Hey everyone! I don't know why I'm starting a new story, I can barely keep up with the two I have on now but oh well. This is something that popped in to my head and I almost forgot it, so I wrote it down and now I'm posting it. Here is a disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Lots of other people do though. Anyway I hope you all enjoy it. It really is just for fun. We'll meet again at the bottom. See ya.

John Watson was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, on Baker Street, looking up at his old living room window. He dropped his head to the door that had 221 B on it. It brought back so many memories just to look at it. He hasn't been back to the flat for months, ever since he had to bury his best friend, Sherlock Holmes.

He shook his head; it was still fresh in his mind. The note, the fall, all of it hit him hard whenever he thought of it. John licked his lips and glanced around the sidewalk one more time before turning. He heard the door open and looked at it with hope in his chest. He didn't know why he was expecting Sherlock to be standing there.

It was Mrs. Hudson; she had a worried look on her face. She usually had one when she was around John. Luckily John was barely around her anymore. He couldn't take the looks anymore. "John," she called after him.

John reluctantly turned around. He loved Mrs. Hudson's to bits, but everything was different with him and the world; something was off and it was killing him slowly. "Hello Mrs. Hudson," he said to her. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing well," she told him. "Why don't you come in for some tea?"

John shook his head. He knew she still pitied him, they all did, no one understood what was happening to him. "You know I can't go back in there," he stated.

"We won't talk about it," Mrs. Hudson offered.

John could tell that she was desperate; she wanted the old John back. John knew though, that she couldn't remember the old John. She remembers a John that wasn't real. "I can't," he told her.

"Mr. Lestrade called the other day," Mrs. Hudson said. "He wanted to know if I've seen you lately."

John scowled. "I knew I shouldn't have come here," he scowled. He heard a car pull up behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the former DI climb out of the car. "You called him." John was growing angrier, he didn't want to deal with them; all he wanted to do was go home to try to forget like the rest of them. "Hello Lestrade, are you here to force me into therapy again?"

Lestrade paused. "John," he whispered, "why don't we go inside and have a talk." He placed his hand on John's elbow and tried to guide him towards the building.

John ripped his arm away. "I don't have anything to talk about," he spat. He wanted to leave so bad, but something was holding him back.

"Yes you do," Lestrade told him trying to grab his arm again.

"Are you going to tell me I'm crazy again?" John asked. "Are you going to tell me that nothing in my life is real?"

Lestrade stepped up close and grabbed his shoulders. "Listen to me," he hissed, his fingers digging in to his skin, "you're very sick. Do you understand me? You need help or something is going to happen to you. You're one of my friends John, I don't want to see you harmed."

"I am not sick," John said firmly. He wrenched himself away from the older man and started walking away. He stopped and spun on his heel. "He was real; I'm never going to turn my back on him." He twirled back around and started off towards his home.

John wished that they remembered. Sherlock Holmes wasn't a figment of his imagination, he was real. John remembered running next to him, eating with him, arguing with him. Everything was there, all the old memories they had together, but no one in the world could remember Sherlock.

The first time he found out that no one remembered Sherlock was when he was picking up his things from 221 B. Mrs. Hudson asked him where he was hiding for the past few days. John remembered telling her that he couldn't be at the flat because it reminded him of Sherlock. She just stared at him and asked who Sherlock was. He asked her some simple questions that she would have been able to answer like 'who was my flat mate?' but she told him that he lived alone and has for years.

Ever since then John's life spiraled down. He would try to talk about Sherlock with anyone but everyone would tell him they didn't know who that was. He was forced to see his therapist again by Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and even Mycroft, but he left because she didn't believe him either. He was alone.

X

Later that night, John was sitting on his stiff couch with a bottle of alcohol clenched in his hands. He started drinking when he got home. He only drank when things got out of hand. What happened to him earlier was a perfect example of things getting out of hand.

He was having a string of good days and knew something had to go bad. He didn't even mean to end up on Baker Street, but he knew the moment he was on it. The air around him changed and he almost felt happy. The street was so familiar. "Why did you have to die Sherlock?" he asked the air. He shut his eyes and took a large breath in. He could practically smell the genius now; the man seemed to always smell like the chemicals he worked with.

John opened his eyes and gazed at his bare walls. On the mantle above the fireplace was the skull that Sherlock loved to talk to whenever he noticed John wasn't around. Mrs. Hudson believed that it was John's and he had it because he was a doctor. He liked to watch it, and sometimes talk to it. It was something from Sherlock that he still had; it helped him to know for a fact that the consulting detective was real.

He gulped down the last of the liquid in the bottle and dropped it on the floor. He would pick it up when he wasn't drunk and actually cared. He lifted himself from the couch and made his way to the fridge for another drink.

A buzzing noise started in his ear. He rubbed it with his hands, trying to get it to stop but it wouldn't work. He shook his head and ignored it. He wasn't going get worked up over a stupid noise. He reached in to the fridge and grabbed another bottle.

John was halfway to the couch when the buzzing noise got louder. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a hand against the side of his head. He stumbled forward, his knee caught the coffee table and he fell to the ground.

The buzzing wouldn't stop. It started hurting his head. He tried to stand but his arm was shaking too much he couldn't stable himself long enough to get to his feet. He dropped the bottle and fell to his butt. He squeezed his head with both of his hands and clenched his teeth shut. A flash of white light burned his eyes, making his head burst with more pain.

Suddenly, everything stopped, leaving John in the dark and without sound. He blinked a few times before he felt bile rise in his throat. He emptied his stomach on to his carpet before blacking out.

Well, tell me what you think. I know you don't have a lot so far and it seems like every Reichenbach fic but really give it a chance. It might change your mind when you get into later chapters. So, leave a review and either break my heart or give me a nice boost for the next chapter. That's all I have to say I believe, if I left anything out let me know. BYE!