It was late afternoon and John was about to take his daily nap when he heard a short knock at the door.

"Come in!" he shouted, but the door did not open. He yelled again, but there was still no response.

"Bloody kids," he mumbled as he tried to settle into his armchair. Well, not his. Technically, it was Sherlock's, but John had found that it made him less likely to have nightmares from his PTSD – the chair reminded him of Sherlock and the memories that he had with him, and that calmed him enough to fall asleep.

He was just about to drop off when he heard another noise coming from the door – the doorbell this time. It rang three times before Mrs Hudson said anything about it.

"John!" she shouted up the stairs, not wanting to disturb John by barging into his room. She knew how tetchy he got at this time in the afternoon. He had always been out and about on cases in the afternoon, but that had stopped with Sherlock's death. "John! There's someone at the door – I think it's important!"

He doubted that it was, but forced himself to get up and make his way down the stairs. His walking stick rested by the door of the flat; after Sherlock died, he had started needing it again. He had been right – his limp was psychosomatic. Then again, Sherlock had never been wrong. Except when he had called himself a fraud. John would never believe him – Sherlock was a hero, and that was all there was to it. He felt a lump forming in his throat as he thought about his best friend. Not wanting to break down there and then, he grabbed his stick and hobbled down the stairs. Whoever was at the door would be some sort of distraction from his thoughts.

As he made his way down the stairs, something hard kept rattling in his inside jacket pocket. It took him a minute to realise what it was. His gun. He had kept it there since Sherlock jumped – he used to take it on cases all the time. In fact, it was the gun that he used to save Sherlock on the very first case they worked on together. Oh, if only he could go back to that day.

John debated going back upstairs – the knocking had stopped, and he really didn't have the time or effort to deal with kids playing their silly games. He was about to turn around and stumble back to the living room of the flat when a sharp, clear knock came from the other side of the door. It sounded important.

John wrapped his hand around the door handle, using it for support as he prepared himself to face whoever was at the door. He would not shout at the children, he would be calm – they were only kids, after all. They meant nothing by it. Just tell them not to do it again. Simple.

Pulling open the door, he was glad for its support as he looked up at the figure standing at his front door. No, their front door. But that wasn't possible…

The person in the doorway towered over John, but not enough for him to feel uncomfortable. The height difference almost felt… normal. The black coat buttoned up tightly around the man's body was complemented by the blue scarf, the man's trademark. But that was the one he had seen splattered with blood two years ago, when his best friend had fallen to his death. He remembered it clearly, but the memory was a painful one – Sherlock hitting the floor with a sickening crack, John seeing the blood drained from the man's face, instead covering his eyes as the hospital staff rolled him over to take him away. How was that same man now standing in front of him, seemingly unhurt by the entire event? He'd been dead for two years; it wasn't possible.

That was when Sherlock turned round, and John realised that he was wrong. The man that stood before him was not the same man he had known before the Fall. The two year wait had changed him too. Sherlock looked at John with a pained expression in his eyes, and opened his mouth to speak but no words escaped. John couldn't respond. This couldn't be happening. It was just a dream. He'd wake up in a minute and everything would be different. Sherlock would still be dead. He would still have PTSD. Everything would go back to his new normality.

"John," Sherlock uttered, looking almost as shocked as John did. "You're still here."

"Of course," John replied, swallowing hard. This must be another hallucination, though they had never been this vivid before.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Sherlock made no effort to walk through into the flat, and John didn't move to let him. Keeping the hallucinations out was best – he found that they would stay with him for days on end if he didn't, with disastrous consequences.

"Sorry for what? You're just a hallucination, just like the rest of them. None of you can bring back Sherlock, so why would you care to be sorry for what he did? You're all just my side effects."

"John," Sherlock whispered, shocked to hear of John's visions. His PTSD must have gotten really bad while he'd been away. "It's me. Sherlock."

