A/N Thank you to everyone for favoriting, following, reviewing, and, of course, reading.

"You shouldn't be here, John."

John looked up from the test results he was examining. Sarah was standing in the doorway of his office, frowning at him. The pity in her eyes was painfully obvious, "Why shouldn't I be?" he replied.

Sarah hesitated, "May I come in?"

John nodded, and Sarah entered the office properly, closing the door silently behind her. Unbidden, she seated herself in the chair opposite John's desk, "I know the funeral's today, John."

Briefly, John remembered his and Sarah's short relationship. It had been years ago, now, they had both long overcome any awkwardness they felt working in the same office. Sarah had a new husband, and John….John had Sherlock, and while his feelings for his best friend were not romantic, it had been enough. He had been happy.

He was happy. Sherlock was alive. Gone for now, yes, but alive.

Sarah was waiting for a response. She was worried about his mental health, as his friend, yes, but also as his boss. She wanted to know if she could trust him around patients. She would not like it when John told her why he was not attending the funeral.

He decided to evade the issue, "I know."

"You need to be there, John," her voice was kind, honestly sympathetic, but firm.

John returned his attention to the medical tests, "I've already been to his funeral, thanks."

A pause. "John," she began carefully, "I know I can't imagine how hard this is for you, but it is important that you give yourself time to heal. You need closure, and seeing the…body...will honestly help."

"No, it won't."

"John…" Sarah began again.

"He's not dead," John said, looking up from the test records just in time to see the shock and fear embed themselves in Sarah's features, "I know you think I'm crazy, but he's not dead. He faked it, again, and there's no point going to stare at another fake corpse."

"Jo-" Sarah began, and John could practically see the arguments forming in her mind. Her mouth snapped shut as her medical instincts took over; she was enough of a professional to decide that such a conversation was far beyond her depth, but also enough to decide that she could not afford to have him around her patients. "John," she began again, "Have you considered that you might need to take some time off. You've been through a traumatic ordeal."

"I'm fine," John said shortly.

"I'm afraid I'm not so sure," Sarah said, "And I'm sorry John, but until I am sure that you are alright, I cannot allow you to interact with patients."

John was not surprised, but that did not mean he was not bitter: "You're firing me because I know Sherlock's alive."

"No…John…"

The door opened, "Doctor," a nervous secretary squeaked, "There's someone on the phone for you."

"Tell them I will call them back in a couple minutes, Janice," Sarah sighed, "I'm in the middle of something."

"Doctor, they say it's urgent…and that it concerns Doctor Watson…" she flashed John a nervous glance. John idly wondered what Mycroft had said that frightened her so much, or perhaps it simply the Elder Holmes' voice.

Sarah hesitated, "Alright," she sighed, "I'll be back in a couple minutes, John."

"Alright," John said, unconcerned. Mycroft certainly did come in handy sometimes.

Less than five minutes later, Sarah reentered, not bothering to knock. John glanced up from his papers; her glare was cold, livid, and resigned, "You have powerful friends," she said flatly.

"I'm not sure friend is the right word for him," John said, despite himself.

"Well whoever he is," Sarah spat, "He has made it abundantly clear that you are, against all ethical codes, to remain here as long as you wish." She did not wait for his response. Turning on her heel, she stormed towards to door, hesitated, and turned back to him, "I'm sorry for what happened to you, John. I know, better than most, how much Sherlock meant to you, but you need to see sense!" She did not give him a chance to reply, not that John intended to, and left, slamming the door behind her.

John returned his attention to the test results.

It was no surprise to see Mycroft sitting in John's armchair when the doctor returned to 221B that evening. He seemed to be engaged, yet again, in a deep study of his umbrella, but he looked up the moment John entered the room, "Ah John," he said with what was clearly supposed to be his familiar, cordial smile. It was almost convincing

"Good evening Mycroft," John said, taking the chair closest to Mycroft, but not Sherlock's, "How was the funeral?"

"Dreadfully dull," Mycroft said sardonically, "But far better attended than last time."

