A/N: So this is one of my post-RBF fics. The other is much longer and I'm still working on, but be on the lookout for 1000 Paper Cranes sometime in the near future. But back to the fic at hand. I wrote this for an assignment and I'm not sure if this is my revised version or not, but I can't find any other one and I wanted to post it. So enjoy.

Then, off to his left, someone started to whistle and John whipped around, so sure that it was the person he was looking for, but no one was whistling anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of something that he hadn't realized he had been looking for. A shock of dark curls zipped past in between the faces that didn't matter. It was taunting him, certainly. A bounce of curly hair here, a glimpse of sharp grey eyes there and a familiar silhouette ascending the stairs on the other side of the room.

John rushed off to follow, pushing people out of his way and only receiving mild rebukes for his actions. Upstairs, there were just as many people and the band was situated in a corner, playing something serene. No one there was right either. It took every bit of strength in John's mind not to cry out in frustration. How hard could it be to find one person? One person that was surely in the room. He'd just come up the stairs, not a minute before John himself. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. This was a nightmare and he just wanted it to be over. He wanted to go home, curl up in a cozy sweater by the fire and pretend everything was fine. That, however, was not an option. He was on a mission.

Steeling himself for the inevitable disappointment, John froze when an oh-so familiar hand tapped him on the shoulder and pressed a glass into his hand with elegant, violinist's fingers. He took a sip of the cocktail, sickly sweet with juice and alcohol, before turning around to face the person he'd been just missing all night long. This wasn't a nightmare anymore. For the first time in almost three years, he laid eyes on the face that had become most dear to him in the world. Of course, he'd had dreams like this, so he pinched himself and it hurt and he was still there. So John took one step forward, wrapped strong arms around the trim waist in front of him and buried his face in the familiar blue scarf and just breathed.

This was better than any of his dreams and fantasies of their reunion. In his dreams he'd woken up when he pinched himself and he couldn't smell or taste anything around him. For a moment, arms came up to wrap around him and fingers ran through his cropped hair and he could feel warm, moist breath on his neck. And the next moment the body in his arms began to drain away, like sand in an hourglass and John was left with his arms wrapped around a wish and his nose pressed into a memory. It was only then that he finally cried out, a gut-wrenching sob that felt as if it had started from his toes and gained strength as it forced its way up and out of his throat.

When John opened his eyes, all he could see was the stark white ceiling and all he could hear was the faint beep of a heart monitor. His fingers were tangled tightly in the crisp sheets and he was drenched in sweat. There was a wet spot on his pillow and everything fell back into place. Immobilized by injury and heartache, John slowly released his death grip on the bed linens as he let himself sag back against the bed. It was still dark in the room with only the moon shining in through a window so John tried to go back to sleep, relaxing each muscle group in turns just like he had been taught. After a while, though he was loath to admit it, the meditation technique had started to take effect. Just as he was dropping off, John would have sworn that he caught sight of a pair of grey eyes peering out from the shadows and thin, lightly callused fingers brushing his hair back. Probably another dream.

A voice, smoother than velvet, whispered into the dark and fell on unhearing ears, "I'll be home soon."

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