A/N: A little one-shot I just wrote up in honor of SHERLOCK COMING BACK TODAY. *stifles scream and tries to behave like reasonable person* *fails*

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. But that's okay. Because HE'S COMING BAAAACK.

Two years.

John stares at the black headstone, the white words still standing out clearly. Sherlock Holmes.

He'd had another nightmare last night. The same one. He was on the rooftop. He said he was a fake. Goodbye, John.

And then he jumped.

That part was always over so quickly, in the dream. He said goodbye, and then he was falling.

The falling took forever.

And then he was on the pavement.

Blood stained the ground. Blood matted his hair. Blood pooled around his head. His pulse was nonexistent.

And then he was gone.

And John was lying awake in bed, shaking and sweating, a cry of Sherlock! on his lips but left unsaid.

Two years.

Mrs. Hudson must have come by the grave earlier, because bright flowers sat in front of the headstone, the vibrant oranges and yellows contrasting with the black.

The black was so dark. The black reminded him of Sherlock's coat. The breeze that moves the flowers reminds him of the way Sherlock's coat billowed behind him as he was falling.

Why?

The question John had asked ever since Sherlock had called him on the roof. The question John had continued to ask for two years. The question he had asked every time he saw a newspaper headline or internet story declaring the consulting detective's fraudery.

The question still kept him up at night.

He felt her come up behind him. Her hand slipped into his and gave his a squeeze. He squeezed back, and she started to pull away, but he grasped it tighter, clinging to the one sure thing in his life. She tightened her grip, and leaned into him, but she didn't speak. She always seemed to know what to say, and when not to say anything at all.

Mary was his anchor. Sometimes he felt she was the only thing keeping him from floating away, from turning into a ghost like the one who haunted his dreams.

He turned away from the gravestone and looked at her. She looked up at him, her eyes telling him she understood.

"Coffee?" He asked softly.

She nodded.

They turned away in tandem, still holding hands. As John walked away from the cemetary, he almost felt as if a load fell off his shoulders. It had been two years.

Perhaps it was time to move on.