Sherlock was having a nightmare. He could tell right away, because the scene before him…
It couldn't be real, right?
Everything was in vivid, bright colours, searing into his vision, and almost hurting his eyes. The red stain on the floor was what held his attention at the moment. His quicksilver eyes were locked on it, and slowly they moved up to a body. He dreaded to know who it belonged to, although his brain was once again far ahead of him, already having figured it out the minute he had formed the dream in his mind's eye. But he wouldn't accept it. Not now, not ever.
A single tear escaped as the logical part of his head told him there was no way that he could have survived that. A single blow to the head, hard enough to crack the skull, and multiple bruises on the limbs.
His eyes roamed upwards still, to where the head was lying in a puddle of blood. Sherlock didn't have the nerve to reach over and turn it to look at the face.
He didn't trust his self-control enough to look at the empty eyes of John Watson.
Sherlock sat up suddenly, chest heaving and breathing harsh, and slowly the breaths turned into quiet sobs. He hugged his knees and cried, allowing the dam he had built up over the past 2 years to break, and now it flooded his eyes with tears. He paused, salt pricking his cheeks, having heard a sound outside. Sherlock hastily wiped his face and laid back down, hiding his face in the pillow and pulling the covers up. After a moment, the door opened, the light illuminating the shadow of Mycroft, who remained there for a second, before letting out a heavy sigh.
"You don't have to hide it, Sherlock. I know you miss him." When he didn't respond, Mycroft continued. "Despite the many times I've told you that caring wasn't an advantage, you still went out of your way to protect him. It couldn't have ended well. You knew this, Sherlock." He continued to ignore him. "Sherlock, I can hear you, you know. And your nightmares aren't going to get better if you keep-"
"Get OUT!" Sherlock bellowed suddenly, throwing the covers off and sitting bolt upright. "Get out, Mycroft, you don't know a damn about how this feels, you don't, trust me! So stop with your bloody lectures and leave me in peace!" Mycroft balked, and after a moment complied, closing the door to leave him alone in the darkness with nothing but his bitter sobs for company.
Sherlock held a single rose behind his back, and stared hard at the velvety grass that covered the pain of so many. He paused in front of a tree, and placed the flower on a patch of upturned soil by a polished black slab of stone. He hesitated, before beginning to speak.
"I know...you probably can't hear me, and this is illogical in every sense of the word but...I couldn't let this go. Not yet. I-" He paused, voice cracking, and so Sherlock cleared his throat to try again. "I wanted to tell you so many things while you were alive….and I would say it now. Except it wouldn't have any meaning now, would it?" He let out a choked laugh. "...What I can say, though...You were an amazing man, you were...well, everything I'm not. Brave, honest, loyal, and above all, you were kind. You helped me get over my addiction, you taught me how to feel, you taught me….you taught me how to love." Sherlock swallowed back a sob before continuing. "I know I've asked a lot of you. But I promise. If you do this one thing for me, I won't ever ask anything else of you ever again."
"Please, John...one more miracle….for me?" He swallowed once more, but couldn't stop a tear from escaping. Sherlock wiped it away furiously, and managed to push down the rising emotions to utter one more thing.
"Just….stop this. Stop being dead."
