Sherlock. Even now the name gives me chills. Those eight letters are like a knife in my gut, twisting mercilessly. I jerk awake night after night, bathed in a cold sweat, his name still clinging to my lips. More than a few times I had to dash to the bathroom, the lingering images of Sherlock lying broken on the pavement too much for my stomach to handle.

The flat feels so empty without him, yet I can't bear to leave. It's the only piece of him I have left. I've been going through the motions, the last 6 months blurring into meaningless static. Sometimes I still call his name out when I come home, expecting to find him on the sofa, calling out, "Bored. BORED." But when no voice calls back to me, I remember. I sink to the floor and sob for the loss of my best friend, the one I couldn't save.

I've only visited his grave three days. It's too much, I can't bear it yet.

Molly, Lestrade, and even Mycroft call or come by to check on me. Make sure I'm still sane, still alive. The term 'ok' cannot be used to describe me. I'm not ok. I'll never be ok. A piece of me was brought to life when I met Sherlock Holmes, and that piece of me died when he threw himself off the building. In killing himself, he killed me too. In my nightmares, I can still see the blood on the pavement, still feel his wrist in my hand as his pulse fades away.

It was a particularly bad nightmare that set things into motion. I was standing behind Sherlock on the ledge, screaming for him. I watched him lean forward. In the dream, I lunged for him, my fingers brushing his coat, and he was gone.

I was on the ground again, watching. He seemed to fall forever, and the sickening crack of him hitting the pavement woke me up. I wasn't sure whether I actually screamed his name or not.

My stomach turned, and I clapped my hand over my mouth while stumbling to the bathroom. I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet, pain ripping through me. I couldn't keep going through this. It hurt too much. Pain seared through my stomach again, and I let out gasping sobs. This had to be it. I was dying. No one could live through this.;

Dimly, I heard the bathroom door open and a familiar voice yelling "John!" Someone dropped onto the floor beside me, checking my pulse. I tried to will them away, I was done. I didn't want to do this anymore.

"John, it's me, Sherlock. It's ok now." It was his voice. It sent mind blowing waves of pain through my mind and my body. I realized that it must be Sherlock, waiting for me on the other side. This quieted my mind, but the pain still tore through my body.

"We have to get you to a hospital," he said. "No…" I moaned quietly, not sure whoever it was heard me. I gagged, and the person with Sherlock's voice propped me up over the toilet, supporting me with one arm. Over the sound of my retching, I heard the person yelling into the phone. "Just get an ambulance! God, please, I think he's dying, I just found him-" The voice cracked.I've never heard Sherlock's voice crack. I moaned in pain. Sherlock pulled me against him. "John. John. It's ok. Hold on, ok? Stay with me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please stay."

I found the strength to open my eyes. The pale skin. The smell. The curly dark hair. Slowly, I looked up into the eyes of the worlds only consulting detective. He slapped me. "God damn it! I'm real! I'm alive! John, stay with me!"

My already hard breathing sped up. Sherlock…alive?I couldn't….I…I was falling…

The first thing I saw when I woke up was Sherlock Holmes. He was sitting in a chair beside my hospital bed, stroking my hand. He looked up at me, pain evident in his eyes. "John, I'm sorry…"

"It wasn't a dream." He smirked. "Hardly." I stuttered, "But…you…"

"Shh. John. There's time for explanations later. Rest now."

"Don't leave. Stay," I pleaded with him. He gently touched my face, leaning his head against my shoulder. "I will. I won't ever leave again."