"That's what they all say," John replied sadly, taking one final look at Sherlock before closing the door and walking back into the flat. Unfortunately, he was met by Mrs Hudson before he was able to return to his armchair.

"John, dear? Who was that? Not another one of those pesky kids, I hope," she muttered.

"No." John took a deep breath. "It was just another of the hallucinations. I think it's because I'm tired – I'm going to take a nap."

"All right, dear," Mrs Hudson said, leaving John to walk back up the stairs to his armchair. She was about to walk past the flat door when she noticed that John had left it slightly ajar. He obviously was tired.

She scuttled to the door and was about to close it when she saw a figure dawdling outside the flat.

"Excuse me?" she mumbled, not opening the door any further. "Could you not stand directly outside the flat door please? This door is always in use, you know."

"I do apologise, Mrs Hudson."

How did this person know her name? She was sure she recognised the voice, but it couldn't be him, could it?

"How do you know my name?" she asked quietly.

"Open the door, Mrs Hudson."

She did as she was told, and almost fainted at the sight. Sherlock was here, although she wasn't quite sure why.

Sherlock reached out to support Mrs Hudson as she swayed with the shock.

"You don't get hallucinations too, do you?" Sherlock asked. If Mrs Hudson told John, he'd have to believe her.

"No, dear, but… how?" She was utterly stumped, and still felt rather faint.

"All to be told in good time," Sherlock answered. "Now, may I see John? I believe I have some explaining to do."

Mrs Hudson nodded, leaning against the wall for support while she led Sherlock into the living room of 221B.

John turned around as he heard the door open, and was about to start complaining at the visitor when he stopped, shocked that Mrs Hudson was beside the hallucination.

"What do you want, Mrs Hudson?" John asked, choosing to ignore the hallucination.

"I'd like to introduce you to your best friend," she answered. John couldn't quite believe his ears. Was she joking? Did she think that Sherlock's death had been funny?

"My best friend is dead."

Sherlock flinched when he heard the words escape John's mouth, but didn't say anything.

"Then why is he standing beside me?" she went on, pointing at Sherlock.

"Wait… You can see the hallucination too?"

"I'm not a hallucination!" Sherlock snapped.

"That's what they all say!" John retorted. "Every single bloody one of you says that. I just can't believe you any more!"

Sherlock wanted to reply, but couldn't think of any words. He hadn't realised that John's condition had become this bad, didn't think that it could get so bad.

"Mrs Hudson, are you sure you don't need a nap too? Hallucinations are usually brought on by lack of sleep," John stated. Medical facts reassured him; he was not going crazy. He was just tired, as was Mrs Hudson.

"I'm sure," she said, trying to keep calm. How could John not believe that his best friend was right here, in the flesh? She didn't know how or why he had come back, but he had. Sherlock was home, and John had to believe it.

"John, why don't you believe me? Is it because I hurt you?" Sherlock asked, not really sure about the concept of feelings but trying to understand nonetheless.

"I don't know!" John moaned, suddenly standing up and pacing around the room. "I don't know any more, okay?"

Mrs Hudson wanted to comfort John, but knew it wasn't the best idea to do so right now, so let him continue pacing. He couldn't be as bad as Sherlock when it came to breaking things, could he?

John walked around, confused as to what to think. Should he be delighted that his friend was back from the dead? Angry that it had taken him two years to emerge? A mixture of both?

"I don't know!" John shouted again. "If you are Sherlock, and not one of my hallucinations…"

"Which I'm not," Sherlock cut in, earning him a sharp nudge from Mrs Hudson.

"Shut up!" John screamed. "Why have you taken so long to come back? I've been like this for two whole years, Sherlock. Two bloody years. It's gotten worse with every single day. Some days I've contemplated doing the same thing you did. Other days I almost decided on a gun. And now you decide to return out of the blue?"

"I was trying to protect you," Sherlock protested.

"Protect me from what, Sherlock? You forget that I was a soldier; I think I know how to protect myself."

