My attempt in fanfic-ting. I've had brief moments of writer's block, BUT MY FIRST COMPLETE FANFICTION!
I had my fun, and I hope you all enjoy, too! *smiley*
Title inspired by All Time Low - Lullabies
It has been more than a year since Sherlock greeted Death from the rooftop, and John still could hardly grow accustomed to his absence. He missed strolling around London solving cases with his flatmate. He missed hearing the clever deductions made directly and indirectly about every person. Ultimately, he missed the tall figure in dark tweed wool cloak, blended with a navy cashmere scarf, for the memory of the life form transmuted into a silhouette in John's mind.
Tragically, the incident brought haunting memories into John's slumbers. He would find himself standing in the middle of traffic, phone in hand, as his eyes were fixed upon the man above. His mind would constantly order him to throw himself towards the sidewalk before Sherlock meets the slab, but his body was grounded to the floor; his eyes watched as the body collapsed, causing a heart-pounding awakening, and then a moment of mourning.
One night, the same dream occurred as Sherlock was seen lying on the ground after the fall. John found himself sprinting towards the body without any interference of a passerby-biker and a crowd of pedestrians as he had during the actual waking incident. Once he had finally reached Sherlock's body, he instinctively picked up his right hand, lightly laid his fingers on the inside of his wrist.
"No pulse," he concluded.
John closed his eyes, in desperate need to wake up from his horrifying dream. He counted to 10, hoping to find himself under his comforters, in his room. A moment later, John peeled his lids open to a sight of white cotton puffs floating above him. He thought he was in the bedroom of his flat, after judging by the familiar texture of the puffs he found himself laying on.
He pulled himself up into sitting position as he took in his surroundings. Suddenly, he heard a voice above call out to him "John," alerting him from his brief moment of wonder. He looked up to see a familiar man with locks as dark as the feathers of a raven, and a ring of light surrounding him.
"Sherlock? There's a..thing on your head!" John exclaimed as Sherlock simply replied, "I have wings, too. How much obvious could you be? We're in this so-called 'heaven!'"
John tilted his head to the side, and shook, "So you're saying I'm dead..I died in my sleep?!" "You're not dead, John." John paused for brief moment, then slid a small grin. "Well, uhh..didn't think heaven would look..quite plain, don't you think," remarked John as Sherlock appeared with a ghostly smile. "I've been bored. I would die for a case right now." Sherlock's dry comment sent chills up John's spine.
"I've missed you," Sherlock finally added.
The sudden sentiment brought surprise to John's eyes. Sherlock was well-known to categorize sentiment as the losing side, but then again, how was his comment displayed as the "losing side?" "Sherlock, you have no idea," John began. "You have no idea how hard it is for me to adjust to life without you around. You took me into your life, which also became my own, and then YOU LEFT! That..bloody rooftop," He paused, then picked up his voice again, "I'm still waiting on that miracle, Sher. I still have so much to tell to you, and I owe you so much," John pulled his view away from Sherlock, trying to regain his strength as he waits for Sherlock to respond.
There was brief silence.
Finally, John looked up and found Sherlock's hand reaching towards him, inviting him to enter his world. Before John was able to stretch his arm out to him, the vision faded; the unconscious was now conscious.
John lifted his eyes open, found himself awake, lying on his firm, springy mattress, wrapped in his warm, cotton-made blanket. His sudden encounter with Sherlock in "heaven" left an odd mixture of relief and emptiness beneath his chest.
"I never told him I've missed him, too," he frowned.
As he pulled himself up out of his position, he decided to refresh himself by escaping out of the bedroom for air.
It was until suddenly, he sensed warmth that felt familiar to him, lingering in the cold room. He peered into the darkness and scanned around, but saw no one other than himself in his bedroom. He then landed his glance towards his bedroom door left ajar.
"I could have sworn I closed that bloody door."