"Yes," John agreed bitterly, "I'm sure there were plenty of important people crying for the cameras over the body of the great civic hero who did not care about the suicidal fraud three years ago."

"Quite," Mycroft murmured.

The silence lasted half a moment, "Why are you here?" John demanded, trying to sound more belligerent than he felt.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, "I am sure we can both agree that you rather owe me."

"I do," John admitted, "But that doesn't answer my question."

Mycroft gave the doctor a tight smile and indicated a tray balanced on the coffee table between them, "Tea?"

They drank their tea slowly and in comfortable silence. Every once in a while, one of them would bring up a random memory associated with Sherlock, they would reminisce briefly, and fall back into silence. Half an hour later, Mycroft was getting to his feet, "Have a pleasant evening, John."

John also stood, "I will."

Mycroft nodded and turned to leave.

"Mycroft."

He turned, fixing John with his usual, disinterested gaze, except, John realized, it was still wrong, still broken, somehow, "Yes, Doctor Watson."

John swallowed. Suddenly the words would not come. It was only when Mycroft gave a small grunt of impatience that John was finally able to splutter, "Do you think he's alive?"

Mycroft hesitated, that broken look more pronounced than ever, "No," he said finally, "I examined every detail, thought through every eventuality, and I do not see any way he could have done it." He paused: "Does that change your opinion?"

"Not at all," John was mildly surprised to realize that it was the truth.

Mycroft smiled, a small, satisfied smile, "I thought as much." He paused again, "And it is certainly far more…appealing to think that I am the one who is mistaken," and without another word, he descended the stairs and vanished from sight.

Precisely one month later, the Elder Holmes was once again waiting in John's armchair when the doctor returned from work.

Without a word, John seated himself in the kitchen chair that was waiting for him as Mycroft poured them both tea. Three chairs: one from the kitchen, his own armchair, and Sherlock's, were arranged in a rough triangle.

It's like we're having tea with a ghost John mused, then No, like we're waiting for someone.

It was the truth.

"So is this going to become a habit then?" he finally asked as he sipped his tea.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Do you object?"

He did not.

Mycroft never stayed long, an hour at the most, but he was always there, on the same day each month, ready with a tray of Britain's finest brew as John climbed up the stairs to 221B. It was always the same. John would sit. Mycroft would pour tea. They would sit in easy silence until one of them, it depended on whose day had been the worst, but one of them would bring up Sherlock.

At first, they both pretended that John's once-again absent flat mate was not the reason they were having tea in the first place, that something besides a connection to the world's only Consulting Detective was strong enough to place an ex-army doctor and the human embodiment of the British government in a room together for tea once a month. With this shared pretense, they initially approached the topic in a round-about manner. Mycroft would bring up a (not too classified) puzzle that his department was currently grappling with. John would mention a random snippet of gossip about Mrs. Hudson's daughter or Molly's fiancé, but the conversation always quickly turned to Sherlock.

After the first few afternoons, however, they no longer bothered. They would not even exchange greetings. John would sit. Mycroft would pour tea. Eventually, one of them would begin. Mycroft would mention some detail of Sherlock's childhood, which John quickly learned was nearly as bizarre as his adult life. John would muse over his best friend's current whereabouts in his fight against his new nemesis. Both would recall old battles, victories, and defeats: The Study in Pink, The Woman, The Fall, and both would smile fondly over Sherlock's outrageous habits: the nicotine patches, the experiments, the skull. John wondered if Sherlock had scavenged a violin in the course of his current travels. Mycroft agreed that he probably had.

Mycroft never said it, but John knew he looked forward to the monthly visits. The doctor knew that Mycroft still refused to believe Sherlock was alive, but that he liked, even needed, to pretend he believed it, even if was only for an hour.

John hated to admit it, but he looked forward to the visits too.