Mrs Hudson took the short break in the conversation – or argument, she hadn't decided – to scurry out of the room. She'd come back later, when they had resolved their differences. It was just a little boys' tiff.

"I don't even know why I'm talking to you. It's not like you're listening."

"I am, John. I promise. You don't know how hard it was to keep myself away from you, but I had to. I had to protect you."

"If it was so hard to keep away, why did you? Why stay away if you knew the pain I was in?"

"I was trying to…" Sherlock trailed off as John strode towards him.

"Don't you dare say you were trying to protect me." John threatened him with a fist.

"Protection is key to survival, John, especially in your case."

"Especially in your case, my arse," John commented, before swinging a punch into Sherlock's unsuspecting face. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Sherlock stumbled to the floor, clutching his face in agony. John definitely knew how to punch. He slowly crawled to the nearest chair and tried to regain some sense of balance before getting up.

"John, I can explain." Sherlock desperately wanted to calm John down, but nothing he was doing seemed to be helping.

"I don't want you to explain! I want you to get out of my life! None of these hallucinations are going to help me, including you!" John felt himself tearing up, but he blinked back the tears.

"I'm not a hallucination, John!" Sherlock shouted back. "If I was, would you have been able to punch me?"

That thought confused John. He was sure that this Sherlock was a hallucination, but there was a point to the statement it had just made.

"I don't know!" John whined, tears beginning to stream down his face. "I don't know what to believe any more!"

He stormed around the flat a bit more, throwing up papers and old books like they were nothing but piles of rubbish. A lot of it was rubbish, to be fair – old case notes John could never bring himself to type up, the occasional business card for the Consulting Detective of 221B Baker Street… They just brought more tears.

As he was barging his way through the flat, the object in his jacket pocket began to thump against his chest. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of that escape before?

Unzipping his pocket, his fingers closed around the handle of the gun and he brought it out in front of him, pointing it straight at Sherlock's head. Sherlock was too surprised to react, and couldn't even get his own gun out. He'd left it with Mycroft, thinking that he wouldn't need it to meet John.

"Get away from me. Get away from me or I'll shoot."

Sherlock knew that John wasn't joking, and quickly walked backwards to the other side of the room.

"If you're a hallucination, you'll come closer again. If you're real, you'll stay where you are. Make your choice."

Sherlock almost felt scared. He had heard these kinds of words from people before, but not from someone like John. No, these words came from psychopaths, criminals like Moriarty.

"You're real?" John asked, his voice faltering for just a minute as he realised that his best friend was squatting just a few metres away.

Sherlock took a chance and replied. "Yes, John. I'm alive."

"I seriously want to punch you right now," John commented, lowering his gun but not putting it back in his pocket.

"Go ahead." Sherlock chuckled at the thought, and John smiled at the thought of getting his best friend back.

John walked towards Sherlock, and Sherlock had the sense to stay where he was. John had personal space boundaries, and now was definitely not the time to intrude upon them.

"Hallucinations, John? You really missed me, didn't you?"

John nodded, before realising what Sherlock had said.

"They all say that too. I imagine you coming back and that's their reaction every single time."

"I guess you just know me too well," Sherlock said quickly, not wanting John to go back down the track of hallucinations. Why had he brought it up?

"No," John replied. "That's the thing. I don't know you too well. You've been out of my life for two years, and you died when I believed you couldn't. I don't know you at all."

John backed away from Sherlock, but Sherlock stepped forward, keeping just a small distance between them.

"Hallucinations aren't based on what I know about you. They're based on what I make up. You're just the same as the others – something I've made up to try and combat the pain. I have to say, this one has been the best so far. I almost believed it. Almost."

"John."

"Such a vivid hallucination. So close to gaining my belief, taking away my pain. But not quite."

"John, I promise I'm not a vision."

John ignored Sherlock's comments. He wasn't even sure anyone else could hear them, so why pay attention to something that wasn't really there?

