Author's Note: Please don't stab me! This will be my second attempted Sherlock fanfiction. So, I was reading Lord of the Rings, which is a continuation of The Hobbit, in which Martin Freeman plays Bilbo Baggins, but also plays John in Sherlock and it got me thinking of this idea and here we go.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor do I own John. :D

You told me once that you weren't a hero… um … there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man and human… human being I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. That's… uh … there.

I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!

The echoes of his testament resounded in his head as John Watson crouched in front of the black monument. He could see his reflection in the stone, his face marred by the etched letters,

'Sherlock Holmes.'

John could see the trees and shrubbery behind him, the cloudless sky, the bright sun reflecting off gravestones not set in the shadows. The day was all too cheerful; unfitting for the grief of the moment.

"Three years, Sherlock. It's been exactly three … thr-," his voice broke and he took a moment to breathe in, to stop the hurt in his chest. "Mrs. Hudson is good. Living. She kept your stuff in the kitchen. Said it was a memorial to you. Sentiment." They had both agreed to leave Sherlock's things, thinking the same idea; that he MUST have found a way to escape death; that he was going to walk through the door any day and when he did, he would be able to jump back into his old life straight away. John allowed himself a small smile as he thought of the disgusted look that would have crossed Sherlock's face at the mawkish gesture.

'Don't be stupid,' he would have said. 'It gets in the way. Get rid of it. Have a kitchen table.'

"Lestrade misses you, even though he won't admit it. The Yard hasn't been catching killers the way they were before. They … they needed you. I think even Anderson …" John let the statement flounder away.

'Huh, Anderson. I don't want Anderson's feelings. He makes me feel stupid just thinking about him.'

"Mycroft comes by sometimes to check up on me."

'Has he started a world war yet?'

John laughed aloud. "No, but I think he stop-…" The doctor's voice faltered as he realized he was responding to an imagined response. He clenched his jaw and lifted his gaze from the ground, staring at his reflection behind the engraving. There were no tears in his eyes. John Watson had spent all his tears three years ago. Now he was just filled with grief and anguish. His face had grown gaunt; his whole body seemed to have become thinner. He put a hand to his chest. The tears were gone, but the heartache would be with him forever.

John stood up and rested his fingers on top of the gravestone. He didn't know which was worse: staying here, talking to Sherlock's grave, or returning to 221B Baker Street, that empty, desolate apartment with all of Sherlock's stuff. In the end, he decided to return, realizing that he could not spend all day at a graveyard. Not again.

He gave the stone a final tap, shivering as a curiously cold wind blew through him. He turned away and headed back home, not observing the leaves on a branch overhanging the grave of Sherlock Holmes.

It was still.

Even if he hadn't been haunting John's footsteps these last three years, Sherlock would have been able to tell at a moment's glance that the doctor hadn't slept in nearly a week. The most obvious sign, the dark circles under the eye, was something that even someone with mediocre observational skills might have noticed. John had tried to cover them with a bit of foundation from Mrs. Hudson's cabinet, but it was poorly done, unused to the application process as he was. All the same, he was getting good at it. It looked much better than it had last year and 15% better than the first year.

Those with a higher level of mental ability, like himself, would also have noticed the tremor in John's left hand – that shake he had when he had first returned from the war and the one that stopped when he was in a highly intense situation. As Mycroft had pointed out to the doctor himself, it was the opposite of PTSD. The thought of conflict had excited John and, now that Sherlock was gone, the excitement disappeared, and the shake returned.
The man frowned, his dark eyebrows knitting together under his curls. Surely Mycroft would have noticed that. In fact, he was sure that his brother had noticed it already, but chose not to do anything about it. There wasn't anything that could be done anyway.

The detective had not failed to notice the way John constantly raised a hand to his temple, as if to rid himself of a persistent headache. The yawning was a perpetual factor in John's life; he was more irritable, especially around this time of year.

Sherlock felt something akin to sadness creep into his mind as he watched his friend at the grave. He had done this to John. He had turned the army doctor from a lonely, depressed man to a loyal, adventurous companion. … And then he had taken it all away again.

If spirits could cry, he might have. He took a step closer to John and then another, and then another. When he stopped, he was standing right at his shoulder, looking down on the mat of faintly grey hair.

"Three years, Sherlock. It's been exactly three … thr-," something in John's voice made Sherlock wince. He felt a stab in his abdomen, like someone had driven a knife into him and twisted it. "Mrs. Hudson is good. Living. She kept your stuff in the kitchen. Said it was a memorial to you. Sentiment."

Despite his pain, the detective managed a disdainful smirk. "That's a stupid idea. Just get rid of it and be done with it. You should use the kitchen since you have it."

"Lestrade misses you, even though he won't admit it. The Yard hasn't been catching killers the way they were before. They … they needed you. I think even Anderson …"

"Anderson …" Sherlock highly doubted that the forensic scientist "missed" him. The pea-brained man might finally understand how horribly out of his depth he was, now that he didn't have the consulting detective to do his work for him, but he would never "miss" Sherlock Holmes. At least now his affair with Donovan was kept in the dark.

"Mycroft comes by sometimes to check up on me."

"Has he started a world war yet?" He voiced his question to the air and was surprised when John laughed, as though he heard him.

"No, but I think he stop-…" and the doctor was silent again.

Stopped one, that's what he was about to say, Sherlock knew. Mycroft had stopped another war. Of course. Mycroft had returned to the life he had before his brother's death. Everyone had. Everyone but John.

When John stood up to leave, he placed a hand on top of the gravestone. An impulse made Sherlock reach out for it. It was a move he would never have done when he was alive and he blamed death for changing him. When his fingers passed through the living flesh, John shivered and turned away. For a moment, Sherlock stayed where he was, overcome with grief as he realized, once again, that he would never be able to grab John, or put a bracing hand on his shoulder again.

Then he shook his head and scoffed at himself. John didn't need someone to hold his hand. He was a grown man and he could survive, HAD to survive without a constant support. But that didn't mean there wasn't going to be one there for him if he needed it.

Sherlock stepped forward and followed John back to his home; back to their home.

A/N: I do not truly believe this theory. If I did, you wouldn't ever hear from me again, because I'd be dead. Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks to Roxanne15927 for looking it over for me. If you enjoyed this, please read her fanfictions, as they are far superior to mine and wonderful!