"Sherlock, please!" John screamed desperately, his eyes begging and a flood of tears rushing down his face. "Don't do this to me! Don't! Please, Sherlock, don't do… it…" he sunk to the sidewalk and sobbed. A crowd pf people stood around him, their faces sullen and sad. Some showed pity, others fear. He sat at the base of a building, had been screaming at that building, begging for his friend to come down…although it was the wrong building, in the wrong part of London…it was a building…a building with no one on top.

Minutes later Mrs. Hudson showed up, along with John's new therapist, Linda Morgan. "John," Linda tried, after telling all the spectators to get back to their lives, didn't they have something better to do than watch a poor man mourn? He didn't respond. "John," she tried again, this time resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I know this is hard for you John…I know y…" her session was interrupted by a familiar voice saying, "I believe I've got it, Miss. Morgan." She fell backwards in shock. Mrs. Hudson fainted, right there on the spot. "But I…" Linda began, but was silenced by a raised eyebrow.

John hadn't been paying any attention to anyone. He could barely breathe through his tears. Linda stood up and dusted herself off, and then she walked off to care for the sleeping Mrs. Hudson. "John?" Sherlock asked, placing his hand on John's shoulder. No, John thought, it's not…it can't be…could it? John slowly removed his hands from over his eyes, and stared into the deep blue ones of Sherlock Holmes. He was speechless. He tried to say something but nothing would come out. Sherlock smiled, illuminating his usually dark expression into something of pure joy. John smiled too, and then he frowned. Finally his voice found itself again. He stood up, Sherlock following his movements, confused at John's expression. He balled his hand into a fist, looked deep into Sherlock's eyes, and said "You son of a bitch."

A small stream of blood flowed freely from Sherlock's nose. "GAH! I think you broke it!" he howled, "Completely understandable though, I would've hit you too…if you'd gone and pulled a trick like that." John yelled and cursed and ranted for a few minutes before his expression softened and he handed Sherlock a handkerchief to wipe up the mess he'd made. Sherlock wiped the blood away and just stood looking at John for a moment. John stared back at him. Unspoken words passed between them, and soon John had his arms wrapped around Sherlock, clutching him tightly, afraid that if let go, Sherlock would disappear. Sherlock had his hands still in the air, not sure quite where to put them, eventually he wrapped them around John the same way he had his arms wrapped around him.

Another crowd formed around them, taking pictures of the now un-dead Holmes, and the person hugging him, but were soon shoed off by Linda and the drowsy Mrs. Hudson. John let go of Sherlock, and stood back, looking at the marvel he knew as his best-friend. Sherlock gaze was soft, different from the harsh and constant analyzing John remembered. "I missed you," John said, somehow keeping himself from crying. "I missed you too," Sherlock said, a single tear finding its way down his face.

They were silent for a long time; they just stood there…staring at each other. Finally John spoke, his voice shaky, unsure of itself, "S-Sherlock," he began, then paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts and trying very hard not to cry. "Yes John, go on.." Sherlock urged him. "Sherlock," he began again, his voice a little more confident this time, "Sherlock…don't ever leave me again, or I swear to God I'll do much more damage than nearly breaking your nose." Sherlock smiled, and embraced him again. Whispered into his hair came Sherlock's muffled reply, "I promise John, I'll never leave you again."

For the first time in three years, John Watson….smiled.

A dazed and confused John sat up in bed. For some strange reason Sherlock wasn't sleeping beside him (he didn't like to sleep alone.) He got up and walked to Sherlock's room. He wasn't there. He checked the couch, Sherlock wasn't there either. "Sherlock?" he called, wandering through the flat, wondering where on Earth his curly-haired friend could be at this time at night.

And then he remembered. He knew exactly where Sherlock was, where he would always be. Underground. In a grave. Because, John thought, tears forming in his eyes, because…he's really gone…and he's…Sherlock…is never…ever…coming… home. He sunk to the floor, and stayed there until he finally found the strength to go crawl back into bed, and cry himself to sleep. Just before he dozed off though, John thought he heard something that would haunt him in his dreams forever… Sherlock's voice whispered "I'm sorry John…I'm so, so sorry..."

THE END