POV: John

Genre: grief

Basically how John is after the fall and seeing Sherlock for the first time since then.

It had been three years to the day that Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. Three years since he shouted at John to stay where he was as he told him that everything he did was a lie: from being a clever detective to Moriarty even being real at all. John saw him jump, and land on the pavement below with a thud. His heart stopped when he got over to him after the bicyclist hit him. He took Sherlock's pulse, but there was nothing. Please no…no, no please God no! were the words ringing through his head the rest of the day.

Seeing the headstone was the worst. Until then he thought it was all some insane nightmare caused by a drug Sherlock slipped him for one of his crazy experiments. No, the headstone brought him back to reality. This was real life. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, was indeed presumed dead. As he choked out the words, "Just one more thing, just one more miracle Sherlock. For me. Don't. Be. Dead. Just stop this," he prayed his words would be heard by Sherlock; he would do anything to bring his dear friend back from the dead. He would never believe that Sherlock was dead or a fraud, either.

Three years had passed since then. John still texted Sherlock's phone, not sure where it was, and he pleaded to Mycroft to keep the account active; he would pay the bill himself if he had to, just in case Sherlock was still using it. The texts were just simple things at times:

Greg tried to get me to come out for some drinks. I told him no cause I was tired but I was really waiting to see if you would come back to the flat tonight.

You really need to pay me back for all the milk I'm buying now Sherlock. It's hard enough to pay the bills without you helping now.

I sat down and watched some crap telly last night. Wasn't the same without you shouting at it saying who's wrong and who's right.

Other days were just difficult and the texts just needed to be sent:

I had to transfer jobs today; I can't go near St. Bart's now. Too many bad memories there now. Not too far from the flat though so it won't be too hard to find me. Molly and Mike helped me get the job.

My limp is coming back a bit. Couldn't find my cane where I had left it when I first moved in…found it in your room in the closet. Guess you hid it to prevent me from being dependent on it. Nothing has moved from your room in case you're wondering, including your sock index. Bloody hard to go in there at all now though.

I was almost arrested today. I was at a pub with Lestrade and some bloke was going on about how he knew you were a fraud and he was glad you jumped. Lestrade got me off of him before I started to use my cane to beat him.

Please come home soon. I found myself talking to your skull today.

John tried to move on, date some women, but he kept messing up the relationships. Always the same reason as to why: Sherlock kept getting in the way, even in his absence. Mrs. Hudson would try and cheer him up every now and then, along with Lestrade. Little things for him to do to try and make a smile stay longer than a few moments. Mycroft even came to check on him a couple times-which was a surprise to John. But try as he might, it was just too difficult to move on.

He would end up drunk in the flat shouting for Sherlock to come back as if there was a bug or a camera planted somewhere in the bookshelves again. If he was drunk enough, he would start to carry on conversations as if Sherlock was really there with him. He would get happy, then he would get mad as he realized it wasn't real, and end up crying himself to sleep on the couch.

As the years passed the days seem to blur together: he would go to work, come home, eat, watch some telly or drink and go to bed. It was the same routine every day. But it had been three years to the day that Sherlock had fallen and John was at his wits end. He wanted—no, needed—Sherlock back in his life. If he didn't come back soon John would give up on everything. He went to the cemetery once more, just like he did every year, and left flowers on the headstone for Sherlock, along with a bit of food and money in case he was nearby and need some. He still looked out for Sherlock even if he wasn't around.

Today was different: today he stayed to talk. Just to talk in hopes today would be different from the rest. "Well here I am again. I brought you some flowers, food, and money-Just in case. Not sure if you're taking them or some homeless person is, but you still help them in a way, even when you aren't around, I guess." He sighed as he stood in front of the headstone and knelt down to clean it up. "They never take care of things here do they? At least you have some shade though. You never did like staying in the sun for too long…" he sighed and sat down in front of the headstone, legs crossed. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes after he finished cleaning. "Sherlock I…I don't know how much longer I can put up with this…I don't know if you are even getting let alone reading my texts but I just…can't keep this up much longer…" he sniffed, then sat with his army-straight posture and stern face, trying to hide the emotions that were building up within him, but a few small tears rolled down his cheeks nonetheless.

"Sherlock, please come home and show them…the people who stopped believing in you that you were right and they were wrong….Just stop this now and come back. I won't complain about the milk, or the noise from you playing the violin at 3 in the morning, just please…" his voice cracked as he started pleading with the headstone, "Please just tell me you are still here and not dead…please don't be dead…just come back for me… or give me a message, a sign, anything to show you're alive…just for me, please, Sherlock…please…"

John wasn't sure when he fell asleep exactly, when he awoke curled up next to the headstone. It must have been after he finally broke down and cried when he didn't get a sign from Sherlock-he thought. But something was different now. He was warmer. Much warmer that he should have been in his jumper and on the grass with no blankets. Someone had covered him with something. As he opened his eyes, he noticed the coat. The long black coat Sherlock wore every day. There wasn't another coat like it. "Falling asleep at my headstone now, John? This must be new. Or... you've had a rough day, haven't you?" John's eyes flew wide as he sat up, the coat still draped around his shoulders, and looked around nervously: this wasn't another dream was it?

"Sh-Sherlock?..."

At the base of the large tree that shaded the gravesite sat Sherlock Holmes, looking as calm as ever with his legs crossed and his palms together, brought up to his mouth and his eyes closed as if in prayer. He was still dressed in his normal attire: a purple dress shirt that always seemed to be just a bit too snug on him, covered by his black blazer, the black slacks and dress shoes. Everything was still the same with Sherlock, even down to the way he kept his dark curls in a slight mess. His eyes opened-still the brilliant blue that would change to green by chance if in the right light-as his eyebrow raised slightly, like he was surprised to see John in shock. "John?"