Author's Note: This is my first published fic- yay! :D I would love to get reviews!

Please inform me if this perhaps makes you cry or at least get a bit teary-eyed, That was kind of my goal when I wrote this fic. Even if it IS a bit ridiculous. (Are you even reading these notes)?

Disclaimer: I do not own anything, nor do I make money off of this.

Enjoy!

Silence

"Right. So it was the cousin?"
"Obviously."
"Explain." Sherlock sighed but continued to produce his deductions to John. "There's a small rip on the coat's right sleeve, which was caused by the nail that was jutting out of the window frame- the very same window that he climbed into to commit the crime." Sherlock scowled and turned to Lestrade.
"Even you could have deduced that, Lestrade. You're not completely incompetent." Lestrade turned to John and gave a weak smile. "Thanks..." And with that Sherlock took John by the hand and the two left, headed back to Baker Street.

When they walked into the flat Sherlock grabbed John and placed a small, sweet kiss to his lips. "I love you so much, John." He whispered.
"I love you too."John sighed in content. When Sherlock came back after the fall, John had become accustomed to the new, loving Sherlock. Sherlock only had love for John. It made John feel warm inside and he hoped that it would never change. And they were happy.

John pulled Sherlock back to him, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Sherlock responded immediately, nipping at John's bottom lip and was rewarded with a gasp escaping John's lips. "You're amazing," John chuckled. Sherlock smiled under the kiss, grabbed John by the hips and pushed him towards Sherlock's room. (It was closest). John wouldn't have changed this for the world.

When John woke the next morning he found himself alone in Sherlock's room. He grabbed his phone off the bedside table and flipped it open.

MESSAGES

Text from: Greg Lestrade

Message:

Case

John sighed and got out of the bed, sloppily slinging his robe about his shoulders. He walked into the sitting room to find Sherlock laying in his usual position on the couch, eyes closed, fingers steepled, index fingers pressed to his lips. He looked so peaceful. (Or as peaceful as sherlock could possibly seem). If John didn't know better, he would have thought that Sherlock was sleeping. "Case, Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes shot open and before he knew it, John and Sherlock were out the door hailing a cab.

As soon as they got there Sherlock was jumping down everybody's throats, asking how they could be so dull and stupid. John didn't mind. This is how Sherlock always is when people of average intelligence cannot follow his ramblings. Lestrade scowled at Sherlock and started to ignore him completely, acting as if he wasn't even there, along with the others at the scene. But he would listen to John. John patiently waited for Sherlock to explain then translated to Lestrade. Nobody could speak Sherlock like John could. By the end of the day they had their man. John and Sherlock once again returned to Baker Street. They sat on the couch together and watched crap telly. John's head rested on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and rested his head on top of the shorter man's head. And they were happy.

John was completely fine. With Sherlock's help he no longer had his limp, psychosomatic or otherwise. Granted, his shoulder still pained him now and again, but he no longer had trust issues and his life was perfect. Everything with Sherlock was perfect. So it came as a surprise to John when he got a text from Mycroft, informing him that he had an appointment with Ella, his therapist, at 1:30.

"Sherlock, were you aware that Mycroft has made me an appointment with Ella today?" John asked the taller man. Sherlock bounded across the room to John from his favorite chair. "What? Why?" Sherlock demanded, eyes growing cold. "Haven't slightest." John replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Damn sod." John giggled, but it didn't phase Sherlock as he was now in deep thought. Probably trying to understand why Mycroft thought John needed to see Ella.

At 1:00 John and Sherlock were out on the street, walking to Ella's office. Something flashed in front of John and he immediately stopped. It was a daisy. Sherlock waved it at John again, clearly wanting him to take it. Coming from anyone else, John would have found it cliché, but this was Sherlock. Simple things Sherlock did had more meaning because 'simple' was not a usual thing for Sherlock. John took the flower and practically melted at the sheepish look on Sherlock's face. John grasped Sherlock's hand, entwining his fingers with Sherlock's and they continued down the street. John twirled the flower in his fingers and felt a smile creep onto his face. Even if he wanted to he wouldn't be able to wipe it away. Sherlock watched him as he twirled the flower and gave him a loving smile that reached his eyes, making them shine bright in a way that not even a case could bring about.

John walked into the office and sat down opposite Ella. "Hello, John." She greeted warmly. She was calm and patient, perfect for John if and when he needed to talk. Not that he really needed to now, but you can't exactly refuse or decline anything that comes from Mycroft, the bloody British government!

"Afternoon." John replied. "Haven't spoken in quite some time, John. How are things?" Ella asked. John looked out the window of the office to the sitting room and saw that Sherlock was entertaining himself by deducing everyone in the room. John smiled and turned back to Ella. "Everything is perfect." He chuckled, twirling the flower sherlock had given him earlier. Ella gave him a puzzled look then turned her head to look out into the sitting room, just as John had. Ella grabbed a clipboard and pen off her desk and started jotting down notes. John peeked at them. 'Twitch.' It read. John didn't understand- he wasn't twitching. "Now tell me, John," she said quietly, "what have you been doing since we last spoke?"
John considered this question then spoke. "Sherlock is back..." He sighed. Not because of worry or stress, but because there was no other way to express his feelings verbally. "He's... He's amazing. When he came back he made everything better. It was hell when he left. Life is now... Wonderful, to say the least." John smiled at Ella. Her eyes flashed and she had a strange expression on her face. She tried to hide it, but John had already seen. "What is it?" He asked. His brow was furrowed and a frown was set. "John..." Ella wrote something else on the paper then set it on the desk. When she sat back down she rested her elbows on her knees and leaned forward. "What have you been doing?" She asked again. "I... Wha- what do you mean? I've been with Sherlock." John stuttered. None of this made any sense. John looked out the window again. Sherlock was gone. "John." John turned back to Ella. "Sherlock died over a year ago." John frowned. "He didn't really die... He was just in the waiting room!" John turned his head and pointed out the window. "John," Ella looked at his hands, "what are you holding?" John looked down at his hands. "N- not- nothing..." It was true. There was nothing in John's hands. Not a flower, not anything. John scanned the floor, hoping that he had perhaps dropped it, though he had no memory of doing so. It was nowhere to be seen. John quickly looked out the window again. Sherlock was also nowhere to be seen. "Whatever you were holding was never there. Lestrade has not been ignoring Sherlock, John. Sherlock was never there to begin with." She whispered. Her face was controlled, but her eyes betrayed her. They were full of sadness. John's eyes shot back to the waiting room. "Sherlock..." He whispered.

Mycroft had taken John back to 221b. Sarah came by the flat, made sure that John took his pills, then left. John was finally alone. Mentally and physically.

John was back at 221b, that much was registered in his mind. He was back home... But this was not home. Sherlock was home. Sherlock was not there. Sherlock had been gone for over a year. Dead. John could not feel anything. Only his sorrow. The life he had lived with Sherlock was never real. And John was never happy.

Sherlock's voice had been nothing but silence.

John put his hands to his face and felt his cheeks burning. "Sherlock is gone..." He whispered to himself. Tears rolled down his cheeks and his body was wracked by silent sobs.