Some angst here, so be warned! Also, the story will have about 7ish chapters, but that'll depend on how much I write. Good thing I have most of the plot planned out!

A black, unmarked car dropped Sherlock off at Baker Street. His chest was wrapped in a bundle of bandages, but the pain barely registered on Sherlock's mind. His heart beat fast, for he wondered what would John do when he found out Sherlock was alive. The most logical assumption would be that John would punch him. Sherlock may not know much about human emotions, but he was certain that John would punch him.

The detective hoped his blogger had moved on, got one of those dull girlfriends to marry him, and was leading a healthy life, but a darker part of him hoped John hadn't. Even Sherlock knew it was selfish, but he knew he wouldn't be able to function very well once John was taken out of his life. Sherlock was fairly certain the army doctor could cope much better than he.

Sherlock shook the thoughts out of his head and rang the doorbell of 221b Baker Street. Nothing happened as two minutes passed. The detective's heart was fluttering softly in his chest in anticipation. Stupid! Deductions flew across his mind as no one answered the door. Of course John moved out of Baker Street. Memories of a certain dead friend would've made anyone move out. Stupid! As Sherlock turned to leave, the door of 221b suddenly opened. Sherlock whipped around wanting to find John in the doorway, but Mrs. Hudson entered his vision instead.

"Oh my god," she murmured before her eyes rolled up in the back of her head and fainted.

Fortunately, Sherlock had deduced this in mere seconds and thus, he smoothly caught his former landlady before she could fall onto the hard concrete. The detective quickly opened the door to his former flat and carried Mrs. Hudson up the stairs. Spying the old couch, Sherlock gently lied her on her back on the soft cushions. The dark haired man then stood up and did a quick scan of the room.

Sherlock hummed slightly as he took notice of the piles of boxes with his things in it. He made his way towards the boxes and found that John had left everything belonging to Sherlock behind. Sherlock allowed a small smile to crease his lips when he couldn't find his skull. Three years and nothing in his flat had changed too much. The tall man walked silently to the kettle and turned it on.

After a few minutes, Mrs Hudson stirred. Sherlock grabbed two tea cups, poured the tea, and sat on the chair waiting for her to regain consciousness. She stirred slightly, and opened her glassy eyes.

"Sherlock?" she murmured as she sat up.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked as polite as he could, for it made John happier when he used his manners.

"Is it really you?" she asked as she reached out a hand to touch his face.

Sherlock pulled her hand and cupped it against his cheek. He nodded slightly and observed her. It had been so long since the last time he'd seen her. She had more wrinkles, but still seemed full of life. Her face was of unmasked surprise and happiness, for her eyes sparkled under the light and her mouth opened in a small "o". His old landlady blinked several times and held onto his hand more tightly. Her eyes were starting to water, and Sherlock couldn't understand why. Oh, he knew it was because of either joy or sadness, but the way she trembled and took small, quick gasps of breath told him it was because of sadness. Why would she be sad? Unless of course…

"Oh Sherlock. Oh my god, Sherlock. John… John… oh he took your death very badly, you see… and he," she paused and wiped her eyes faintly, "he just, oh he's dead Sherlock! Dead!"

Sherlock froze. A loud buzzing like the sound of a bee overtook his ears. Everything seemed to collapse. It was with the confirmation in Mrs. Hudson's voice that caused reality to sharpen and hit him like a large mirror. He felt as if the tiny shards of glass had encrusted in his frantic, beating heart. His stomach rolled as if he was on one of those dreaded rollercoasters, and he felt the rooftop scene all over again… only this time he would never see John again. It was his fault, for he pressed all of the grief onto John.

The detective soon felt a hot tinge of anger. Why hadn't Mycroft told him of John's mental wellbeing? The fat, deceiving, bully of a brother had even insisted multiple times that John was alright and dealing with his death finely. Why didn't he do anything? A small squeeze from old, worn hands jolted him from his thoughts.

The dark haired man hadn't realized his eyes betrayed his emotions until the same warm hand wiped some of the wet tears away. He let go of his hand, and hurriedly wiped the offending liquids away. He stared at the floor.

"When?" he choked out.

"Two months after your death. Shot to the head, and he was such a nice man, to have as a friend," she murmured softly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he spoke while standing up. "I need to visit Mycroft, I'll return."