This is set on Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat's version of Sherlock.
Set in 2014, about 2 1/2 - 3 years after Sherlock fall. It's 2 months after Sherlock's return, but something is missing...

July 3rd.

Sherlock had been home for 2 months now. After about three years of hiding, he thought it might be safe for him go back to Baker street. Everyone was surprised, thrilled and a little sad to see Sherlock alive once again; things like that usually create a mix in the emotions. Sherlock was glad he was back, everything was back to normal; although John was acting a little strangely, he decided to dismiss it due to his sudden return.

He was shooting the wall once more out of sheer boredom. Lestrade was aware Sherlock was back; as was most of Scotland Yard, but yet, Lestrade still didn't summon him to a case. Sherlock knew there was actually interesting cases that needed to be solved. He read in the paper about three 16-year-old friends: Paul, George and John, who dropped dead suddenly at a shopping mall without a single scratch. Seemed a little easy, but it would be good to ease back into things.

Taking matters into his own hands, He dropped the gun and stood up, grabbing his coat and scarf. Halfway down the stairs, he ran into John.

"Where are you off to?" John asked, clearly just coming back from an afternoon walk.

"Lestrade. I want a case," Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs before turning back to face John, "You coming?" He gave the slightest hint of a smile as John trotted back down the stairs to follow Sherlock outside.

"Taxi!"

Hardly any words were spoken during the taxi ride, both of them just looked out their window.

"I really missed you, Sherlock," John commented out of the blue.

Sherlock looked down at his hands, "I did it to save you. I hated the idea of leaving everything behind, but I couldn't let you die. I couldn't let Moriarty win," Sherlock's hand slid down beside him, resting on the seat, as he looked out the window, thinking of that day at St Bart's, thinking of the guilt he felt of leaving his friend behind. He turned back to see John had grasped his hand and brought it up to his lips, kissing Sherlock's pale knuckles.

"You're here now; that's all that matters. I swear, if you ever leave me again…" His voice trailed off as he placed Sherlock's hand back down. "It would destroy me." He softly spoke as he looked down at Sherlock's fingers, playing with them before shyly whispering, "I love you."

Sherlock mentally sighed with relief. He was jumping with joy in his head at the three words his friend had just muttered, almost as if it were too good to be true.

"I love you too, John."

John looked up at Sherlock with a silly little grin in his face, an expression that reminded Sherlock of a child in a candy store.

Sherlock smiled, nothing else needed to be said; he had already said what he needed to say.

All was well, until he saw the cab driver give Sherlock a look of pity and disgust through the review mirror. He gave a scowl back at him, bringing John to notice.

"Mind your business, mate! We're not the only gays in London!" John said in an aggressive tone. Sherlock's grimace turned into a smirk as he turned to John and looked into his lustful eyes. Finally, after years of waiting and denial, he could finally have the only thing his heart desired. John had finally said what he's been waiting to hear for so long.

The cab driver didn't even acknowledge John's words and said nothing, looking back to the road towards Scotland Yard.

Once they arrived, Sherlock made sure he didn't tip the rude driver and they went inside. A couple of floors up, they ran into Sally, who scrunched her nose up in repugnance at Sherlock as he strode past her.

"Morning, loony" She said, like it was any other day all those years ago. She felt mad at Sherlock for what had happened

"Ah, Sally, how I've missed your lovely comments," Sherlock told her sarcastically. He sniffed quickly, "Still sleeping with Anderson, I see. I won't last." He inhaled once more, "He's also having sexual relation with the woman at the front desk" he gave her one of his fake smiles as he told her.

Sally's eyes lit up with surprise. She scowled at him, her eyebrows knitted together; John stepped out of her path just in time as she stormed down the corridor.

"Is Anderson really having it off with the receptionist?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked and stared straight down the corridor "No. I just said that throw her off," John smiled widely as they got to the DI's door.

They entered Lestrade's office, Sherlock sat down straight away, John joining him on the other seat, and looked straight at the Detective.

"Why haven't I been given a case?" He asked.

Greg gave Sherlock one of his usual lopsided smiles, "Nice to see you drop by, Sherlock."

Sherlock wasn't amused; he sat there until the DI answered his question.

Lestrade sighed, looking at his intertwined fingers resting on the desk, suddenly showing clear signs of sadness and pain, "I wanted you to have some time off; to get used it being a bit different." Sherlock looked at John; they were both a bit confused, which was rare.

John shuffled in his seat "Different? Since Sherlock's been back, it feels the same; like nothing's changed" He told the detective, who was still looking down at his hands. Sherlock nodded in agreement with John,

"Yes, I fail to see much change since I've been away. I admit, you have a few more age lines and Mycroft is starting to grey and get fatter; but everything's fine."

Lestrade looked at him with wide eyes, "You can't be serious, Sherlock. He was your best friend."