He had no doubt Sherlock was alive, but that did not mean he did not miss the idiot, miss him so much he would sometimes pause in the middle of the street or a shop or even at the surgery when a wave of nostalgia overwhelmed him. It would be sparked by the smallest detail: a child with curly black hair, a long coat, a violin case, even sometimes the blasted milk, yet John could not admit this to anyone. Even the few people who still associated with him on a regular basis, mainly Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mike Stamford, refused to talk about Sherlock, at least with John. Mycroft knew, though, Mycroft understood; he felt it too. Yes, Mycroft's visits were a highlight of the month; they helped fend off the loneliness, the bitterness (Would it kill Sherlock to send just one letter?), and reminded John that Sherlock, indeed, would be back.

John simply needed to wait.

"Doctor Watson, isn't it?"

John glanced up from his book and his tuna salad in surprise and decided that he must be hallucinating.

A woman was standing in front of him. Her hand was resting on the back of the empty chair. Her lips were turned up in what was unmistakably a smile.

She even knew his name.

It took a few seconds for John to place her: a new doctor that Sarah had just hired. John was fairly certain she had started earlier that week.

Ah. That would explain it then; perhaps there had not yet been time for her to hear the gossip about him.

While Sarah, albeit under duress, had allowed John to stay, that did not mean that she, and by extension the rest of the staff, did not still think he was insane. It was partially his own fault, John admitted; he never shied away from telling others that he k new Sherlock was still alive. While, over the past twelve months (only a year, really?), they had grudgingly admitted that John was more than capable of handling himself around patients, they still shied away from him, as if he were carrying some sort of disease. It was nothing malicious, John knew; he simply made them uncomfortable by disturbing their absolute view of the world. To be honest, he did not really care.

The woman's (Mary, right?) lips were moving, and John realized with a jolt that she was asking if she could sit down.

"Uh, sure," he said, hoping he did not come off too brusquely.

It did not seem he had. Mary's smile broadened (and a very pretty smile it was too), and she sat, pulling out a Caesar salad, "I noticed you're reading Poe," she said, nodding at the book now hanging limply from John's hand, "He's one of my favorites."

It took several seconds for John to remember how to engage in small talk, "Uh…yea," he said. Then, realizing this was hardly an interesting response, he continued, "I read him a lot when I was a kid, but I hadn't picked it up again until quite recently."

"It's easy to forget how good he is," Mary said, twirling her fork thoughtfully in her salad, "Most people only see the horror stories, but he was one of the few men who was able create beauty out of darkness."

John chuckled, "To be honest, I think I only see the horror stories too."

"No," Mary mused, her chocolate brown eyes piercing John's in a way that he had not experienced for….well since…"I think you do," she said matter-of-factly. Then she smiled again, and the conversation continued.

It was wonderful, John admitted to himself. Mary was clever and funny and kind, and John would have asked her on a date if he had not known that all too soon she would hear the rumors and quickly decide that he was far too insane for her to spend her lunch hour with him, much less any time outside of work.

"You should buy me a drink sometime," Mary said matter-of-factly as she packed up the remains of her lunch (John noticed that she had not had much time to eat her salad, neither had he, when it came to that).

John sighed…might as well get it over with, better than her hearing it from one of the secretaries, "Look," he said, "I'd love to, really I would, but I don't think you'd really like me much."

She raised an eyebrow, "Isn't that for me to decide?"

"Listen…"

"No, John, you listen," John realized vaguely that Mary was ordering him. No one had dared, or bothered, to do that since the second fake funeral. Strange, he had not realized how much he missed it. Mary's eyes were piercing him again, "I know. They told me everything about you the day I arrived."

John blinked, and then he felt his blood began to boil. So she was not simply naïve, she was trying to wrangle information out of him, as if he was some freak show, "I'm not going to talk about it," he said flatly.

"John, if the reason I decided to eat lunch with you was to try and extract every horrific detail of your ordeal from you, I would have tried to do so long ago."

"Then why are you here?" John was not sure if his harshness was from anger or confusion.

Mary shrugged, "I like Edgar Allen Poe."

