My mobile dings for a fourth time. I reach over and grab it. Four texts, all from Mycroft Holmes. Strange. I haven't spoken to or even seen Mycroft since the funeral. I unlock the device and skim through the messages.

1:30

Hello Doctor. I know this is abrupt, but I need to see you immediately. Come visit me in my office as soon as possible.

- MH

1:35

You could reply or something.

- MH

1:38

I know I haven't given you much to go on, but you need to come. Now.

- MH

1:43

John. You need to come to the office now. I cannot stress this enough.

- MH

I sigh. What the hell could Mycroft want? Do I even want to find out? I haven't left this flat in months. Maybe I will go. Maybe whatever it is could take my mind away from the memories. I force myself out of bed and search the room for trousers and a shirt. I grab the first pair of jeans I see and pull them on, immediately noticing them slipping off my hips. Damn. I have lost weight. I find a belt in the wardrobe and slip it on. I see something dark on the top shelf and pull it down. When I realize what it is, I stumble back and fall onto the bed.

Sherlock's purple shirt.

My hands begin to shake. No, I berate myself. No. You will. Not. Do. This. Now. I close my eyes and throw the shirt at the wardrobe. I bury my face in my hands and allow myself five seconds to breathe.

One.

Two.

Hands down.

Three.

Four.

Stand up.

Five.

I finally manage to find a grey t-shirt and pull that on as well. It too hangs loosely off my thin frame. I grab my leather jacket and walk down the stairs and out the door.

The sun is bright and Baker Street smells like spring flowers. I try to hail a taxi, but I don't seem to have Sherlock's knack for summoning cabbies. I suppose a walk would do me some good, but Mycroft's office is a terribly long ways away. I shout for a cab one final time and manage to get a ride.

Mycroft is pacing in front of his building. His usually crisp suit and neat hair are rumpled and frazzled looking. He looks greyer than usual. When he notices the taxi, he freezes, clearly trying to compose himself. I pay the cabbie and step out onto the pavement. Mycroft makes no move to greet me, so I just stride over to him. As I get closer, I see that his eyes are puffy and red, as if he has been crying.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft says. "It has been a long, long time."

"Three years," I reply. "So why now? Why not any time before?"

"Seeing you..." Mycroft's voice quavers. "Seeing you only made me think of him."

"Again I ask: Why. Now?"

"Follow me," Mycroft instructs.

The office is down a few corridors and up a few steps. Everything looks just as I remember, and I fight hard to suppress flashbacks. The guards scattered around the building look surprised when they see me, but make no comments to Mycroft. When we reach the office, Mycroft opens the doors, pauses to breathe, and motions for me to enter.

The office is not empty. Someone is already inside, sitting in a chair and facing away from us. His head cocks slightly to one side, the only acknowledgement that we have entered the room. Mycroft closes the doors and clears his throat.

"Er... He's here." Stange. He seems nervous. I've never seen Mycroft like this before. The man stands. He seems to be tall and lanky, but it's hard to tell on account he's wearing a long coat.

Wait.

Long coat.

And the man's hair. It's dark and curled.

I stumble and almost fall. The man whispers something inaudible, and turns.

Words get stuck in my throat and I can only manage to choke out "What." My surprise quickly turns to anger. He looks scared, twisting his deerstalker nervously in his hands, but I don't care. I don't care that he's taller, I don't care that I'm weaker, I don't care. I don't even fully realize what I'm doing until Sherlock Holmes is lying on the ground, and I'm suffocating him.

"DOCTOR," Mycroft booms. I rip myself away from Sherlock, fully realizing the situation. Air is suddenly scarce.

"Sher... Sherlock," I murmur.

Sherlock sits up, rubbing his throat. "I suppose I did deserve that," he croaks. He slowly stands up, glancing nervously at me and Mycroft.

"John-" he starts.

"No," I growl. Standing, I glare at Sherlock. "There is nothing you can say to me."

"John-"

"You let me think you were dead. For three years, Sherlock. Three years!"

"I-"

"Can you possibly fathom the pain you put me through?! This is the most human interaction I've had in months! I can't be bothered to perform necessary tasks because I don't care! Every day was a struggle to even breathe!" I begin to shake, but I don't bother trying to suppress it. Sherlock looks guiltier with every syllable. "I couldn't cope knowing you, the awesome genius and my best friend, were dead! How dare you," I snarl, stepping closer, "allow me to-"

Sherlock interrupts by kneeling and grabbing my shoulders. "John, please. Just listen for a moment. Please." I see fear in his eyes, but I can't be sure if it's sincere. "I had to hide it. Moriarty's men had to be convinced I was dead, otherwise you, Mrs. Hudson, and Detective Inspector Lestrade would all be dead. No one could know. No one. I didn't even tell my own brother."

"But what about me, Sherlock? I thought you had one solitary ounce of caring and sympathy in you!"

"I kept you alive, John." Sherlock is pleading with me now. His grip on my shoulders tightens, and his bright eyes glisten with tears. "I couldn't bear the thought of living without you. Knowing you and Mrs. Hudson were safe and alive was just enough to keep me going. If either of you had died, none of us would be here."

"Sherlock..."

"I know you may not believe me. And I don't care. After three years, I've finally been able to say the words I wanted to say on the phone that day. The things I couldn't say. I know I didn't always show it, but I need you, John. You made me feel alive, and keeping in this secret and keeping away from you, a piece of me has disappeared. I can't go on hiding. Please, John. Please. Please." Silent tears drip off Sherlock's sharp cheekbones. He lets his arms fall and he sits on his heels. He looks ashamed, defeated, and just as scared as when I walked in. Thoughts are spinning through my head like a hurricane, and Sherlock is the center, the eye. As angry as I am, I'm relieved he's back. I kneel in front of him and place a hand on his shoulder.

"I am furious," I start, and Sherlock's head falls. "But," I continue, "I understand why you did what you did, and I suppose I can forgive you." Sherlock looks up at me, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes tightly. I'm stunned. This is so unlike Sherlock. But at least he is showing some feeling. When he pulls away, he looks concerned.

"You've gotten thin, John." I look away. "Have you been eating?"

"Not much," I admit. Sherlock opens his mouth to berate me, but is interrupted by a scream. We both whip around to see Mrs. Hudson, eyes wide, shaking hands covering her mouth. Sherlock stands up slowly and nervously.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," he says. Mycroft has been silent this whole time and remains so. He overlooks the scene with a blank expression. Mrs. Hudson simply stares as Sherlock approaches her and hugs her delicately. I feel like I should smile, but it's as though I've forgotten how. After three years of solitude, I've finally got a flatmate and a friend again, but I can't manage to express hapiness. Maybe this hasn't sunk in yet. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe...

Mrs. Hudson is fussing over Sherlock's overgrown hair and the state of his coat. Sherlock is brushing her off, but I can tell that he's glad to see her. I stand up and walk over to Mycroft.

"Just like old times," I comment.

"Not quite," comes the reply.