to you."

John nodded, though understanding very little.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Don't ever do that again."

Sherlock moved to open the door for John and replied that he wouldn't but John could see he was already plotting the attack for his next case, weighing the variables in the equation like he always did. The brief window of emotion had disappeared and the cold, determined detective had reappeared. Still, John couldn't help but smile as he followed Holmes inside. He realized then that they still had a few more adventures in them and John was ready and willing to see where they lead.