Title: Get Your Epitaph Right
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft. Perhaps Molly if I can write her. Possibly Sherlock/John later. Friendship fic for now.
Rating: K+ for now, swearing and some blood
Summary: It's been three years. They can't just pick up where they were. They have to find the pieces first.

A/N: Saw some spoiler pictures for Series 3. Fic rabbit bit me.

Disclaimer: I can't even claim ownership to the dialogue this time.

It had now been several months since the Event. It was easier attatching an unemotional name to it than constantly picturing Sherlock's face smashed on the pavement, his body twisted unnaturally on the gurney. John knew he couldn't afford 221B by himself - even though he did not want to leave. He started the process of packing. He wrapped Sherlock's instruments - first in tissue paper, then in old newsprint. Then gently in a packing box.

Nobody else would want them.

He placed the clippings in a folder, tucking them into the side of the box.

He wasn't sure about the books, and when he limped downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson about them she told him to "not worry about them, dear."

He had all of his things packed within a day - but he knew it would take an extra two to pack Sherlock's things, mainly because John would have to sit down. His hand was shaking again, and he felt shaky. Mrs. Hudson once came upstairs and offered to help but he shook his head insistantly.

He would sit there for hours in the half-packed apartment. Glaring at Sherlock's desk.

The grief he had felt at Sherlock's grave a few days before had been replaced by rage. "You're dead, you stupid git. And yes, you're a complete idiot. You've left me without a life to even go back to."

He shook his finger at the chair as though Sherlock was there, listening - that bored look on his face, the roll of the eyes. The non-committal expression. John cursed.

"Sorry I have to leave this old place. Seems all I have left of you."

"Nobody said you had to leave."

John glared up to see Mycroft - with his ivory cane and expensive suit. He didn't want to see Sherlock's brother right now, in fact he didn't want to see or talk to anyone in particular.

It must have showed on his expression, because Mycroft said, "I know you don't want to talk to anyone, John. But I am sorry that I have not been up here to see you earlier."

"Why should I accept anything from you? Isn't there something you want from me?" He didn't want to be tied to the corruption. Sherlock had been, because you cannot choose your family, but after the first encounter, John hadn't seen or heard from Mycroft without Sherlock bearing his "favors".

Mycroft sighed, leaning on his cane. He seemed to be carefully choosing what he said, and exactly how he said it. "I'd like my brother back," the words seemed quieter than he meant them to be, he looked down at his cane briefly - unlike John, Mycroft didn't particularly need it - he just used the damned thing to indicate his wealthy status.

He feigned a smile and John was surprised to see Sherlock's wealthy brother actually seem sad. "It's the least I can do - if you don't want to stay here, I understand. I can take care of another apartment if you like." He looked at John's cane, seemingly remembering that first night. "But I don't know that it would be as easy a trek to hospital."

John seemed incapable of speaking. Yes, this old place haunted him - but he didn't want to leave. All their memories were here, and it seemed as though if he left he would really have to accept that Sherlock was dead. If he stayed, he could pretend for awhile.

Mycroft nodded, again briefly smiling - though it seemed half-hearted. He looked around the place. "I'm sorry you already packed," he said turning to leave. "My brother may have been many things - but a fraud he was the furthest from." He then seemed to stalk out of the room, as though he were going to say something else but chose not to.

John sat back in his chair, sulking. "Can't get rid of you can I?" He glared at Sherlock's chair and started unpacking the box nearest his own. The magazines that went in the rack on the opposite side of the fireplace. "You don't want me to mourn you? Fine. I can do that. I'll just hate you for leaving instead."

He hated the silence of the room. Despite the shakiness, he'd be asking for more hours at the hospital. He couldn't bear to leave, nor could he bear to stay.

He noticed there was a small spot on the rug from where Mycroft had been standing. Had the mogul actually shed one tear on his brother's rug? Sherlock would know, but John didn't care enough to get out the chemical set to find out.

Three years passed. Three long, boring years.

He was still engaged to Mary, and she came over to the apartment every afternoon, waiting for him to get home from work. But they hadn't quite made the final steps towards marriage.

He was carrying himself back to the flat, taking careful strides, pacing himself. It seemed like a longer walk than it should. Since the night Mycroft had "taken care of" the apartment there had been no request for favors, and since it had been three years - John was quite sure there wouldn't be any. For that, he was grateful. He didn't post on his blog anymore, he refused therapy even though the girl called almost every week, leaving a message on his mobile as a reminder to make a appointment. He was in a particularly bad mood today. Swearing that if anyone crossed him on the wrong side of the street he would surely give them a damned good bloody nose.

Someone was standing outside 221B - a visitor for Mrs. Hudson perhaps? She never got visitors. John was immediatly suspicious. As he limped closer, the figure looked resoundingly familar. This only made his sullen mood worse. He continued, acted as though the figure wasn't even standing there and took out his key.

"John?"

He turned slowly, his leg throbbing again - Mary would insist that he take a long soak and then a nap. He was bored - something should happen to him, even though nothing ever did.

But he knew that voice. He glared fiercely at his former partner.

"You're a ghost. Now sod off and go haunt someone else. I'm sure your brother would have quite a field day with that."

"John, I'm not dead."

Those four word woke up a rage that John had thought he had buried and forgotten. He dropped the cane and swung a punch at the taller figure, letting out a cry of anger.

"You deserted me! The way I was trained you don't desert your comrades. I was angry that you were dead, but this is far worse. I can't believe that when you said we were friends that I was enough of a stupid git to believe you."

"Yes, I know it was painful for you but it had to be done or -" John punched him again, this time catching Sherlock's nose.

"What about Mycroft's network?" John demanded. "Are you planning that we'll die together this time, Sherlock? I have a fiancee - I can't just desert her too."

"I have everything I need to clear my name, we can go back to wor-" Sherlock's reply was cut off by John catching him in the jaw with his fist.

"Oh, yeah - why don't we just go back to the way things were, Sherlock? Pretend you weren't gone? Pretend I didn't miss you for three fucking years!"

"You are all I thought of the whole time I was away..." John punched him in the nose again.

"You think that makes me feel better?" He didn't want Sherlock to see the tears that were threatening to come again. John wanted Sherlock to know, to feel what it was like to think your best friend was dead.

"John can you not keep hitting me, please. I am just -" Sherlock tried to grasp hold of John's hands before another punch.

"Go. Away," John slipped away, and unlocked the flat. "If you need a place to stay find some other gullible git, because you surely aren't welcome here." He slammed the door in Sherlock's face.

If John had looked through the peephole he might have regretted his actions, but he was a bit preoccupied with nursing his hand, and cursing that he'd left his cane in the street. And trying not to cry.

He kicked at the stair in frustration. Sherlock obviously didn't trust him because he would have told him about this plan in the first place. There was no sense in pretending they were friends anymore.

For all John knew, it was a stupid hallucination. Better to think of it that way. Better not to hope that Sherlock was alive because that was almost too painful to think about.