The warm August sun shone down on John's back as he sat, hugging his knees, against the old oak tree. The cold stone slab sticking up out of the dirt looked empty and dead. John stared at it with heavy eyes, wondering for the hundredth time why he stayed out here all day. It wouldn't bring him back. Nothing could. It only caused him more sorrow to remember, to wish, to imagine. But somehow it was all less painful than pretending it never happened and trying to forget. Because as much as John hated to admit it, the one person that caused him the most anxiety and annoyance in his life, was also the one person who made his life worth living. But now he was gone, and John was left feeling empty. He was left sitting in the grass, staring at a grave, wishing he had spoken before it was too late.

Stretching out his legs against the cool earth, he decided it would be easier to talk than just sit there. "Good evening Sherlock," he said weakly. "How are you doing?"

Of course there was no answer, but John thought it felt nice to talk to him again. He imagined Sherlock sitting his chair, reading the newspaper. He would be irritated that there had been no cases lately, and then he would tell John to get him some tea. John didn't mind, he was always happy to do something for Sherlock, and he knew that he appreciated it even if he didn't say that aloud.

"It's very nice weather today…" John continued, pretending Sherlock was sitting right next to him. He closed his eyes and stretched out his toes so they touched the hard cold grave. Somehow he found this comforting rather than displeasing. "You would be rather bored if you were here though, there are no cases… but maybe we could sit on the couch with the windows open, and just watch some telly while drinking tea." He mused, smiling to himself. "Mrs. Hudson and I have been having supper together lately… perhaps you would like to join us."

After a few minutes he drifted off. He didn't know how long he was asleep for, but when he finally opened his eyes to the sound of approaching footsteps, the sun was low in the sky and a cool summer breeze drifted through the trees. When John lifted his head and turned to the sound, he was surprised to see Molly walking towards him in a floral dress and cardigan, her hair in a loose braid. John turned towards the tree so she wouldn't see the tears that had formed in his eyes without his consent. Molly sat down next to him, a worried expression across her soft features.

"Are you all right?" her voice rang in his ears, and he couldn't get himself to respond. Instead he tucked his feet up underneath him, losing the cool sensation of the stone. "Have you been out here all day John?" she asked again.

John forced himself to turn towards her. He nodded slowly, not sure what her reaction would be. "I have," he said. "Is that strange?"

Molly bit her lip and shook her head quickly. "Not at all," she said comfortingly.

It was silent for a minute as I tried to enjoy the last bit of sun that was still shining down on me, making me feel warmer on the outside than I did on the inside. "I miss him." I said at last.

Molly took a sharp breath and wiped at her eyes. "I-I know you do." she said shakily. "He… he misses you too."

For some reason I found this funny. A melancholy smile came across my face. "How do you know?" I asked.

Molly looked like she had seen a ghost, but then a tear slipped out of her eye. "Because I know." she said.

I nodded slightly and closed my eyes again. No use arguing with Molly, I liked to think that he missed me too.

Molly cleared her throat. "Um, John, Mrs. Hudson sent me to get you for supper. She's making pot-roast, I know you love that…"

John nodded, sitting up. "Yes, that's nice, thank you." He looked up at Molly. "Would you like to come for supper?" he asked.

Molly smiled. "I wish I could," she said. "But I actually have somewhere I need to be. Mrs. Hudson gave me some of her pot-roast to take with me though."

John furrowed his brow, collecting his shoes from where they were sitting next to the grave. "A date then?" he asked.

Molly chuckled and shook her head. "I wouldn't really call it that," she said. "I'll just be at my flat attending to some things…" she smiled. "Would you like me to walk you home?"

John shook his head. "Thank you, but that's all right. I'll see you tomorrow then…" he stood up leisurely, holding his shoes instead of bothering to put them on.

Molly stood up as well, folding her arms across her chest. "Yes of course," she said. "Now you'd better hurry and get home before Mrs. Hudson send the police after you." she smiled.

John smiled too, but it quickly faded. "Goodbye then," he said, and started off towards 221B Baker Street.

Molly waited for a minute, looking at the grave before she left. Even though she knew Sherlock was alive, the thought that he might not be brought her sorrow. She couldn't imagine what it was like for John, having the person he cared about so much supposedly dead.

