By the time he arrived home from the hospital two days later, Mrs Hudson was practically pushing John into the flat. During those days, he just about begged the nurses to let him go a day early; he even tried to leave through the window and go down the fire escape, but by the time he had one leg outside, somebody had injected him. When he woke up he was back in bed.

Greg offered to drive him back to the flat, but he turned down the offer and thanked him for his concern, but he wasn't really interested. When Greg entered the room after Mycroft, he started talking about how he was sorry and how they need to sort out everything that has happened between them; John tried to listen and agree about moving on, but he just couldn't.

Greg even talked about trying to forget everything in the past; to John all he heard was everything, including his moments with Sherlock. There were too many things that he didn't want to forget. There was no way John was going to forget him and he wasn't going to move out of the flat to try. The flat was the only place that reminded him of Sherlock and the great years they shared together, even if he did cry whenever he entered.

Only one person knew how John felt for Sherlock, after he confessed in a drunken state to his own landlady while lying where Sherlock would spend hours playing his violin. So as he talked about how he wished Sherlock was still alive and that they were together, all Mrs Hudson did was pat him on the shoulder and listen to everything he had to say. They were never the same after that.

So it came as a complete shock to open the doors of the building and to be met by a tearful Mrs Hudson who was holding tightly onto her kitchen towel; sitting on the bottom of the stairs. When John closed the door, Mrs Hudson got up from the stairs, walked up to John and lifted her hand so she could hit him-with her kitchen towel- on John's arm. Fortunately, she didn't hit him as hard and she purposely avoided his shoulder.

"John." One hit. "Hamish." Two hit. "Watson." The last hit. "I've known you for five years and you have never gotten yourself hurt like this. What were you thinking?!" Again she continued to hit him.

"Mrs Hudson, control you!" he said, using his attacked arm to shield himself, "I'm okay now, see?" He held his arms up but a burst of pain shot up his shoulder and he dropped his arms again, "Why are you hitting me?"

"Did you even try and protect yourself? You've tried to kill yourself before but you just-" she ended up choking on her own words through her tears, "You didn't even try, did you?"

Even John had to admit that he didn't try; he just let that man stab him; he even asked for it. At that moment it seemed like the right thing to do, however there had been many times where drinking offered the wrong choices.

"I've already lost Sherlock," her words drifted as she walked back to the stairs; sitting down on a step, taking her time with her hip, "I don't want to lose you too." She tried to laugh, but it was covered by her tears, "I'm far older than you boys. You shouldn't be going first before me."

The thought of Mrs Hudson believing this- let alone admitting it- made John wince. Now he was regretting not just the other night, but the other nights also. The nights where he thought he was so alone or where he threatened to take his life. There were nights where he didn't regret, where he would list all the things that he loved about Sherlock to Mrs Hudson and reminisce about all the moments they had. However these nights were outnumbered by the bad ones.

Slowly-taking his time with his leg- he joined Mrs Hudson by the stairs and sat by her side. Using his uninjured arm, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

"Mrs Hudson. I'm so sorry, for everything. Jesus Christ, I've done some pretty stupid things recently, haven't I?" Mrs Hudson laughed, "Laugh as much as you want, it's true. I mean I could have stopped the bloke, but I didn't."

This made Mrs Hudson look up at him, "But why John? Why did you just let him? You're a soldier, John. You're a very brave man; you shouldn't let things like that happen to you. "

"I'm going to be honest with you Mrs Hudson, but please don't hit me again," he said as he saw her grasp the kitchen towel tighter, "At the time I wanted it to happen. I wanted that man to kill me, because-" he paused. Closing his eyes he tried to picture the moment it happened, "I- I wanted to be with Sherlock, because that was the only way."

"Oh John." she said. Instantly she dropped her kitchen towel and wrapped both her arms around him; John copied her movement but held onto her tighter.

"Now the idea of it seems rather stupid of me, I can admit that. I was very selfish in not thinking about who I'll be leaving behind-" he paused, as a sudden realisation hit him, "That man could do that again, to anyone and I didn't even try and remember his face or even stop him."

