This is written for BlueEyedPerceiver on Deviantart. They made this awesome picture that inspired this. Here's a link: art/Pulse-320797885
There was a tense pause.
John didn't dare breathe- couldn't- breathe because Sherlock was here- his detective had come back from the grave and why was He standing there staring at him like nothing was wrong when it was obvious that the only place that man could was in a six feet under, cold and dead and Sherlock was here but why did he look so happy, Sherlock was never that genuinely happy looking unless there was a case so why did he have that look in his eyes when-
Slow down, The logical part of John's mind told him. This is just like all of those other times. You're just going to wake up and realize that He's still gone. He's dead and gone, rotting and decomposing in that godforsaken grave miles from here. You need to wake up and stop dreaming of fairytales. People don't come back from the dead just because you wished for it. Not even Him.
The words hurt, but they did their job and his breathing slowed down from borderline hyperventilating to a touch faster then average. It stung to think of the dreams. They had first began the night after Sherlock was buried and while the settings would change, the theme of them always stayed the same. Sherlock would come back to John but right before his eyes die again- bleeding first and eventually rotting away in high speed motion, leaving nothing but a mocking smile on the bleached white skull right before it turned to dust.
No, John thought to himself. This wasn't going to happen again. He wasn't going to let him get his hopes up just for them crumble down once again as Sherlock's corpse did the same. Without even noticing it, John's mentality switched to the one he took on when he saw a particularly gruesome wound or corpse. This was the mentality that consisted of nothing but the army doctor. A macrame bloodbath would become nothing but a series of causes and effects, textbook symptoms displayed before him in the form of shattered bones and crimson liquid. It was in this mentality that John pulled himself together and reached for Sherlock's pale and ironically skeleton like hand.
Silent and swift, John took Sherlock's hand, ignoring the slight surprise on the detective's face and felt for the blue vein on his wrist.
"John..." Sherlock whispered hesitantly as he watched the emotions pass through his friend's eyes.
John was silent for a moment, deadly calm.
"SHERLOCK...!" There was three cracking sounds, one from Sherlock's hand as John's fingers suddenly closed harshly on the bones of it, a strangled sound from Sherlock's mouth when he felt a sharp pain as the bones fractured beneath the retired soldiers strong grip, and a third, very loud crack as John's other unoccupied hand flew up and smashed into Sherlock's aristocratic face.
Needless to say, Sherlock never tried to leave again.