"All this hallucination has done has brought more pain!" John screamed. "I believed that you were actually here, after all this time, and now it's all come crashing down again. I've had enough!"

Tears flowed down John's face freely, and he made no attempt to brush them away.

"John, I promise."

"Shut up!" John bellowed. "Don't you get it? You're not real, I know that. Once I realise, you vanish. That's the system, remember?"

"I can't vanish. I'm real."

John sighed, tapping his fingers along the edge of the gun as he tried to regain a sense of calm.

"Look, if you are real, get out of here now."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his naturally inquisitive mind working as he tried to work out John's problem.

"Just do it. You'll regret it otherwise."

Sherlock was about to get up and leave, but something tugged at him to stay.

"Fine. Stay. It's your pain, not mine."

Sherlock didn't know what that meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

John took a deep breath before walking into the middle of the living room. He lifted the gun so he could see it clearly, and examined it thoroughly. He liked this gun. It was a replica of one he had used in Afghanistan. It was a good gun. Nice quality, too. It wouldn't hurt at all.

Sherlock's mind was working overtime to discover what John was plotting. He had already threatened to shoot him, and if he had really wanted to he would have done it by now. Sherlock wasn't being killed today. So who was?

Suddenly, the realisation of what was about to happen dawned on Sherlock. Idiot. Why hadn't he noticed before? His mind was obviously out of shape, but that didn't matter. What mattered now was saving John, before it was too late.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, but John took no notice. The hallucination would definitely disappear after his next trick.

Lifting the gun to head height, John moved his arm so that the gun was pointing at the back of his head. He would escape the pain, and this was his method.

Sherlock looked at John in despair. He needed to get that gun out of his hand, but the only way to do that was to go behind him, which wouldn't work. A swift kick to the face and he'd be knocked out without even a chance to say goodbye. No. He wasn't saying goodbye just yet.

John placed the barrel of the gun on the back of his neck. It felt cold, but not enough to make him shiver. He'd contemplated this so many times, it almost felt normal to have it resting there.

"Don't worry, the safety's still on," John teased, and Sherlock winced. He sounded like a murderer, not the John he had come to know on their cases.

"Oops. Maybe I accidentally clicked it off. My bad," John continued, smirking. Getting rid of a hallucination was good, but he half hoped this was Sherlock – he'd get to know his pain for real. Except this time, the dead person wouldn't be coming back.

"Stop this. Please," Sherlock begged. "I can't bear to watch you do this."

"And yet you could bear letting me watch you do the same?"

"I had a reason! I wanted to protect you!"

"And now I'm protecting myself from the hallucinations, from the pain you would cause if you ever did come back."

"But I'm here, John. Why don't you believe me?"

"Because you took two years to come back. Two years. Because you claim you were trying to protect me, but were nowhere in sight when I tried to copy your fall. Because you don't know me, and I don't know you. Because you're no longer my best friend, and you never can be."

That last sentence had hurt John, but he couldn't take it back. Besides, he could hardly hurt a hallucination's feelings, could he? His own were soon to be gone, so who could he hurt?

"John. Stop this. Please," Sherlock begged, repeating the words over and over as he searched for something to say.

"The pain I have felt will be dealt with this way, and all of the hallucinations will vanish. I will finally be with Sherlock again."

Sherlock felt a few tears trickle down his cheeks. John was already with him, but he was too delirious to understand – he didn't realise that Sherlock was kneeling in front of him.

"Wait!" Sherlock called out, and John looked at him momentarily. "If you don't believe I'm real, fine. Just think about how Mrs Hudson will cope without you here. She needs you more than you need her."

"She'll be fine. Slightly heartbroken, yes, but she's always been one to get emotional. She'll move on, just like I tried to, only she'll be successful."

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" John tormented, turning round so that Sherlock could clearly see the barrel of the gun against his neck. "You had your way of escaping this world, and I have mine. I'm coming to see you, Sherlock."