Mrs Hudson didn't have anything to say about that, so instead lifted herself from the stairs and looked down at John; and was holding her hand out towards him. As John looked up, he could still see she was crying but silently this time, as if she is trying to hold it back. This time he felt more vulnerable as he sat crouched into the side of the stairs. He also felt guilty, as he shouldn't have let someone try to kill him so easily. Now-after making Mrs Hudson cry so easily- he felt like he owed everything to her. Using her offered hand as support, he lifted himself up and followed Mrs Hudson up the stairs to the flat.

"The tea they make in hospitals is ghastly, I'll fetch you a nice pot of tea and a couple of biscuits and we can go through everything." she said, guiding him up the stairs and into his own living room.

The place had been cleaned up since he left that night; Mrs Hudson must have cleaned up while John was gone. The curtains had been fully opened this time, letting in a warm, welcoming light that spread in through the whole room. Both walked towards the kitchen where John took a seat on while Mrs Hudson boiled the kettle and set out biscuits.

John felt as if he should get up and help her, but decided against the idea due to the fact that his leg was tensing up again. This happened once in a while, but when it did, John was left feeling useless and unable to do anything at all. He guessed that he considered himself lucky to have Mrs Hudson nearby.

The kettle made a clicking sound to signal it had finished, so Mrs Hudson walked to the kettle, made the two cups of tea and a pot of tea; and placed them in front of John. As Mrs Hudson was getting the plate of biscuits, John took the tea- that was in his favourite mug- and took a sip; not caring for the risk of burning his mouth. Yet as he finished taking a mouthful, he sighed in contentment. Mrs Hudson was right: the hospital does make bad tea.

When she placed the biscuits in the middle of the counter, she sat down opposite to John- where Sherlock used to sit during his experiments- and drank her own tea. At first they were sat in silence: drinking their tea and eating the biscuits one at a time. When John would look over to Mrs Hudson, he could sense that she wanted to bring up a conversation. So as he was about to bring up a conversation, Mrs Hudson started her own, "John, I guess I would never fully understand as to why you did those things to yourself, so I want you to tell me. We have all day and enough teabags to last us. Just start from the beginning and tell me everything."

And so he did.

At the exact same moment John was opening his heart out to Mrs Hudson- approximately 282 miles away- a man was lying on a bed in a cheap, worn out hotel bedroom. There was no need for any luxuries as he didn't require them. In exactly three hours, he would leave the hotel and go to the destination needed.

The man had spent many years carrying out this task and tonight would be the start of the beginning of the end. Over the years, he had imagined coming home, but there was always the thought about if there was a home to go to. There were times where he wondered if his friend- his only true friend that he could trust- had moved on, gotten married or had kids, but he didn't want to think about that.

This thought always bothered him: if John had moved on without him, what would become of him when he returned. The thought seemed selfish, but he couldn't help it. A small part of him didn't want John to move on and meet somebody else, but as he told himself: it was a self-centred thing to want. He didn't know why he thought this, so he kept this thought to himself.

Turning over on the stiff bed, he looked up at the picture that rested against the bedside lamp. The picture was something he cherished and never let go out of his sight. It wasn't a professional picture: there were no special lights or useless poses; however the picture was of great comfort to him, as it was the only picture he possessed of the pair of them.

The picture was of a crime scene. In fact, it was the last crime scene before all the problems with Moriarty started. He remembered that day well: a famous author was murdered in her own home and they were both called in to go to the crime scene. The case was rather easy and took him minutes to tell everyone what he deduced, which is what the picture shows.

The photo was taken by Lestrade and was given to him just weeks before he left for Tibet, which was the start of the three years. At the start, he left the photo in his bedside drawer and forgot about it. But it wasn't until the night before he left Baker Street that he found it and took it with him.

There were only two people in the photo, and that was all there needed to be. They both looked rather happy, which was a change to- as he can admit himself- what he was usually like. It was the moment where he was telling everyone about the murder, and John was stood next to him; smiling up at him as if he was the most wondrous man he'd ever met.

Sherlock wasn't sure if that was how John thought of him, but the thought of it filled Sherlock will happiness. The only times he smiled during the three years was when he looked at the photo.

Once tonight was over, he would return to London to carry out the last task. Once everything was over, he would finally be reunited with John just as he hoped. But when Sherlock thought about those three years he left him, he believed that a happy reunion wouldn't be expected.

Author's Note: Yes, I have finally introduced Sherlock into this :) So now the chapters might change from Sherlock's point of view to John's point of view. Thank you everyone who has been patient and stuck with the story so far. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated :)