"No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please." He grabbed his wrist. No pulse. Oh God, he felt like he was going to be sick. " Please , let me just …" Sherlock was rolled onto his back. There was blood everywhere. He tried to stand. He had to stay with him. Sherlock couldn't leave. "Jesus, no. God, no." He sunk into someone's arms. He couldn't move. Sherlock was being taken away from him and he couldn't chase after him.

The scene was cleared and John was driven to the Yard to give his account of whatever the hell just happened. It was all a dream. That had to be the only excuse. There was no other explanation. Sherlock Holmes doesn't die, not in any reality that John is aware of. Why would this one be any different? John shook his head. Sherlock was not dead. This was a dream. It was all a dream and when he woke up Sherlock would be screeching on the violin or demanding another case. He would be alive and moving.

It was foggy, like a dream. None of it felt real. He didn't even remember taking a cab back to the flat. Teleportation. That happened in dreams.

Then John was in his chair, staring at the vacant one across from him. They hadn't kept him long. He wasn't capable of speech, at the moment. He was useless.

It's a dream, of course. It's one of those annoying ones where you know how it's going to end but you can do nothing to stop it (This one was going to end with the barrel of his gun to his head).

Which is why he ignored the steps on the stairs, announcing that someone had felt the need to check on him. Maybe it was a client, or more likely, a Mycroft.

Maybe it was the ghost of Sherlock, telling him to wake up now. That it was over. It was for a case and dream is over and he can bloody well wake up now . If it was a dream, he would tell him when he woke up. He would suck it up and fucking tell the man how he feels . If it all went to shit, then Sherlock would delete it. It'd be fine, really, if he still had the man's friendship. He never expected anything less but he needed to know that he was loved, in more ways than one, goddammit!

"John, I need you to listen to me very carefully."

John looked up from the seat to see Mycroft looming in the doorway. Two men in suits walked over, both with small cases.

"He's alive and you're needed."

After that, John heard nothing. Mycroft's mouth was moving, something was happening to his sleeve and his forearm was wiped with something cold and wet before a pricking sensation was felt. He knew what was happening, in an abstract sense of the term. They wouldn't kill him. A drug to mimic a death-like state? Possible. Something that looked like an overdose is what John would have done.

As his world started to black out around the edges, a bit of Mycroft's voice bled through; "… he's going to need you and seeing the state that you're in, people will easily believe that you did this to yourself. You would have known where his stash was..."v