Molly waved down a taxi and took it back to her own flat. When she walked through the front door, she found a tall slim figure cross-legged on the couch, staring out the window.

"Hello," he said. "How was he?"

Molly sighed and put her purse on the counter. "He's not doing good Sherlock," she said, taking out Mrs. Hudson's pot-roast and setting it on the stove.

Sherlock hesitated before saying, "He's fine Molly, he'll get over it soon…"

Molly frowned at sat down on the end of the couch. The flat was cool despite the warm weather outside, and Sherlock had made quite a mess of her desk. "That's the thing Sherlock, I don't think he will. Did you know he spent all day at your grave today? When I came up to him, he was… he was talking to you. Well, your grave anyway…" she reasoned.

Sherlock tensed. "Did he really?" he asked.

Molly nodded, standing up again to make some tea. "You can't keep this up much longer, I don't know how long he'll last without you…" she said.

Sherlock stood up quickly, running his hands through his curly hair and beginning to pace, frustrated. "What choice do I have?" he exclaimed.

"You could just tell him." she said quietly, taking some things out of the fridge to make a salad.

Sherlock froze. "I can't." he said.

Molly frowned and brought out some dishes, beginning to serve out the food. "Why not?" She asked.

Sherlock's voice sounded tight and pained when he said, "I lied to him. He would hate me forever."

Molly turned to him, setting down the pot-roast. "What?" she said, completely bewildered. "Sherlock that's crazy. I don't think you quite understand what he feels for you, he could never hate you."

Sherlock sighed and fell back into the couch. The evening sun cast shadows across the room, and the telly played faintly in the bedroom, which gave Molly the suspicion that Sherlock had spent part of the day on the bed watching ridiculous sitcoms.

Molly finished plating their dinner and brought Sherlock a tray of food before sitting down next to him on the couch. She flipped on the living room television and Sherlock seemed content in watching it, although his face showed no sign of pleasure in the shows that were coming on.

"Sherlock…" Molly started. "I could tell him if you want." she expected him to blow up, maybe shout or leave the room, but instead stayed silent. "He deserves to know." she said again.

Sherlock sat up, gripping the arm of the couch. He swallowed hard and nodded. Molly smiled and patted his shoulder, something Sherlock would usually dismiss but now he seemed to appreciate it.

When Sherlock had finally tired himself out from watching so many sitcoms, he retired to Molly's guest bedroom.

The next morning Molly awoke to find Sherlock still asleep, which was unlike him, but she figured he needed the sleep. She considered leaving a note to tell him where she was going, but she knew he'd figure it out quickly. That was the thing about Sherlock, you didn't really need to tell him much, he just knew.

Molly put on her coat and locked the door behind her. She waved down a taxi and took it to John and Sherlock's old flat. When she got there, Molly knocked on the door timidly. Mrs. Hudson answered it, and she seemed quite pleased to see her.

"Oh, darling, would you like some breakfast?" she asked cheerfully, though Molly could see the sadness behind her eyes.

Molly smiled and nodded. "Yes thank you Mrs. Hudson. That would be lovely."

The older woman led her into the house and to the living room where John was sitting in his recliner watching telly. Molly thought it was both ironic and a bit sad that he and Sherlock were spending their Saturday's doing the same thing. Probably even watching the same show, but they couldn't do it together. This thought reminded Molly while she was here, and she sat down next to John.

"Oh, hello Molly." he said, keeping his eyes trained on the screen.

Mrs. Hudson tied an apron around her waist and said, "Well then, I'll finish up these waffles."

"Thank you ma'am," Molly replied, and John thanked her as well.

As soon as she was out of the room, Molly took action. "John, we need to talk." She said.

John turned toward her. He was wearing a tan jumper as usual, but his shoes had been replaced by slippers. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

Molly took the remote and turned off the telly, which told John he should pay attention. "Something has been wrong," she agreed. "But that's why I'm here… to make it right."

John looked confused, but he nodded for her to carry on.

Molly wasn't sure how she should say it. Should she just tell him, or lead up to it as to not shock him? She decided that the best way would probably be to just tell him.

"Sherlock's alive," she blurted.