"Seriously, Mary…"

"I am completely serious, John," Mary said, and her steady gaze told him it was the truth, "I like a man who spends his lunch breaks reading Poe, and a man who will tell a five-year old silly stories so she isn't afraid to get some shots."

Carrie Princette, she had been John's last patient before lunch, there for a routine round of shots before starting school. Normally the nurse took care of things like that, but when he heard Carrie howling in terror for three solid minutes, John had pocked his head in and asked if he could help. After receiving a grateful nod from the nurse, he had come in and started talking to the girl. He told her a couple stories, about neon elephants, if he remembered correctly, until she was laughing too hard to be afraid of the needle. "How do you know about that?" he asked.

"I heard her mother telling Carrie's father about it over the phone as they left the office, and Carrie was still babbling to the nurse about the nice elephant man."

For a moment, John's lips curled up into something that resembled a smile-she had been a nice kid-but he quickly straightened his expression, "That's hardly a reason to…"

"Listen, John," and Mary's expression allowed no argument, "I like a man who reads Poe. I respect a man who served his country until he could not possibly do any more. I admire a man who is loyal enough to watch his best friend die, twice, and still has the guts to tell the world that he knows his friend is actually still alive, no matter what anyone else says. But a man who has done all of that, and seen all of that, and still tells a five-year old a story about elephants so she is not afraid to get her shots anymore…" she pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket, "That is the kind of man I want to buy me a drink."

She held the paper out to John.

He took it.

As he walked to Mary's one evening (it took half an hour and gave him an excuse to stretch his legs) six months later, John wondered when thoughts of marrying her had left the realm of idle fantasy and became a very real and increasingly appealing prospect. No matter what, he could no longer ignore the fact that in the course of six months not one but two people dominated John's thoughts: two poles, at once identical and opposite, that grounded, even sustained him.

Even though one of them was still too much of a lazy git to bother to write, just once.

He had mentioned this to Mycroft that day at their monthly tea appointment, after an enjoyable half-hour spent recounting some of Sherlock's most outrageous experiments. The Elder Holmes had peered at John carefully. John noticed that he was finally losing weight, "Do you still believe in him?"

John had blinked in surprise. Surely, by now the answer was obvious, "Of course," he said matter-of-factly, "It's not like it's a surprise that he's so inconsiderate."

Mycroft had simply nodded, but John had seen the relief embedded in his usually emotionless features, even though John knew that Mycroft still believed that Sherlock had died.

It seemed he was believing for both of them.

To his mild surprise, as John approached Mary's flat he saw that someone was already leaving it. His surprise only increased when he saw that it was Sarah.

"Hello John," she said gruffly as they passed each other, fixing him with a strangely defiant, almost accusatory look. Before John could respond, she was already charging down the street. Mary emerged from the flat after Sarah, her face drawn, uncharacteristically, into a frown.

"What's wrong?" John asked, running up the steps and wondering if he needed to track down Sarah and rip her apart for whatever she said to Mary.

"Sarah swung by to offer some friendly advice," Mary said flatly. John immediately knew what they had been discussing.

"Oh," he said lamely, "What did she say."

"She told me about when you two were dating … more precisely, why you broke up."

John felt his blood begin to boil and seethe in fury, and, he had to admit, unease. What if Mary listened? "Sherlock," he said shortly.

Mary nodded, "She said it was like dealing with a second lover…we both know he wasn't," Mary overrode him before John could object, "But emotionally, she said she was always competing with him, and eventually, it became too much, so she ended it."

"I see," John said. He vaguely realized that he was gripping the stair railing for support, "What did you say?"

"I told her I was always good at sharing," Mary said simply, "And she informed me that I needed to take this seriously, that she knew I thought that eventually, once we were married or had children or whatever, you would finally accept that Sherlock was dead and would devote all your affection to me."

John forgot how to breathe.

"And she said that she didn't think you ever would, that I would be competing with a ghost for the rest of my life."

"And what did you say?" John breathed.

Mary gave him an affectionate smile, "I told her to shove off."

