This is after Reichenbach. John has decided to join the army again because his PTSD is clear and his shoulder is better. A few weeks after the fall a black fog came to London and engulfed it. Few people came out alive, and those who did had become insane. They had kept whispering to themselves about how the fog had told them that they were too boring to play "his" game. No one who has ever gone in the fog has ever come out. Luckily, John had been too overwhelmed to stay in London after the fall and had gone to Essex for the weekend. Now the fog is spreading around the world, no one is safe.

The sound of gunfire accompanied the screams of terror and pain. All around him, all John saw was death. He ran to help his friend Murray, who had just been shot in the chest.

"It's the fog!" Dimmock called from what sounded like far away but was actually really close to him. The fog did that to you. It distorted sound and images, one second you could be stitching up a patient and the next minute they started to spew blood from their eyes. John knows, it's happened to him before. He looked up to see it, the cloud of nothingness. If you concentrated hard enough you could see the figures of the demons that lurked inside. A small whisper sounded in John's ear. Hello John-y boy. Why don't you come in and play? John knew that it was the fog talking, but it had sounded like someone he knew. Shut up John, he told himself, He's gone and he's not coming back, so stop imagining him.

"John, we have to go!" Dimmock's voice distorted over John's ears. The wind had started to pick up and it was whipping sand into John's eyes. He couldn't leave his friend.

"I'm not leaving Bill!" John shouted over the wind, his voice bouncing over the empty expanse, the black cloud billowing closer. He looked back down at his friend and started to stitch up his wound. It wasn't too deep, it would heal. Dimmock pulled John away from Murray. John started thrashing and screaming for him to let go, but as he was being pulled away from his friend he witnessed as the cloud engulfed him and he heard an ear-piercing scream. John looked away, it was his fault, if only he had been quicker.

Back at the camp, John was sitting on his cot, his head in his hands. He sighed and rubbed his face, sitting here wouldn't help anything. He rummaged through his jacket until he found the worn picture of him and Sherlock. In the picture Sherlock has his I-Just-Solved-A-Case smirk on, his arm wrapped around John's shoulders. John had been ecstatic that he would have a picture of his friend.

Sherlock didn't like taking pictures. It was only because he they had just solved a quadruple murder that he had agreed to the photo. It took John awhile to convince Sherlock not to put the severed head in the photo. John smiled warmly at the picture in his hands. God, how he missed that madman. He hadn't known how important Sherlock was to him until he had seen his heart fall off of that building. No, John thought, I am not going to cry again, it's been three years damn it, it shouldn't affect him. His eyes, however, had other ideas.

He was at first surprised to feel the wetness on his cheeks, he hadn't cried once for Sherlock since the day he had joined the army. After hastily wiping them away he tucked the photo back in his jacket and strode out of the tent.

The darkness was suffocating, Sherlock thought to himself. It was absolutely dull here now that John was gone. Three years and no cases whatsoever. Lestrade and his force were completely useless, more than ever now. There came a sudden knock at his door.

"John-" he stopped mid-sentence, remembering that John wasn't here anymore, and he could never come back. He rose slowly to answer the door, not without first tying a scarf around his eyes.

There had been another fog near London, and John's squad was taken out of Afghanistan to check it out. Stepping of the plane he had expected to see a man in a billowing coat running towards him to recount all the murders that had happened while John was gone. But there was no one. John straightened his back and walked down the tarmac. If anyone had noticed the slight wetness in his eyes, they didn't mention it.

Being near London sent chills up his spine.

He took out the photo and wondered how anyone could have been this happy. From his hotel room he could see London. Yellow caution tape bordered the black fog surrounded the city, making it impossible to see if there was still anyone in there. He was reluctant to be near, but at the same time he felt the energy around the swirling mass pulling him in. He could barely see the sun, it was encompassed by the black storm clouds that had become a constant around London. John got ready for bed, going through the routine of showering and brushing his teeth. As he went to turn out the light he thought he saw the image of a man in a billowing coat, but when he blinked the man was gone.

As the dim afternoon light faded into pitch darkness, Sherlock stood at the edge of the fog, his blue scarf still wrapped around his eyes. He glanced in the direction of where he believed John to be, silently warning him against coming here. Then he turned and dissolved back into the mist.

