THIS IS MY 50TH FIC! :D Crazy proud of myself right now. I would like to thank all my reviewers, favouriters and alerters for giving me the confidence to get past my first fic and not give up. I also REALLY REALLY want to thank Carly (LyricsArePoetry), Laura (Laura545), Gizi (Mentalgal), Izzy (Theta'sWorstNightmare) and Emma (PureMarkOwenAwesomeness) for sticking with me from the start and not letting me give up even when I wanted to. And putting up with me during my writers block, my bad days, my good days, and my obsessive days.

Now! We're past all my mushyness. We can get onto some Sherlock! :D


It had been three years to the day, since the death of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, John's best friend, and the only man who could be a selfish bastard as well as doing the most selfless thing anyone could ever do.

Three years since emotions had killed Sherlock Holmes.

Two years and six months since Mycroft had explained to John why Sherlock had jumped.

Two years since his name had been cleared.

One year since the last time John had found one of Sherlock's experiments, but not had the heart to throw it out.

Six months since John had been in his room, being careful to leave it looking as though one of his experiments had exploded in there, just as he'd left it.

A couple of hours since John had texted Sherlock's phone, as he did every year, in the vain hope that maybe one day, Sherlock would answer back, and John would get his miracle. I once said you'd outlive God trying to have the last word… Please, prove me right, just once. –JW

He never sent anything particularly meaningful, just little things that he knew, if Sherlock ever saw it, he would smirk and reply with some comment that would either make John smile or want to hit him.

It was a few minutes since John stood at Sherlock's gravesite again, as he did every year. He told the headstone about what was going on in his life, how his psychiatrist was an idiot, how he'd met a nice girl but it hadn't worked out, he even talked about Mycroft.

And it was a few seconds since John had gotten the shock of his life when Sherlock texted back, you'd outlive him too, you know John. You're unbelievably stubborn. –SH

John stared at the phone. It wasn't possible. Sherlock was dead. He watched him die. Someone was messing with him. That was the only explanation. Mycroft had Sherlock's phone though… Mycroft wouldn't mess with him, not like this. Not even he was that cruel.

John took a deep breath and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He knew it couldn't be Sherlock, it just wasn't possible, But the message… It was just so Sherlock, that he couldn't find it in him to delete it.

John never heard from him, or more likely whoever had his phone, again, and if he was being honest, he didn't really expect to. But five years on, he still had that message on his phone, and he would until the day he got his miracle, or the day he died trying to find it himself.