John smiled, but it did nothing to ease the tension in his chest. What if that was what Mary thought? He cleared his throat, "Do you think he's dead?"

Mary sighed, her brown eyes full of sorrow, "Yes John," she said finally, "I do."

The world was spinning, threatening to tear itself apart. Part of John wondered why this bothered him so much: he had always suspected that Mary thought Sherlock had died, and it did not bother him that no one else believed him. However, to hear it like this, right now… was she trying to make him forget? Was one pole trying to destroy the other, throwing the entire, delicate system back into chaos?

He would not allow it. Sherlock would never be erased. Mind reeling, he turned to go before he lost it completely.

"John!"

Mary's hand was on his shoulder, forcing him to turn towards her. She took a step closer to him. John could smell her perfume; he had bought it for her. He wanted desperately to leave, to run for his life, but his legs refused to obey him.

"John Hamish Watson," Mary said gravely, "It's true, I do not think Sherlock is alive…"

It was like a physical blow to the chest. Why was she repeating it? How could she not know how much it hurt?

"But," and there was something in her voice that made John look up. Mary was smiling, a small, enchanting smile that seemed to say a million things at once, "That does not mean I do not want to spend the rest of my life waiting for him with you."

The wedding was small, just their few remaining relatives and close friends. They both preferred it that way.

The best man was, unfortunately, still absent.

"You know something, Doctor Watson?" John murmured into his wife's (how he loved the sound of that word) ear as the guests ate and chatted at the reception.

Mary smiled, "What's that, Doctor Watson?"

"I positively adore you."

She laughed, "Funny. I was just thinking the same thing."

"I mean it though," John murmured earnestly, "With all my heart."

Mary laid her head on John's shoulder. The weight was warm and comforting: "That's why I love you, John," she said softly, "You're the only man I've met whose heart is big enough for two."

Mary moved into 221B. Their wedding photo found a place next to the skull on the mantelpiece. Her set of the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe took up residence on the bookshelf next to Sherlock's chemistry books and sheet music. Her photograph of the Thames at sunset hung in one of the few empty spaces on the wall. Sherlock's bedroom remained untouched.

It was a pleasant mix, John decided, Mary and Sherlock, Sherlock and Mary, combining into something strange and eclectic and beautiful that could only be described as…home.

"You alright?"

John jumped; he had not noticed Mary come up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. She squeezed him a little tighter when she realized why John had been standing purposelessly in the middle of the living room for the past three minutes; he was staring at Sherlock's violin.

It still happened sometimes. John would be going about his day when he would see or hear something that would remind him of his best friend, and he would stop as memories of past adventures and questions about Sherlock's current exploits overcame him.

"Two years, three months, and seven days," he said quietly, still staring at the beloved instrument.

Another squeeze. "I know."

"I worry," John admitted, "He never told me exactly what he did the first time…what he saw...but he had scars where he didn't before…and sometimes, when he was sleeping…he would scream…and I worry…"

Another squeeze, tighter this time, "I know, John," she whispered, "But he is strong. You know that."

"But what if," John mumbled, "What if when he finishes, he thinks I've forgotten. What if he thinks that I've moved on and don't want him back anymore, so he stays away forever and stays alone and it destroys him…"

"He won't think that."

"No one can ever know what he's thinking."

A pause. "You should write a book," Mary said finally.

John frowned in surprise, "What?"

"A book. You should write a book. About him, about you, your adventures, his funny habits, everything…even though you can't communicate, he'll definitely see it or hear about it, and he'll know you haven't forgotten."

"I have the blog."

"There's a lot you never put in the blog. You told me so yourself, and people will want to read it…I'm sure Sherlock would want to read it, when it comes to that."

"Great. That's what we need, Sherlock Holmes to think more of himself."

The title was the publisher's choice: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

The dedication page was John's choice: "To the man himself. From the man still waiting for him to come home."

A/N There will be one more chapter, which I will hopefully publish by the end of the week.

As always, I would be very grateful to hear you thoughts. :)