Sherlock was crying now, but couldn't let John go that easily.

"You don't need to!" Sherlock cried. "I'm here, I promise."

John scoffed, placing his finger firmly on the trigger of the gun. Sherlock knew he didn't have much time.

Lunging across the room, Sherlock did his best to move John's arm away from his neck without shifting his finger too hard on the trigger. Swiftly, he grabbed John's arm and tore it away from his head. However, he had not been expecting John's next move.

John twisted his arm free of Sherlock's grasp and spun the gun round to face Sherlock once more.

"I'm going to say this one more time. Move away or you get shot. You or me. Your choice." John never flinched as the words drooled out of his mouth.

Sherlock didn't want to move away. A life without John would be horrible, and he'd rather die than live to see it. Then again, how would John cope without Sherlock – this time for real? He was so conflicted. John's life, or his? They would both be equally tormented with pain and suffering, but who would come out of it better? Who could survive another round?

Sherlock stayed where he was for a moment, debating whether or not to move.

John stared at the man in front of him. Was it possible for him to be real?

Should Sherlock move and save John? Was it really saving him, or just increasing his pain?

Was this really the escape John craved for? Was it worth it?

Who was more important to Sherlock: himself or John?

Sherlock wanted to stay where he was but something dragged him backwards slightly. He hoped that John hadn't noticed, but he had. Of course he had. He had spent years on cases with possibly the world's most observant person – he wasn't going to miss anything.

"Thank you for making my decision."

The noise of the shot echoed round the flat as two bodies fell to the floor. A scream rose from outside the flat door, and soon Mrs Hudson rushed in. Her screams increased as she took in the scene.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, dear, are you all right?" she said quickly, stumbling over to the body on the floor. She shook its shoulders but there was no movement.

Mrs Hudson let out a whimper as she realised what had just happened. She never should have left these two alone. Sherlock coming back had been enough to anger John, she should have known that.

She scurried across the room and searched for John's phone. It was in his coat pocket, which he had slung untidily across the back of his armchair. After fumbling around on the phone for a bit, she managed to find Lestrade's number.

"Hello?" Lestrade answered.

"Lestrade!" Mrs Hudson said, whimpering slightly.

Lestrade knew how much Mrs Hudson had meant to Sherlock, and could tell when she was frightened. "Mrs Hudson, are you okay?"

"Me? Yes, I'm fine, dear. Sherlock, on the other hand, seems to have…" She trailed off. "Lost consciousness, should we say?"

"What do you mean? Sherlock's dead."

"John's shot him, Lestrade! He came back from the dead and John's shot him!"

"Okay. Calm down." Lestrade wasn't sure he believed her, but was going to check up on her anyway. She was getting old – she might just be confused. "I'm going to send an ambulance over, and I'll be following in a police car. Can you see John anywhere?"

Mrs Hudson searched the room frantically, and her eyes eventually rested on John lying on the floor.

"Yes. He looks a bit shocked from the impact, but I think he'll be okay."

"Right. Stay away from him. Wait outside the front door. I'll be there as soon as I can." He was confused, but needed to help Mrs Hudson. Besides, if John had been firing shots, he needed a new therapist.

Mrs Hudson hung up and placed the phone on the table. She was just leaving the flat when a noise arose from the floor. She heard a body move.

"John? John, is that you?" she cried, edging back into the flat.

"No."

Sherlock.

"Sherlock? But…"

"Did he shoot?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I… I think…"

"Did he shoot!?" Sherlock shouted, and Mrs Hudson nodded sadly.

Sherlock rushed over to John, picking his limp body off the floor and dragging it to the sofa. His best friend, his blogger, his companion – gone. Gone because he had been too selfish to stay where he was. Gone because Sherlock couldn't bear the pain of living without him. But also gone because Sherlock knew John couldn't have survived much longer with the grief. Had he done him a favour by letting him shoot himself?

No.

His best friend was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

No tricks this time.

No happy endings.

John was gone.