It had been six months since what John now referred to as that. Since he had intended to take his own life. During that time, he'd been forced to spend time in a hospital, where it was ensured that his mental health hadn't been compromised. It had been an unpleasant stay, but perhaps it had helped. The entire experience had let John see things a little more clearly. He saw how much of a wreck his life had become, and that what had happened truly hadn't been his fault. The mysterious text had helped with that. He'd managed to find a job at a clinic, along with a girlfriend. Things seemed to be looking up. But something still weighed on his mind. And so, today, John decided to visit Sherlock's grave, for the first time in three years. It was time to let go, to finally accept things and move on. Sherlock was dead, he wasn't coming back, and John had to keep going. If Sherlock had been here, he would have argued with John about the mess he'd made of things. John smiled lightly at the thought. He stood over his best friend's grave and sighed. This time, however, instead of speaking, he would text, the first one since that. With a steady hand, he typed out a short message.

Hey, Sherlock. Sorry that it's been a while, I've been busy. This is going to be the last time I bother you. Don't worry, though, it's not what you think. I'm fine, actually. Much better. Got a job, a girlfriend, mates. It's not bad. Yeah, I still wish you were here, but I know that's not possible. So, this is goodbye. I'll try to make you proud, I guess. See you one day. As always, your friend,

John H Watson

With a sigh, John sent the message, feeling the familiar lump rise in his throat. No, he was fine. He was letting go. Looking back one last time, he whispered, "Thanks, Sherlock," and turned on his heel, back out of the cemetery, feeling lighter than he had in a while.

Finally. Finally. It had been three horrible years but now it was finally over and Sherlock was home. He could go back to St. Bart's, he could go to Scotland Yard, he could do anything now without the fear of an ever present laser sight.

He could not, however, return to Baker Street. Not yet.

Mycroft informed him of where John had moved to. He also let him know of John's schedule of the day- when he would be out of the flat and alone. Sherlock was eternally grateful towards his brother, but he would never vocalize it. It was a mutual understanding.

Using the key that Mycroft had given him and that Sherlock had taken unquestioningly, he broke into John's flat away from Baker Street. With some difficulty, he decided to place himself in a darker corner of the room. Not entirely invisible, but not blatantly obvious either.

It would be maybe ten minutes until John was to come here. And then... and then...

Sherlock was somewhat at a loss as to what John's reaction would be. A pinprick of nervousness... or perhaps fear tensed every part of his being for a moment, until he calmed himself and remained in the flat.

After going to the store to pick up some things, as he was expecting Mary over, later in the day, John finally got home. Hefting the plastic bags, he managed to get inside and walked straight over to the kitchen, putting them down on the table before going over and sitting down in the living room. Leaning back in the chair and stretching out his leg, he sighed. John looked around for the book he had been reading when he saw it. Or rather, saw Him. His dead best friend, at whose grave he had just been. John went cold. No. This was supposed to be over. Pale and shaking slightly, he stammered out at the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, "You-you're not really here. You're...dead."

"No, I..." Sherlock trailed off, unsure of what to say. He held out a hand, looking at John imploringly. Begging him to understand. "John."

John took a few shaky breaths. "You're dead," he repeated. Putting his head in his hands, he muttered, "Jesus! I thought I was done with this."

"I can explain," Sherlock said quickly, taking a few steps towards John. "I can tell you everything now, it's all over-"

John lifted his head and looked at Sherlock with wild eyes. "Exactly! It's all over now. I just said my last goodbye to you. This is all supposed to be over!"

"I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry. I had to. It was the only way to protect you."

In a hard, cold voice, John said, "You're. Not. Real. And if you are, then go away. I actually managed to get over it all after what, two and a half years?"

"Two years and 10 months," Sherlock corrected mildly. His eyes were pleading.

His breathing becoming increasingly hysterical, John only said, "No. You're dead. You were on the pavement, and you were dead, and I took your pulse and you were dead. This is just another fucking hallucination." And it seemed all too real. No, this wasn't possible. John had just managed to pick the pieces up, and along came a ghost, ready to shatter everything all over again.

"John. I faked it. It was all staged..." he took another step closer until there was just one good stride between the two of them. "I'm here now. I'm real, I assure you." He held out his hand.

Biting his lip, John stretched out a hesitant hand and went to touch Sherlock's, fully expecting his own hand to go through it. Instead, he ended up firmly grasping his dead friend's hand. "No," he mumbled, then said in a stronger voice, "No. I buried you. I mourned, if you can call it that. Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't fucking do anything. And now, after I manage to get everything back together, you think you can just waltz back, and everything's okay?!"

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry. I know," Sherlock imperceptibly winced at John's raised voice and his strong grasp on his hand. He paused, a very small smile trying to make an appearance on his face. "You texted me, remember?"

John gritted his teeth. "So you knew. You knew exactly what was going on and you did nothing?!" He jumped to his feet and promptly punched Sherlock in the face. "You bastard!" he cried, shaking his hand out. "No. Get out. I'm over it," he said emotionlessly, not looking at Sherlock. After all, a person could only break so many times, and by now, John was completely shattered, only just keeping himself together. Sherlock coming back would destroy what he had managed to build without him.

Staggering backwards and clutching at his now bleeding nose and lip, Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John. "I couldn't do anything. You don't understand!"

"No, I don't, but you don't, either," John said flatly and sat down with a tired sigh. Shrugging, he said, "Sorry about that." Damn it! Even now, he was still apologising. Even when he knew that he had every right not to.

Holding his arm against his face, Sherlock blinked the stinging pain out of his eyes. "John. I can explain. Please," he mumbled through the cloth of his sleeve.

In a voice devoid of emotion, John said, "Fine. Go ahead." He motioned for Sherlock to sit, and bit his lip, trying to keep himself from falling apart.

Ready to launch into an extensive explanation, Sherlock hesitated as blood continued to drip from his nose. John had hit him harder than he had expected. He cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, motioning towards the sink. "May I...?"

He nodded curtly and stared out the window blankly. John felt oddly guilty. He hadn't meant to hit Sherlock so hard. Fuck it all. Couldn't anything ever go right for him? Yeah, his best friend came back from the dead. He knew that he should be happy. But it was too soon. He'd waited too long, had hoped for too long. And when hope died, it left an empty hole that ended up filling with resentment.

Grabbing a paper towel sitting by the sink, Sherlock began to tend to his newly acquired injuries. Not really taking care to do it properly, he just held the thin paper there where the blood flow was gradually slowing. He turned around quickly and looked down at John. At the sight of him, however, at the realization that he was really there, he hesitated once again.

"John...I... I'm sorry."

With a thin smile, John glanced at Sherlock and replied, "Yeah, so am I." He resumed staring out the window, trying to wrap his head around everything that was happening. With an almost hysterical laugh at himself, he put his head in his hands. Fuck. Fuck everything.

"I didn't die. I didn't. And it's not your fault. It never was." All the planning that Sherlock had so carefully thought out had flown out the window. He took another step closer to John's hunched over form. A hesitant hand reached out towards him, he drew it back in apprehension of another hard swing to the face.

John let out a short, bitter laugh. "How nice that you're telling me this now, instead of when I was in, what they call, severe depression. I doubt I needed to know then." Fuck, he couldn't stop himself. Maybe, if he hadn't been so fucking upset, he could have managed to be more normal. Not this fucking mess. He took a shaky breath.