A/N: So, I apologize if this is really ooc, but I had to write a fic to ease my feels, especially since Moffat is evil and we have awhile to wait for Season 3. Johnlock is canon. A few things I have included in here are theories among the tumblr-verse so; I don't credit myself with those ideas. Also, it's hard to write Sherlock well, so I apologize again if it doesn't sound like him, this is me trying, please be nice. I also apologize to the British people if I use American terms when I should be using British terms (for example: if I said apartment instead of flat). Anywho, just sit back, relax and enjoy my attempt at Johnlock.

Three years. Every day since had been a haze, in which nothing affected him anymore. Every night, he saw Sherlock falland woke up with his pillow wet with tears. He hated how helpless he'd felt then, Sherlock saying goodbye, tossing his phone on the roof and then he was gone. He remembered how he stared into those blue eyes that saw everything about you in seconds as he desperately tried to find a pulse in his wrist, only allowing himself to be pulled away when he couldn't find one.

Even now, he refused to believe that Sherlock had been a fraud and lied about how he knew all about John's life. Nobody could've known unless they were really clever, and Sherlock, well, he was more than clever. He was brilliant. Sherlock had seen everyone lose faith in him, except John, and that made John even more determined to believe that Sherlock was lying about his lie.

He stared listlessly over at his laptop, knowing his therapist would want him to write out his anguish over Sherlock's passing. He couldn't do it. He didn't want to accept that Sherlock was gone, because it still seemed like a cruel joke. Like a game, one of Moriarty's games he would play with Sherlock. Nothing was real to John anymore. Reality had ceased to exist with Sherlock.

After the visit to the grave with Mrs. Hudson, he refused to even think of his name. He also refused to go back to Baker Street. Mycroft had paid for it, since he spent all his time at the Diogenes Club and didn't have space for Sherlock's things. John couldn't live there and see all of the stuff. So he'd rented out a new flat, far enough from Baker Street and everyone he knew. He barely saw anyone tied in with their old adventures anymore. Molly hadn't even made an effort, choosing to give John her sympathy and understood he needed space. Mycroft had only offered to pay for the flat that John decided to live in, but John refused. He still hadn't forgiven him for giving Moriarty enough information to ruin Sherlock's life, and end it.

Finally, Mrs. Hudson had been the one to stay in contact with John the longest. They would visit Sherlock's grave together and have tea together afterwards and talk about other things. Two years after, John had been on a visit to Sherlock's grave with her, when she started talking about him. John had gotten unusually angry, shouted at her and had left rather abruptly, hailing a cab before she could apologize. It had been a year since then and he hadn't seen her since.

When Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard had arrived at the scene, he'd gone up to the roof and found Sherlock's phone and a pool of blood. John knew it had been Moriarty, although how he could be alive with that much blood lost was unexplainable. John didn't doubt him though. Doubting Moriarty was always a mistake. It was all part of a plan. John often wondered what Moriarty was up to and vowed that one day he would kill Moriarty if he ever got the chance. He wanted to find out why Sherlock did what he did. Lestrade had written it off as a suicide for being called out as a fake. John had stopped talking to him that day.

Sometimes, John would leave his flat for a few hours and visit Sherlock's grave. He never talked to him, just stood there, as though standing by the tombstone would somehow make it more real to him that he was gone. The memory of his words that one day would always come back to him as he'd walk there. "You…You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human, human being I ever met and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so…there." He felt saying that to him made them, even. After all the things Sherlock had said to him, this had been John getting the last word. "I was so alone… and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be…dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this…" As much as Sherlock had annoyed him with his "we both know whats really going on here face", when only Sherlock did know, and how he'd go for hours not talking and leave body parts in the fridge for experiments, he missed his friend.

Without any memory of the trip, John suddenly found himself once more at the cemetery, in front of Sherlock's grave. As always, John stood there silently. He'd said all he wanted to three years ago. He just wanted Sherlock back. He rarely cried about it, except when he awoke from a dream at night. It was how he was. However, on this particular day, John couldn't help it as all of his anguish became too much for him to bear and he started crying. Not even his resolve as a former army doctor could reign enough control.

"Oh, don't waste them on me, we all know only three people are truly sad to see me gone. I've never seen any benefit for them, complete waste of time," A familiar voice said. "I see the blog is still a hit, even though you don't write in it anymore. Dear me, John has your life really become that dull without me?"John turned to see the very last person he ever expected to see. Alive, at least.

"Sherlock?" he whispered. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Obviously, John. No, you're not going mad at your grief over my death, since I'm not dead, after all. You are completely sane and as unobservant as usual. Do you actually think I'd do something stupid and kill myself? Well, it was rather convincing. No, Moriarty isn't dead. Yes, he did fake it, like me, although we had different methods. Thankfully Molly was able to help sort out how the Woman did it, which is why I appeared dead. No, I haven't told anyone else I'm actually alive since it would only give Moriarty more of a reason to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Would you stop your crying? It really is annoying and never-"

"It really is you, Sherlock?" John interrupted. Sherlock scowled at him.

"John, I didn't go through the meeting with Moriarty without being fully prepared. I'm not an idiot."

"You can be." Sherlock smiled and even gave a light laugh.

"How I missed you, John." John gave a small smile which almost immediately vanished as his mind wandered to what Sherlock had said a few minutes earlier.

"What do you mean Moriarty wanted to kill me, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson? What does it have to do with you being dead or alive" Sherlock turned his attention to the gravestone and stared at it strangely, as though he was trying to deduce something from it. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Sherlock Holmes, nothing else. You couldn't come up with anything clever to write? Just my name…"

"Sherlock…"

"It's not important. You're still not safe. Moriarty no doubt has his spies everywhere to alert him if they see me alive. It could reach him any moment that I'm not dead."

"You mean he either wanted you to die, or us?"

"He did give me a choice. Although he didn't think of everything, since I'm not dead. He's planning something bigger, John."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"The same reason I know you haven't spoken to anyone tied to me in awhile. The state of your shirt tells me you no longer keep in touch with Mrs. Hudson. Something happened awhile ago and it prevented you from talking to them again. You haven't spoken to Lestrade since he still believed I was a fraud and Mycroft didn't bother to try to talk to you. You were already mad at him for messing up on my behalf." John just stared at him.

"That was…brilliant."

"It's the Science of Deduction, John." Sherlock watched as John, seemed to be having an internal struggle.

"Why couldn't you tell me? You let me believe you were dead. Dead, Sherlock. Do you know what that's like? Watching someone you- your friend fall to his death? Trying to forget what happened so you don't relive it every day? Hoping, but knowing it would take a miracle for you to come back? And then you walk back in like nothing happened. It's not that simple." Sherlock remained silent after. John didn't usually get mad at Sherlock to this extreme, but he listened when he did. John took a deep breath and stepped away, prepared to leave Sherlock behind. He didn't need this anymore. He felt Sherlock's hand grab his arm and John stopped, his gaze flickering from the hand on his arm to Sherlock's face.

"John." Sherlock said softly. And with that, he leaned down and kissed John. For the first time in three years, John finally felt like he was home.