John's face paled. He shook his head, pressing his fingers to his temples. "No, no…" he stuttered. "He's not. Please don't do this to me, I can't deal with it."

Molly pursed her lips and nodded again. "He is John, I'm not making this up. He framed his death."

John stood up and walked to the window, leaning on the windowsill to steady himself.

Mrs. Hudson brought out two glasses of orange juice. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson," said John, and she hurried back into the kitchen.

"John you have to listen to me," Molly said again in a hushed tone. "Sherlock is alive. Are you listening to me? Sherlock is alive!"

John's head whipped around to look Molly in the eyes. "I don't understand." He said. "How? How? It doesn't make sense!" he said.

Molly stood up abruptly. "He framed his death!" she said. "And do you know why, John?"

John shook his head and sat back down, eager for an answer.

"For you," she said softly.

John frowned. "For me," he repeated. "How on earth would this be for me?"

Molly opened the curtains to let some light into the room, and the sunrays bounced off the wall, shining onto the yellow smiley face that Sherlock had spray-painted on the wall a few months back, before any of this had happened. She pushed her hair behind her ear, preparing to explain everything to John.

"Moriarty had men everywhere," she started. "When Sherlock was on the roof with him, Moriarty said that he would have you killed unless he jumped. At first, he was just going to outsmart him and get him to call off the snipers, but then Jim shot himself, leaving Sherlock no other option than to jump if he wanted to save you. He did jump, but he had something, a grappling hook maybe? Who knows exactly, but he didn't die. And those people around him, those were all a part of his homeless network. And when he called you right before he jumped… that was also for you. He wanted you to think he was the bad guy so you could get over it easier, so you wouldn't be upset at his framed death."

John was speechless. He didn't know whether he should be upset or ecstatic at this new information. Sherlock was alive. "But then, where is he?" he asked eventually.

Molly glanced at the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was still cooking. "At my place," she said. "He's there right now. Would you…. would you like to go see him?"

John hesitated then nodded quickly. "Hmm… yes, yes I would. Let's go do that now, right now, let's go see him." He said franticly.

Molly stood up as well, taking her coat off the hook.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid I have to go somewhere." John shouted to the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson peeked around the corner. "Where are you going then?" she asked. "The waffles are almost done!"

"To see a friend!" John called, shutting the door behind them.

When Molly and John got to her door, she hesitated before opening it. She looked back at John. "You sure you're ready?" she asked.

John took a deep breath. "More than ready," he replied.

Molly opened the door and the two of them stepped inside. "Sherlock!" she called. "I've brought someone to see you!"

"Molly," Sherlock said from the other room. "I am very disappointed in your cable, it won't let me go to channel 518 and I need to see –" He froze as he came around the corner.

John stood in the doorway looking overwhelmed. "Hello Sherlock," he said quietly.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice cracking. "You're here."

John nodded. "Molly… told me everything." He answered, still completely shocked that Sherlock was standing in front of him.

Molly nudged John's shoulder. "I'll just be in my bedroom," she said, before leaving the two boys alone.

John shut the door behind him and Sherlock stepped forward. "Are you mad at me?" he asked.

John stepped forward as well and shook his head. "Should I be?" he asked.

Sherlock looked at the ground. "I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I just thought you would be."

John took another step forward. "Well I'm not." he said.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and John took in his surroundings. Sherlock was a wearing a robe and slippers and the room was quite a mess. There were dishes in the sink and papers covered the coffee table. John looked back up at Sherlock to find him staring at him with a small smile on his face.

John, suddenly overcome with emotions, swallowed hard. "Can I hug you?" he asked shakily.

Sherlock nodded and John took another step forward, wrapping his arms around the taller man's torso. John could no longer help the tears from flowing down his cheeks, and he gripped Sherlock tighter.

Sherlock rested his chin on John's head as John began to sob quietly. "Shh, it's okay." Sherlock muttered. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have lied to you. But I'm here now and I won't leave again, I promise. Do you trust me?"

John nodded against him. "I trust you." He said.

"Good, good…" Sherlock said softly. "I don't want to let you go now." He said, giving a small chuckle.

John squeezed him tighter. "Then don't." he said. So Sherlock didn't let go, and he promised himself he never would.