There was something really bitter about the bottom of a cup of coffee. Something that couldn't be sweetened, no matter how many cups of sugar John added. He didn't used to take sugar in his coffee, but then again, absolutely everything had changed. The bottom of the cup made him sad, somehow. He supposed it was because of the emptiness, the lack of something where you were expecting it. Bitter.

John sat in the booth of the old diner, staring into the bottom of his mug for a few seconds more. Nothingness. In a way, he thought, his life was rather like this cup of coffee. So full and warm for some of it, but now sour and empty…

He smiled wryly to himself. Feeling sorry for yourself John? Hadn't he wanted nothing more than to escape the endless pity parties for the last couple of weeks? Even Lestrade had taken time off to come to the flat. He had cleared his throat a couple of times, as if he wanted to say something. But he never did. It had been a very short visit.

Sugar. He could still remember everything perfectly. It was all written down on the blog after all. But John couldn't bring himself to go back and read it. Lestrade had told him that a few people still did read it. Even John would have no trouble deducing who they were.

He stood sharply. Polishing glasses at the counter, Angelo gave him a pitying look on the way out.

The taxi ride was quick, which was good. It didn't give him a lot of time to think. John tried not to think much these days. He knew that if he stopped for to long, he would break. Shatter.

A short walk to the headstone. The gate was always unlocked. He had walked the same path so many times these last years. "It's been three years" he murmured, surprised. He hardly noticed the passage of time anymore.

Sitting on the cool grass, John leaned his back against the black marble. "Lestrade's got a case," he said "you would have liked it. Tough one. Suicides, and a couple of notes, the usual, but there's something off about it…" he began to talk, as he normally did. He would talk about anything and everything until his voice cracked and began to give out.

The sun was setting now. Another end to another meaningless day. "It's been three years Sherlock" John said quietly, "three years, and everyday I still think ill look up and you'll be there, walking through the doors at bakers street." he got up, resting his hand on the marker. "I'm still waiting for that miracle. " He stood there stiffly for a few more moments, hands clenched at his sides.

Against the setting sun, John was nothing more than a ghostly silhouette. He simply stood, silent. Barely more than a couple yards away, Greg Lestrade stood beneath the shade of the trees with Mrs. Hudson.

"What's he doing?" he spoke quietly to the woman at his side.

"He comes here almost everyday, you know" Mrs. Hudson glanced over at the man beside her. "He almost gave up quite a few times. But he's still waiting"

A corner of Greg's mouth twisted upwards into a sad little half smile. "So are we."

Still standing by the tombstone, the light of the dying sun cast its last beams onto the face of the hollow army doctor. No one but Sherlock would have noted the way his fists clenched tighter and tighter, or the way his shoulders quietly shook, or the subtle trembling of his right hand.

Lestrade and Ms. Hudson turned, walking away from John, trying to give him another moment alone. Had they stayed for a moment longer, they would have seen John hurriedly wipe a hand across his eyes and touch the headstone one last time.

"Always," John Watson whispered.