Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did.

They were running, it was their last night together; it was always their last night together.

"Take my hand," he said and reached out to John, their fingers brushed and then three shots rang out and Sherlock fell. John yelled, made a move to catch his friend as he stumbled to the ground, but missed. And then there was blood, so much blood.

The dreams always ended the same way. There were variations of course, John's mind was more imaginative than Sherlock ever gave him credit for. But the ultimate outcome was the same, John on his knees beside a dying Sherlock, his hands covered in his best friend's blood.

Over the past year, Sherlock had been shot, run over, stabbed, attacked by the imaginary hound, blown up and he'd fallen from heights. He'd fallen from heights so many times, in a parody of that fateful day, where John had watched him fall for real. The one thing John never understood about these dreams, was why Sherlock never fell from the roof of Bart's. It was as if John's mind wouldn't allow him to imagine the real circumstances of Sherlock's death, so it invented all these other cruel ways in which Sherlock might have died and where John could never save him, never catch him before he hit the ground.

But there was one familiar thing John could count on, the dreams all ended at the same point. John was at that point now, knelt beside Sherlock who was trying to speak through the blood filling his lungs. John held Sherlock's face in his hands, willing him to live, to hang on for the ambulance, even though he knew it was futile.

"One more miracle. Please! For me, Sherlock." John had no idea who pulled these words from him, the words he'd spoken the one and only time he could bear to visit Sherlock's grave. He'd tried to tell himself he wouldn't say them the next time he had the dream, but he always did.

"It's just a magic trick John" The words Sherlock always said and then he breathed his last. In his dream, John wailed in despair, as the shrill noise of the ambulance siren pierced the night. In his bedroom, John shot bolt upright in bed with a yell, sweat pouring off him and the alarm screeching in his ear. He slammed his hand onto his phone to stop the noise.

Beside him his fiancé Mary sat up sleepily, her face betraying her concern.

"Oh sweetie, again?"

"Mmmhmm" John didn't trust himself to speak just yet. He lifted his trembling hands to his face and breathed loudly and steadily to stop the lump in his throat from turning to tears.

"And we were doing so well, the last one was a fortnight ago."

"I know" John whispered, his voice cracking. "So real, every time it's just so horribly … Oh god, Sherlock you bastard, why?" John thumped the bed hard and dashed a stray tear from his face. Mary moved to hug him and they held one another in silence for a while.

"I suppose I better get up and get to work" John said, his voice steadier now.

"Why not stay home today and tell them you're ill?"

"No, I've been ill too many times and they're likely to fire me if I keep doing this. Besides, it'll probably be good for me now that … well, you know. Ella said so, it'll keep me busy." John couldn't bring himself to say 'Now we've cleared Sherlock's name', as that would acknowledge that he'd reached the end of his association with the consulting detective. One of the few things that had kept him going since Sherlock's death had been his dedication, in proving to the world that Sherlock hadn't been a fraud and that Moriarty had been real. This was how he'd met Mary.

Several weeks after the funeral John had made a conscious decision not to go back to the way he'd been when he'd met Sherlock. If he did that, it was likely he'd be another ex-military suicide statistic before the month was out. Instead he'd placed ads, on the internet, in the media, on the street, using the homeless network and telling anyone who'd listen.

"Wanted! Person, or persons who have been clients of Sherlock Holmes and can prove that their cases were not orchestrated by the consulting detective himself. Please contact Dr John H. Watson via his blog, or send correspondence to 221B Baker Street, London, NW1 6XE."

At first John had been inundated with comments and mail. Many had been genuine, but some had been horrible bile about his friend being a liar and a sick, twisted fraud. Some were from bored internet trolls who wanted to gloat about John's pain and insinuate that he and Sherlock had been lovers who'd scammed the world. But the worst had been those comments saying Sherlock deserved to die, not because he'd been a fake, but because he'd been gay, or a mentally ill freak. John vowed that once Sherlock's name had been cleared, he would ask Mycroft to trace the IP address of every perpetrator and John would think up a suitable revenge.

It was thanks to Mycroft that John had been able to give up work and dedicate his time to clearing Sherlock's name. Mycroft had paid the rent on John's new flat and 221B. This meant John could keep the Baker Street address for seeing any clients who wanted to help exonerate the detective, but he could also live somewhere that didn't constantly remind him of what he'd lost. John assumed Mycroft did this out of guilt for what had happened. The two men got on coolly, for the sake of the work, but otherwise, John had little contact with the elder Holmes, who he still blamed heavily for his loss.

It had been a few months into the work when Mary Morstan had sent him a blog comment from America.

"Sherlock Holmes found my father's killer after 20 years and returned a stolen legacy that was rightfully mine. I moved to the US with the money, but I will happily fly back to the UK to help clear this wonderful man's name. I was devastated to hear of his death."

