It's been three years since Sherlock died and left his true and loyal friend John Watson alone and heartbroken. After that day everything seemed to crash down for the blogger. He lost his muse, flat mate, and his best friend. Sherlock had left him to pick up the pieces of the disaster that followed.

John slowly shuffled from his bed to his chair that sat only inches away from Sherlock's dusty old one. He didn't bother cleaning and Mrs. Hudson couldn't bring herself to touch anything else. It all hurt too much for the both of them. He remembered coming back to Baker Street to assist Mrs. Hudson with Sherlock's things so clearly.

He slowly made his way up the stairs to his flat, eyes scanning up the stairs. He could see the day Sherlock brought him here so vividly. Sherlock ran up ahead of him, waiting by the door for him patently before pushing the door open and revealing the messy inside of the flat. Now he was walking up these steps alone to clean it out and throw out whatever was once Sherlock's. That was what made his heart hurt the worst. He didn't want to throw Sherlock's stuff out like it didn't matter anymore or like he never existed, but he and Mrs. Hudson couldn't take the pain from looking at them anymore. Finally, he opened the door to the flat. Mrs. Hudson sat on her knees as by the fire place, holding a picture to her chest as she cried silently. John looked around. Noticing the half-filled box resting by the landlady's feet. John kneeled down by her, holding her in his arms as she cried. The picture clattered to the floor and John snuck a peak. It was one of the three of them from sometime after Christmas. John tried to throw it into the box, but he couldn't. It hurt too much.

Quickly, he shook himself. None of that! John held in his hands Sherlock's old scarf as he opened the morning paper. The old tattered scarf helped him feel closer to his friend for some reason. He could still see Sherlock pacing around the room getting ready to go on his big cases, wrapping the scarf tightly around his neck. John smiled and then sighed with sadness at the old memories. It's amazing how the little things affect us so much. John opened the paper and scanned through the gossip and rumors. It was not the case of Sherlock and Moriarty that crowded the papers like it had been for such a long while. Everyone moved on from it, except John. He couldn't understand why he could not let go. Could it be that he was so cruel to Sherlock? He had called him a machine, heartless, and so much more. Was it because he never got to tell him how much he really cared for his most beloved friend? Or was it the fact that he did not understand what truly happened that day? John shuttered at his thoughts. There was nothing he could do about it now, nothing at all. He skimmed down the page to find something that caught his eye, but not for a good reason. He looked at the article, frowning angrily.

Sherlock's Companion Obsessed?

Will He Ever Believe the Real Truth?

Though the article angered him it was the signature that angered him more. That horrible reporter Kitty Riley had written it. John bit his lip angrily, tossing the paper into the wall, knocking over Sherlock's violin. Everything stopped then as he watched the violin clatter from its place to the floor. He rushed over to the dusty thing sitting by the window, cradling it in his arms. The strings were broken and it no longer glistened in the light like it had when Sherlock was alive. Tears ran down his cheeks as he stared at the violin.

"What do they know? How can they ever understand? I can't believe Sherlock was a fake! I can't and I won't!" John cried into the violin.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket lightly. He stared at the phone poking out of his pocket for a second. Should he even bother? Does it even matter anymore? He wiped his eyes and stared at the caller ID. It was Greg Lestrade. Greg was probably just going to ask how John was feeling on the anniversary of that horrible night of Sherlock's passing. Never the less John cleared his throat and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello," John said, keeping back the tears that still wanted to come spilling out.

"Morning, John! Um…I'm sorry to call on a day like this, but it's very important for you to come down to the station," Greg informed the old doctor.

"What for?" John asked, frowning at the phone. Greg hesitated.

"We shouldn't talk about it like this," Greg said hesitantly. John gritted his teeth.

"Why?" John asked a little harsher.

"Just…come down to the station. It's too dangerous over the phone," Greg said, hanging up. John shoved the phone in his pocket angrily and grabbed his cane. Just what he needed, a little trip through memory lane to the station. What could be so dangerous that he couldn't discuss it on the phone? John stopped, his fingers inches from the nob of the door. There that oh so familiar word was again. It was what got him chasing after Sherlock Holmes. It was what he and Sherlock had risked their lives for. It was powerful and wonderful word. One that John wished he could hear uttered again from his dead friend's lips. John shook himself of the pointless thoughts. Wishing wasn't going to bring Sherlock back. John limped down the stairs and out to the station, running his fingers along the phone in his pocket as he remembered the text from the very first time they met.

Could be Dangerous- SH

Yeah, I know I've re-written this at least a bazzilion times now, but I'm never satisfied with it. Hopefully I'll be happy with it, but we'll see.