"He's dead." John had to remind himself every time he walked through the door. He tried to avoid Baker Street as much as possible, but he couldn't bring himself to look for a new flat. He instead spent his days aimlessly wandering the streets, alone. But still, here he was again, walking up the familiar steps into the flat. Mrs. Hudson greeted him, but it barely registered. She must have gotten used to his silence because she didn't bother trying to converse further. He walked into the living room, sat down in his usual chair, and continued the activity that now made up the bulk of his existence: trying not to think.

Sherlock would be disappointed. That didn't matter. Look where thinking got him. The thoughts crept in. He recalled his last conversation with Mycroft. The elder Holmes brother was now the only person in all of London with whom he was on speaking terms, if you didn't count the hoards of fanatics constantly emailing him to ask for details of Sherlock's life as a fraud. He and Mycroft didn't speak regularly, but they had talked several times in the months since Sherlock's death. They were the only two men alive who knew the whole truth about Sherlock and John was beginning to suspect that Mycroft knew more about what had happened on the rooftop than he was letting on. On this particular occasion they had met in a café on the other side of London.

"You need to move on with your life, John." This was what Mycroft always told him.

"I know I do. But I can't stop thinking about him. I can't accept it. There is absolutely nothing else in my life."

"I know this is hard. It's been hard for me too. But you must find something. I'm sure I could arrange something, if you need something in the way of a job…"

"How can you just sit there so calmly and talk like that?" John shouted at him, unable to contain himself. "Your own brother is dead, and you're barely upset. How can you just go along with your life knowing that if it wasn't for what you told Moriarty, he might still—" Mycroft cut him off with a sharp glance. John immediately wanted to take back his words, but neither man could deny the truth in his statement.

"This is harder for me than you know," Mycroft began, "But we're not here to talk about me. I know how hard it's been for you. I've had a few people looking out for you… for your protection," he added before John could object, "and I know. You've had trouble sleeping. You have waking nightmares, some of the war, some of him. You—"

"Okay. Stop." John cut him off and got up to leave. "This isn't helping. This… I don't know what this is, but I can't do it. I'm sorry."

"I understand," Why was Mycroft always so cold? "Remember, if you ever need anything, let me know. And please, don't do anything foolish."

John scoffed at the warning as his mind returned to the present. Don't do anything foolish. What could he possibly do? He searched his mind, looking for the last thing he had done that even remotely qualified as an activity, before returning to the constant exercise of thinking about absolutely nothing.

Falling.

John must have just begun to doze off when he had one of the dreams. If you could call them that. He knew they happened to everyone, the sensation of falling while sleeping, but it still seemed like a cruel trick the universe liked to play on him. He looked at the clock. It had gotten late. He got up and climbed the stairs to his bedroom, not bothering to change out of his clothes. He was so distracted, he barely noticed it, lying there on his bed. It was only when he started to pull back the covers that the slip of paper caught his eye. It was entirely unremarkable, sitting on his pillow. Entirely unremarkable except for three little words, written in a tiny red script. Just three words.

He's not dead.