To begin with, John couldn't bring himself to visit the grave. It would mean Sherlock was really dead. And he couldn't be, he just couldn't. But John wasn't stupid; he knew he had to go. He needed closure, even if that meant saying goodbye to his best friend. A few years later, John was much more composed when he visited Sherlock's grave. He sat down next to it every day and spoke to Sherlock for at least three hours. That number had increased with the number of years Sherlock had been gone. In the first year John could barely stutter through an hour. By the second year he wasn't so nervous, just sad, he told Sherlock honestly what was happening and how it seemed to him that people hadn't quite forgotten about the consulting detective. And now in the third year, people would think he's mad. He suppresses the sadness remarkably well and talks to Sherlock as if he's really there. He talks as if he's having a normal conversation with his best friend. John knows he's not insane. Still sometimes his composure slips and his feelings come out.

"I still believe in you, you know." He was standing, getting ready to leave. "Even after three years. I...I believe you're still here Sherlock, just stop it. You're not dead. You're not dead.

"But then you always have haven't you."

Another voice joined Johns and he spun around, coming face to face with none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"What?" John whispered, not able to cope with what he was seeing. Sherlock took a small step forwards, glancing at the ground before returning Johns intense stare.

"You always have believed in me. Right from the start, that first time we met. I knew everything about you, and you had no idea how. Yet you still showed up to meet me. What does that say about you?"

His face took on a look of concern when John didn't react.

"John?"

And then Sherlock found himself on the ground with a quickly bruising nose, feeling slightly dizzy. As soon as he'd hit the floor, John was beside him pulling him up. He was gruffly muttering things under his breath and they got louder and louder as John got more worked up.

"Three years…I can't…why…you, and me, and-THREE YEARS SHERLOCK?!"

He yelled, stuffing his face into said mans coat and locking his arms around his slim waist. Sherlock froze for a moment, unfamiliar with the contact between him and John. Then, slowly, shakily he reciprocated. One arm rested gently around Johns shoulders and held his head, the other wound its way around the hem of Johns jumper and the fingers of this hand absentmindedly fiddled with a loose thread.

"I know John, I know." He tenderly spoke into the blonde hair of his companion.

"No." John growled feebly. "No. For once you don't know Sherlock. You didn't have to live without you-"

Sherlock gently cut him off "No. No I didn't. But I had to live without you. And that's worse."

John opened his mouth to retaliate but Sherlock cut him of again,

"Trust me." it came out sounding more like a question than Sherlock would have liked, and he was left speechless with how quickly John answered

"Of course."

He then received a shaky breath and a sniffle and his hug tightened. His eyes shut in misery as he felt his chest begin to get wet and realised John was crying. Droplets of moisture fell from his own eyes and melted with Johns sandy hair. The shorter man pulled back in slight alarm as he felt the tears hit his head. Sherlock's eyes remained shut until he felt a hand on his face. He opened his eyes to be greeted by Johns bright blue ones, similar to his own. They were staring intently at him, mirroring Sherlock's face; confused and concerned.

"You're crying." John stated in wonder.

"So are you." Sherlock retorted, unsure for once of anything he could say. John smiled and laughed

"I know Sherlock."

"Good."

Sherlock hugged John again, wanting him to be close after three years. For a minute John wriggled, startled. Much like Sherlock had felt when John hugged him, but less composed. It took him less than a millisecond to respond though, wrapping his arms around Sherlock tightly once again.

"So, where were you?" John mumbled his question into Sherlock's scarf, the material familiar and comforting. Sherlock took a calm breath before responding.

"Upstairs." He said simply

"What?" John asked, this time keeping his face buried in Sherlock's chest. "Upstairs as in above the flat?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, his cheek rubbing against John's hair.

"So Mrs. Hudson knew?"

This time Sherlock shook his head.

"Molly did though. She helped me. After you moved out and into my room she pretended to move in upstairs."

"But you were living there the whole time." John finished.

"When I wasn't getting rid of Moriaty's web."

John nodded and neither spoke for a moment

"Come home."

Sherlock smiled

"It's all I've wanted to do."