A/N: Hello! Sorry to those of you who were reading my fanfiction "An Impossible Event" I had no inspiration for it anymore. But I have been working ahead on this one just to make sure I can complete it. Expect a chapter every Tuesday/Wednesday. Reviews, favourites or follows are appreciated! Thank you! Love you. x

It started about two months after Sherlock jumped, the darkness. John noticed it in the corners of his vision, but it continued to expand, and one morning he started to hear whispers. At first he couldn't decipher them they were just mumbles, but as soon as the darkness crowded to where he couldn't see out of the corner of his eye, the whispers got louder.

He remembered the first time he heard it it was two weeks ago at the surgery he was diagnosing a patient when he heard the voice say: How's your sister's drinking Johnny? Lets just say the patient was looked at by another doctor.

Even now the voice (that sounded startlingly similar to Jim Moriarty) chattered away in his ear, drawing his attention away from the patient he was trying to work on. The voice, he thought was probably his subconscious considering it kept whispering things like I'm a fake and goodbye, John, which are things Sherlock said, so shouldn't it be Sherlock's voice? But he didn't have an answer for the darkness slowly clouding his vision. He had called the optometrist to book an appointment, for tomorrow and hopefully find out what is causing it.

After his shift had finished at the surgery, he took a cab home and was greeted by Greg waiting outside 221B (he couldn't find the courage to leave) tapping his foot impatiently. Paying the cabbie and sliding out he called in greeting walking up the few steps.

"What brings you 'round here?" Making sure to face him completely.

"Well there's been a murder and since Sherlock is..." he trailed off. "You're the next best thing."

John shook his head. "Sorry Greg I can't...I'm not really at full capacity." He didn't want Greg to find out about his vision, until he knew what it was himself.

Greg let out a sigh and rubbed at his face, he really did look worn down and tired. Bags under his eyes, clothes rumpled, head tilted slightly to the side as if relieving pain. Wife is cheating again, John flinched at the voice and willed it to stop but it kept going. Been sleeping on the couch, not the most comfortable place to sleep; got a kink in his neck. Look at his clothes they're rumpled, been sleeping in them then. So wife is cheating and he knows but he's desperate and worried for his young child so he stays. John shouldn't be in awe from a voice but he knew he was gaping because Lestrade was giving him a look like he had several heads.

"John, are you alright considering...?" John laughed bitterly, if he only knew. 'Oh yeah Greg perfectly fine, other than my vision slowly fading and I'm hearing a voice that may or may not be Jim Moriarty talk to me in my head. Perfectly fine.'

"Of course I'm not, but who is?" Even Sally and Anderson looked regretful at his funeral. Greg nodded his head in agreement.

"But anyhow, sorry I can't be of any help, I really am not in full working mode physically and mentally." The voice giggled and he grimaced.

Greg sighed, again(he'd been doing that a lot lately). "Well give me a call when you're up for it, or you want someone to you know talk to." Plastering on a fake smile and promises of calls he'd probably never keep he went into the flat.

Putting the kettle on he grabbed two mugs and placed a teabag in each then silently cursed, he'd been doing that a lot lately; making tea for a non-existent Sherlock. It was probably the voice muttering in his ear making him think someone else was in the flat. The darkness surrounding the edges of his vision cut out where his cup was placed so he blindly reached for it in the general direction and ended up spilling it on the counter. He sighed.

Sleeping seemed to be the hardest it's when the voice became louder like tonight, he shut his eyes ready to go to sleep and the voice would startle him awake. Johnny, you never answered my question those weeks ago, how's your sister's drinking? What about Clara, how is she doing?

"Shut. Up." He said through gritted teeth. Oh now Johnny don't be that way, only trying to make conversation considering I'm dead and all.

He shook his head and pulled up the covers to his nose, he tried to sleep again. The voice seemed to quiet after that, but not too long until he felt cold fingers card through his hair; he shivered. The hand moved down his face leaving icy trails in their wake; they smoothed over his Adams apple and brushed his sternum. It felt as if there was ice flowing in his body instead of blood and the fingers didn't stop. Whatever it was moved the blanket and continued their trail down his body. The cold was now burning every cell in his body and he whimpered. Shivering his teeth started to chatter but he never opened his eyes, he didn't want to see what this thing was.

By now he figured his body was made out of ice, that he was just a frozen statue laying in bed. Maybe he would die of the cold, be reunited with Sherlock once again, they could solve crimes in paradise; he smiled at the thought. Sherlock would probably scoff and tell him there was no such thing as paradise and of course John would bite back his own reply 'Paradise is with you, therefore I would be in paradise.' John didn't know what he would say to that, maybe he would look shocked maybe even embarrassed or even...No that wouldn't happen.

DON'T IGNORE ME! Startled John sat straight up in bed eyes flying open, paradise trickling away with every harsh breath. Eyes focusing he could just make out a dark figure at the foot of his bed and he could see the steam leak out of his mouth in the cold air of his bedroom.

"Is this your doing?" He said gesturing to his eyes. The figure only smiled needle point sharp teeth glistening in the dark, he tried a different approach.

"Are you Jim?" This time the figure chuckled. No Johnny I only steal the voice of the man you speak of I am so much worse. The room seemed to drop 10 degrees and he grabbed the blanket, pulling it around him.

"Are you the devil?" The figure laughed. Close John Watson but not quite. He was surprised to hear his proper name, he tried again.

"D-demon?" The cold was making his teeth chatter uncontrollably making him stutter. Correct Johnny.

"But why are you here?" 'Why me?' Was the unasked question. I am the demon of Sorrow and you John Watson have ample amounts of sorrow residing in your soul.

The demon's voice had changed, it now sounded like velvet gliding by his ears and he almost forgot who he was talking to; his thoughts turned once again to Sherlock. The beautiful blue green of his eyes, the soft tumble of curls he would really have liked to touch and his cupid bow lips. But the image was fuzzy, fading in and out of view and he panicked. What if he never remembered? What if all the memories of Sherlock faded?

Something cold clenched his heart and he screamed.