Disclaimer – 'Sherlock' belongs to the BBC, and as much as I wished I owned Benedict Cumberbatch he is not mine. Yet.

I'll be writing this story as well as updating my previous Sherlock fic 'Matters of the Heart' which I wrote ages ago, but haven't updated. Please let me know what you think, this is just a taster, I hope you enjoy it! Reviews appreciated. Much love, x

John Watson skipped the first few pages of the newspaper, as he always did, and focused his morning reading on news articles which didn't dwell on the speculation surrounding the death of Sherlock Holmes.

19 year old student missing in Greater London… Last seen by friends early Wednesday morning…boyfriend taken to twitter to ask help…

John sipped on his tea, still not quite used to his brush of a moustache catching the odd droplet. He twitched his nose. He kept it because Mary liked it, said it made him look 'dashing'. He thought it made him look like a stuffy old character in a work of Victorian literature, but he enjoyed the little things that made Mary happy. He focused his attention back to the newspaper and the story at hand. The boyfriend's mother did it, he decided before realising the time and closing the paper. As he bent down to grab his keys from the coffee table he was once again forced to look at the picture on the front page.

'FURTHER EVIDENCE IN SUPPORT OF INNOCENT DETECTIVE'

That bloody picture of his friend in that ridiculous 'Ear hat' stared back at him. It didn't matter that it had been three years since the incident. Every so often new evidence to support Sherlock's innocence would crop up and make headline news, sweeping all other international tragedies under the carpet of the back pages, despite the news not benefitting anyone in particular as both parties referred to in the case were deceased. John clenched his fist, and banished his bitter thoughts to the back of his mind. He didn't want to be angry anymore, it was exhausting. Sherlock's name being cleared mattered to him more than anything, but in order for Sherlock to be remembered the way he should be, his ghost had to be resurrected by the press, a punch to the gut every time John walked past a newsstand. He read the papers because Mary noticed his continued avoidance of the news and her concern grew, John hated worrying her and so forced himself back into his old habit of reading the morning paper with his breakfast. The ache never left, and the bitter thoughts he banished gathered dust, but never left his mind.

He shook himself, grabbed his coat and cane and left for work, he couldn't afford to be late again, and he had a stop to make before his day of healing the sick. The small house he now lived in with Mary was in greater London, and so took him longer to get to the city. He still wasn't quite adjusted. He doubted he ever would be.

He got the bus to , a stop he made once a year on the anniversary of Sherlock's death, and took his time re-reading the notes that people had left outside, surrounding the spot where his friend had lain three years before. Most of the lines written had bled into each other, the bleak British weather condemning their meaningless words by turning their too-late condolences into streaks of illegible ink. The surviving laminated cards which were tucked between bouquets of wilting flowers flashed stubbornly at John, and his eyes were met with apologetic phrases of grief…

'Our deepest regrets'

'Thoughts are with your loved ones'

'A great detective'

'Taken too soon'

These supposed symbols of mourning hadn't appeared straight away, it had taken months; years even, but slowly as proof of Sherlock's genius and Moriarty's elaborate plan to unravel him leaked out into the public, more and more flowers, cards, deerstalker hats appeared on the street outside . John liked to visit here because it filled him with a sense of pride that he had never for a second doubted Sherlock. All these trinkets were proof of the guilt that had filled the people who had been so quick to condemn him, to name him as a fraud. They were sorry now it was too late, they had driven him to his death and now they wanted to ease their conscience with cheap flowers and few words of apology. It was a bittersweet feeling, the anger that flooded John also came with the relief that Sherlock's name was finally cleared, at the end of the day the insincerity and changing opinion of the public meant very little compared to the fact that his friend was finally remembered the way he deserved to be. As a great man.

Thoughts of Sherlock filled John throughout his day at work, he had moved past his crippling loneliness and unbearable feeling of loss and made the decision to get on with his life, but today was always going to be a tough one. What he wouldn't give to listen to him play that bloody violin one more time. He also wished that he could take on a case, just once, feel the adrenaline and fear caused by chasing some nutter through the back streets of London. He hadn't felt much adrenaline in the past three years, and he ached for it. It was just as these thoughts were crossing his mind when his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Lestrade. John didn't believe in fate, or destiny or any of that rubbish. He was a man of science, but whether it was the day, his desire for just one more case, or just the pure coincidence of it all, for the first time in years he accepted Lestrade's call.