It was Sherlock's turn to look shocked; suddenly, thoughts were whizzing through his head.

"What are you talking about?" John asked.

Suddenly realising, Sherlock looked at John and studied him as much as he could. John's eyes were pleading for an answer, yet they looked dull and out of colour. They weren't the same dark blue eyes Sherlock had fallen in love with.

"Sherlock, what's going on? I don't understand." John pleaded.

Sherlock stood up and started running down the hallway towards the exit. He was too focused to notice if anyone was trying to talk to him or grab his attention. His main aim was to get to the flat as quickly as possible, his coat flowing behind him and John just on his heels as he headed straight for 221B.

Just outside the Yard, Sherlock hailed a taxi, which John got in just in time before it drove off. No matter how hard John tried, no matter how many questions he asked, Sherlock ignored him and kept his view directly out the window, as if John wasn't there. He was too deep in thought to even acknowledge his friend. He looked at the people going home from their jobs as 5pm came near. Finally, John gave up on trying talking to him and sat there, also looking out his window; occasionally glancing at Sherlock.

Entering 221B as quickly as he could, he brushed past Mrs Hudson and ran upstairs, "Sherlock, what on eart-"

"Can't talk now Mrs Hudson," He rudely snapped at her as he continued his journey upstairs and into the sitting room.

John stood beside him with his hands on his knees, puffed out, "Either you've worked out, or I am getting very unfit" he heavily breathed as he tried to get his breath back.

"It's probably all the jam and tea cakes you've eaten" Sherlock commented unconsciously, not taking his eye off the room. He spun around, looking and taking in every detail of it.

"Sherlock?"

He was distracted by Lestrade standing at the door, a folder in his hand. He had followed them in the police car, since they were so kind enough to leave without him(!)

He walked in the living room, not taking his eyes off Sherlock's.

"Look, Sherlock, I understand you're having difficulties accepting it, so I brought this," Lestrade handed Sherlock the folder. "It might help things sink in."

Sherlock opened the folder; his eyes glistened with water as he read the text. He face was almost expressionless but John was sure Sherlock's knees were about to buckle any time soon.

"What? What is it?" John asked softly with concern as he looked at him, wonder and confusion in his eyes; why was Sherlock acting like this?

Sherlock threw the folder on the table and tears began to fill his eyes more than before as he looked into John's.

"J-... John" He moved over to him, looking into his eyes closer and deeper. Tears were starting to flow freely.

"Don't do this. Please. Sherlock, what's wrong?" John pleaded. He sounded as if he was about to start crying just because Sherlock was; but John wanted to help him, not make it worse.

"You're-" His voice caught on itself, "You're not..." Sherlock couldn't get himself to say it. He felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder, showing support. Sherlock placed a hand on his; he knew he must have looked crazy to the detective.

Sherlock finally got the courage the breath to say it. "You're not real, John. You're gone." His voice hitched with every word.

John backed away slowly, "No. Sherlock, you don't know what you're saying, I- I'm as real as anything!" He looked at the opened folder on the coffee table and shook his head "No. Sherlock; this can't..."

Full Name: John H. Watson, M.D
Birth date: 19:50, 7 July 1971
Age: 43
Address: 221b Baker St, Marylebone, W1, London, England.
Occupation: RAMC Doctor, Physician
Time/Date of death: 22:24, 5 April 2014
Cause of death: Self-inflicted bullet wound to left temporal lobe.
Location of death: Upstairs sitting room. 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, W1, London, England.
Time discovered: 22:31 by Mrs M. Hudson

"I'm sorry, Sherlock" Lestrade's voice rang, "Two an a half years had passed… He had a rough time copping. He thought you were never coming back."

Lestrade stayed silent for a few seconds, letting the information soak in.

"He was… Uh, found holding your violin to his chest…"

John finally understood why Sherlock was looking around the room. He now noticed it: nothing in the flat belonged to John. There were no cups, no clothing, not even his laptop; it had all been taken in for evidence or to be stored. And, he noticed, that if he looked closely, he could still see the blood stain on the carpet where his head lay less than three months ago.

"You're just a figment of my imagination, John"

John's head whipped back to face Sherlock, his eyes wider than they've ever been.

Lestrade moved back towards the doorway and watched as more tears flowed down the Consulting Detective's boney cheeks as he talked to the nonexistent man in front of him.

Sherlock's eyes caught John's, who was tearing up too. Raising a hand towards John, he silently whispered,

"Dr John Watson is dead," and his hand went straight through the chest of the hallucination he created and John started to fade, as if he were made of smoke.

"Sherlock, no!" He yelled, his voice piercing in Sherlock's ears, as he hopelessly grabbed at his flatmate's coat "No, I don't want to go! Please don't send me away, Sherlock. I lov..." His voice faded into nothingness as the John Sherlock used to know disappeared into thin air.

He was now by himself once again.

John Watson was gone forever, and never coming back.