John had met Mary in 221B and as soon as she'd sat opposite him, he'd fallen in love. Mary later told him the feeling had been mutual. The two had been inseparable ever since and she'd added money and resources to aid John in his work. After two years, they had the details of over a hundred cases where Sherlock couldn't possibly have invented the crimes, but had certainly solved them. A few months ago they'd presented the evidence privately to New Scotland Yard and then publicly to the world's media and Sherlock Holmes had become a hero once more. Mary, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly had been elated. Mycroft had been quietly pleased.

John had felt … numb. He thought he'd feel overwhelmed with emotion and that happiness would follow. He'd proposed to Mary that same day in an attempt to feel something and at the time it had given him the euphoria he'd been craving. But the day after, he'd felt numb again and he realised what that feeling was now. Sherlock's name had been cleared, John had no more need to see clients, to re-live Sherlock's adventures, to write and talk about his best friend, to work towards a goal that involved the great Sherlock Holmes. John would have to say a proper, final goodbye to Sherlock and he would give anything not to have to do that.

He didn't regret his proposal to Mary, not in the least, but he realised the gesture had been an attempt to replace the thrill of the work with the thrill of romance and the hope of having something to look forward to in the future. Now he knew how Sherlock had felt and why he'd shunned relationships; it just wasn't the same.

John kissed his fiancé, sighed and got out of bed with a groan. He rolled his shoulders back and winced. He'd half expected his limp to return after Sherlock had died, but his brain had a sense of irony. This time it had been the actual wound in his left shoulder that had begun plaguing him and on the worst days, it was making his hand tremble once more with the pain.

Mary rolled over to go back to sleep and John began to walk to the bathroom when the phone went off again. It took John a second to realise that it wasn't his alarm and that someone was ringing him. He made a move to answer it but, thinking John had already left the room, Mary rolled over and picked it up.

"Hello, John's phone, Mary speaking … erm, well he's due in work today, but … yes, well he's here I can pass him on" 'Greg', she mouthed as she passed John his mobile.

Lestrade had been good to John after Sherlock's death. He'd been the only officer who hadn't believed the lies Moriarty had told, but for his complicity in bringing Sherlock in on so many cases, he'd been demoted to Detective Sergeant, whilst an investigation took place. Despite this, he'd helped a lot with the quest to clear Sherlock and now the Consulting Detective was exonerated, the investigation into Lestrade's conduct had been dropped and he'd been re-instated as a Detective Inspector. He sometimes consulted John on cases, much to Anderson's disgust, as the forensics officer thought that bringing John in was an affront to his medical expertise. John fully expected Lestrade to be calling about a case, but John was due in the surgery today and was prepared to tell him he wouldn't be able to make it.

"Hi Greg, what is it?"

"Hey mate, listen, you need to come in."

"What? Why? I can't. Wednesday to Friday are my days at the surgery remember. And I can't afford to get fired cos, well, you know what next week is." John shivered slightly at the thought of the third anniversary of Sherlock's death. "Me and Mary need to be out of London for that day. I need the money for the holiday and … "

"John, this is about that day, I, well I don't know how to tell you this over the phone, so that's why I need you to come to the station. Interview rooms, third floor."

"Greg you're worrying me, what's so important that …?"

"Don't be worried, but Mycroft, Molly and Mrs Hudson are all on their way, he needs … sorry, we need you too."

"He? Who? Mycroft?"

"What?"

"You said 'He' Greg, who do you mean?" John's voice was trembling now. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach that heralded fight, or flight. John didn't know whether to be scared of the thoughts invading his mind, or hopeful.

"Look John, just tell the surgery you've been summoned to Scotland Yard on government business, I'll get Mycroft to call them as well. I'm sure they can't argue with the British Government."

John snorted. "Who can Greg?" His voice sounded unsteady in his ears.

"John, don't worry, ok? It's to your advantage that you do this. I'll see you shortly." He hung up. John stared at his phone, only breaking his reverie when Mary spoke.

"What's all that about?"

"I've no idea, some revelation waiting for me at Scotland Yard, but I'd better go love." John grabbed an armful of clothes, headed to the bathroom and within 15 minutes was showered and dressed. He returned to the bedroom to find Mary sat reading and kissed her goodbye. "It's so odd, but I like Greg being all mysterious. I feel" He inhaled deeply, searching for the right words "alive all of a sudden." John grinned and Mary grinned back at him.

"See you later sweetie." But, as John left, Mary's grin faded to a frown. She knew exactly what awaited John at Scotland Yard and she had a horrible feeling that it could spell the end of their relationship. It all depended on how John Watson felt about white lies.