Sherlock and John were chasing a criminal. He already knew how this would end. He has had many dreams like this before, but still, this one felt odd. They chased the criminal until they had cornered him in an alleyway. Slightly panting, John pulled out his handgun and pointed it at the man. Sherlock was already on the phone with Lestrade, who was late as usual. Before John could react, the man pulled out a gun and aimed it at Sherlock. But unlike his other dreams, John leapt to push Sherlock out-of-the-way. He felt a searing pain in his back, he had been shot. He fell to the ground, Sherlock looming over him and sobbing out his name. He grabbed John's gun and calmly shot the man between the eyes without even blinking. Sherlock leaned over John as he was dying and kissed him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

John woke up(as usual) screaming and covered in sweat. This dream had been different. All of his other dreams involved Sherlock dying. And he had never kissed Sherlock in his dreams either. Confused, John got up to take a shower. He glanced at the clock as he was walking to the bathroom. 3:00am, not bad, usually John couldn't even get this much sleep. He hadn't needed to during the war anyways. After he had turned on the shower and taken off his clothes, he stepped into the steaming water and let his mind relax. Strangely, his mind wandered to Sherlock. He imagined the kiss that they had shared in his dream. And he imagined more, what it would feel like, he wondered, to feel Sherlock's skin on his own? As realization settled over him he stopped and mentally slapped himself. What was he doing? This was Sherlock. He wasn't even alive anymore and John was getting off on him. Feeling disgusted with himself he stepped out of the shower to get dried off. That's when he noticed it. On the mirror, there was a note.

Don't go into the fog.

-SH

John stared at it for a moment, then took it as a cruel joke. One of his buddies must have put this in here to freak him out, he thought. Because, the first few months of him rejoining, he wouldn't stop talking about Sherlock. But as he looked closer at the handwriting, it was unmistakably Sherlock's. He took the post it off the mirror and took it to the other room. When he got to his jacket he searched for his picture. It wasn't there. John started to panic. He upturned everything in his room. Then he looked down at the note. With a sudden realization John threw on his clothes and ran out the door.

As he was running down the street he thought to himself. If Sherlock is telling me to not go into the fog, then that must be where he is, and he must need help. God, he's alive. Reaching the edge of the fog, he grew nervous. He had heard of many stories of the numerous people who went into London and never came out. Just as he was about to turn away a familiar voice spoke out.

"John?"

"John?" The question slipped out of the geniuses mouth. He knew it was wrong for him to send someone to give John the note, but he had to keep John safe. The idiot who put the note there had also taken John's photo, the one that was currently tucked inside of Sherlock's coat.

"Sherlock? Is that really you? Or is it the fog messing with me?" John's voice sounded pleading, Sherlock didn't want to cause John any more harm than he had done already.

"Yes John, It's me." An audible sigh of relief came from the other side.

"Well, ok then, will I be coming in or will you be coming out?"

"Neither."

"What?" John's voice cracked slightly with surprise.

"Well I can't come out and, as the note clearly states, you are not coming in." He added a silent obviously.

"Well that's too bad then," John said, "But I guess it's too late now." Sherlock spun around and felt John's warm chest. No, no, no this could not be happening.

"John," Sherlock croaked, "Please tell me that you are not right in front of me."

"Well it's sort of hard to see with all this fog but-"

"Close your eyes John, now."

"O-ok." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and led him through the smoke to where he knew 221 Baker Street was. He rushed John inside and pushed him against the wall. Sherlock took off his scarf and looked at him. He checked for injuries or any sign that he was possessed.

"Oi, Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" John inquired as he slowly opened his eyes, a blush creeping up his cheeks. Sherlock didn't answer, just pulled him up the stairs to 221B. Once he shut the door, Sherlock shoved John onto the couch.

"Stay here," he growled, "Unless you want to get yourself killed." He turned to leave, grabbing his scarf and tying it over his eyes on the way out. Without saying anything else, he shut the door behind him.

Hello everyone! This is my first published story so tell me what you think. Please don't be mean because I wouldn't be mean to you. Love you all!

Reviews are welcome!