A/N: Hello Darlings. This is where we completely divert from the storyline and everything is my own (only because series 3 still isn't out yet).

Just to clarify I only had Sherlock gone for a year instead of 3.

Have fun reading, you all are probably going to hate me, but I can take it.

xXx

John had been drinking for hours, a common pastime since the fall, when Greg found him slumped against the bar.

Greg was worried about John. The bartender had his number memorized due to how many times he had to come pick up the former army doctor in the past 9 months.

Greg sighed, he'd much rather be at home with Mycroft but he couldn't abandon his best friend while he was hurting.

"Alright Johnny, let's get you home." Greg said, manhandling John off the barstool. He put some money on the bar and nodded to Mary. She gave Greg a sad smile and grabbed the money as she cleaned up John's drink.

Greg turned and led, half dragging, John out to his car. Just as he went to open the door to the backseat, John moaned and emptied the contents of his stomach all over the pavement. Greg closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. At least it wasn't in my car this time

Once John had stopped heaving, Greg picked him up off the ground and laid him on the backseat. He then got into the car and started driving to Baker Street.

"John, you've got to stop this. It's no way to deal with grief and it's taking over your life." Greg paused. "What would Sherlock think?"

John had been trying to tune Greg out. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before, but when he said that name, John cringed.

"Don't say his name." John barked.

Greg was tired of indulging John. His eyes flashed angrily in the rearview mirror. "No John. I've let you behave this way for too long. I'm tired of watching you destroy your life one drink at a time. You're not the only one who lost him. Sherlock is gone, the rest of us have grieved. You are the only one who hasn't moved on."

Greg put the car in park, having arrived at 221B. He turned in his seat and glared at John. "You need to let go John. Move on with your life. Sherlock would not approve."

John glared back at Greg. "Wouldn't approve?" John said in a dangerous whisper.

"Well I don't approve of him jumping off of that bloody building, but he did it anyway." John's voice had risen until he was shouting. John couldn't deal with this conversation; it was tearing new holes in his already broken heart. He quickly climbed out of the car and stomped his way into the flat, slamming doors behind him.

Greg quickly followed John into 221B, almost getting hit in the face more than once by a door.

"John this conversation isn't over. You can't just run away from your problems."

Greg rounded the corner into the lounge, where John had stopped suddenly. He was staring at Sherlock's chair in shock and when Greg looked in the same direction, he gaped in surprise.

There was Sherlock, sitting fiddling with his violin. The dark haired genius looked over to the two men staring at him.

"John, Lestrade."

Greg blinked and looked over at Mycroft who was sitting in John's chair, asking with his eyes if this was real.

Mycroft nodded and got up, smoothing out his suit. He walked over to Greg and held out his hand to his partner.

Greg took Mycroft's hand, taking one glance back at Sherlock – not quite believing him to be real – and left with the redhead.

Mycroft paused once they were outside knowing Greg would want to talk.

Greg let go of Mycroft's hand and started pacing.

"Jesus, he's alive" Greg said, the shock starting to wear off. "But how? John saw him fall, he didn't feel a pulse."

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a question he hadn't been looking forward to.

"Did you know he was alive?"

Mycroft looked away, dreading what would happen when Greg knew the truth. He knew he couldn't keep this from the man he loved any longer and replied with a soft "Yes."

Greg stopped pacing and stood there silently. He had gotten the answer he feared the most. This explains why he wasn't upset by the news. God what else has he lied to me about.

The silence was killing Mycroft, but he knew not to push. When Greg spoke at last it was quiet.

"I need some time to think."

"Of course."

Greg got into his car and drove home. Mycroft stood there and stared after Greg's car. It took him awhile to realize his driver had pulled up in front of him. He took a deep breath to try and get his unruly emotions under control. My got into the car and was taken back to his empty flat, letting himself hope this was going to be the last time.

xXx

John stared blankly until he heard the door shut. He blinked and thought, this isn't real, it's just my mind playing with me.

Sherlock got up and put his violin away.

"John, I'm real. This isn't a trick of the imagination."

Sherlock was standing in front of John and put a hand on his forearm. John flinched at the touch and took a step back.

"You were dead." The tears John had been avoiding for months were threatening to come forward, making his voice thick with emotion.

Sherlock was hurt when John pulled away, everything was supposed to be fine now that he was back with his John.

"No I wasn't."

"I- but you…..ho-" Breathing was suddenly difficult. John was hyperventilating. Sherlock gripped his upper arms to keep the doctor from falling.

"John, it's okay now." With that John was able to focus and get control of his breathing.

John ripped out of Sherlock's grip and started yelling.

"It is not okay! I thought you were dead, and you think you can waltz back in here like everything is fine. Do you know what you being dead did to me?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. He looked around and took in the many empty alcohol bottles, the realization of how hard John took his death dawning on him.

"John I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't, and I can't do this." John stormed out of the flat and caught a taxi to his sister's; leaving Sherlock standing in the middle of the lounge shell-shocked by how things had gone.