Three years is a long time to grieve for a friend. Especially when that friend was your best friend. Your only friend. Right after Sherlock jumped of that awful rooftop, John thought nothing could hurt worse. What came next really did hurt worse though. The funeral, the graveyard with its mournful black headstone with two words. Not even dates, just Sherlock Holmes. Then the abandonment began.

First his coworkers ignored him, until he lost his job. Next his "acquaintances" stopped dropping by. Finally even Molly and Lestrade gave up on checking up on the bereaved doctor. Only dear Mrs. Hudson still tried. She cooked for him and insisted that John didn't need to pay rent. John did the cleaning himself, although his limp returned soon after Sherlock left. The flat appeared exactly the same as it did on that day. The skull gazed at the consulting detective's empty chair, papers littered Sherlock's old desk, and each piece of chemistry equipment sat in it's "proper" place. The only difference was the lack of body parts floating around the flat.

John hunched in his chair exactly three years after that fateful day, the long trench coat and blue scarf Lestrade salvaged from his friend's body hanging off his short, unhealthily thin frame. Frowning to himself, he wondered why he bothered anymore. Nobody would hire a depressed doctor. Nobody would associate with the "friend of the fraud". Nobody even attempted to be friendly. There wasn't any point. In an instant his mind was made up. He pushed himself out of his chair and wrote a note to Mrs. Hudson with his last goodbye. Clumping to his room, he dug his old gun out of his drawer. At that moment, a door opened downstairs. John hesitated, then slapped the gun to his temple. Before he could leave this worthless existence, a familiar voice shouted his name.

"John! John! I'm back! Don't do it!"

"Is this a sick joke?" John yelled down the stairs.

His answer came with the banging of his door swinging open. In stepped Sherlock Holmes. His blue-green eyes surveyed the shaking doctor. He was far thinner than he had been, his limp and tremor were back, he obviously hadn't slept well in an incredibly long time, and his eyes lacked hope.

"Give me the gun now John."

"You're not dead?"

"No, I'm most certainly not dead."

The gun clattered to the floor. John gasped for breath. He slowly stepped toward Sherlock, confused anger in his eyes.

"You've been alive for three years while I thought you were dead? THREE YEARS!"

"I can expl..."

Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, because John furiously slapped him across the face. A hard punch in the stomach followed. Sherlock gasped as John stared at him angrily.

"If I had known you would be so affected I would have sped up my return. Moriarty's gang were tric..."

This time, the detective was interrupted by John grabbing him into a hug. A hug much like a scared child would give their father or mother when they were nearly petrified with fright. Sherlock tensed up for a moment before gingerly putting his arms around his friend.

"Will you forgive me for any inconvenience I have caused you?"

"Only if you won't disappear again."

"Now that I removed the threat of Moriarty's gang, I won't leave."

The reunited friends climbed down the stairs and sat down as if the three long years never happened.