A/N: Alright, so this is my first try at a Sherlock fic, so please bear with me. If you have any construstive criticism, I'd love to hear it so that I can try to improve my writing. Tell me what you think.

"John!"

Sherlock's voice came from somewhere close by, but John couldn't quite locate the man who had called his name.

"Sherlock," replied John in a contained shout. "Where in God's name are you?" He had been running in circles for what seemed like hours. The world's only consulting detective was in danger once again; and yet again, it was John to the rescue.

John spun around swiftly when he heard a metallic clang sound from behind him. The whole place was shrouded in darkness, and the good doctor struggled to make out Sherlock's lithe form in the shadowy air. Suddenly the entire room was filled with a brilliant bright light, and John was forced onto his knees, shielding his eyes from the harmful rays.

"Goodbye, John."

The doctor could only just make out the hushed words through his overwhelming senses, and he stood then, forcing his eyes to adjust to the light. And there he was, arms extended, as if crucified; long blue coat billowing in the chilly wind, ready to jump from the edge and end his life.

Only something was wrong. John found himself standing not below Sherlock, but behind him. In his right hand he held a gun, arm out front and aiming at the back of Sherlock's head.

No! John thought desperately as he fought his own actions. What am I doing? This can't be happening! Not again, oh please God, no…

Still fighting, John watched in horror as his thumb rose to cock the revolver. His index finger tensed and tightened against the trigger.

Then, time seemed to slow down. A faint burst of gunpowder exploded from the barrel, releasing the bullet from its chamber and sent it flying toward its target—the detective's head.
The bullet entered with a sickening, bone-shattering crunch. Blood spurted from Sherlock's gaping skull and he fell—fell down into the sunlit street below.

Time sped up again, and John could hear screams from the pedestrians at the gruesome sight which had just befallen them. The wail of sirens shortly followed, and the good doctor's heart was shattered by the broken body of his best friend as he gazed over the ledge below.

"Sherlock!"

John flew up in bed, shivering and covered in a sheen of sweat as he screamed his best friend's name. Breathing heavily for a few moments, eyes darting around the darkened room, John realized where he was; his bedroom at 221B Baker Street. He lay back down with a sob, still shaking with remnants of his dream.

It had been two years since Reichenbach—and Sherlock's death. John had been having variations of that hellish nightmare almost every night; watching Sherlock die over and over while being powerless to stop it. And worse, it was him who killed his best friend, time and time again.

John's breathing steadily slowed as he forced his body to relax.
"It's only a dream…" he whispered to himself. "Just a dream…"

When he had finally calmed, John glanced at the clock. It was just after eight in the morning. With a groan, he forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He looked at the mirror, barely recognizing the tired blue eyes that gazed back.

The doctor had been living in a shocked daze for those two long years. Sherlock had been his best friend, the most amazing, brilliant person he had ever met. He put meaning into John's life again; the ex-army doctor with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp. Sherlock showed him the excitement in an otherwise dull world, where they could work together to take criminals off the streets. To know that such a wonderful way of life could exist with Sherlock, having it suddenly taken away was unimaginable. It was like the army all over again, but somehow worse.

John blinked, clearing his thoughts and turning away from the mirror. He had to move on with his life, no matter how hard that may be. Just the memory of Sherlock's broken and bloodied body… It was too much for him to bear. The doctor turned on the hot water in the shower, stepping into the almost-scalding spray. He sighed heavily, letting the heat run over his body and clear his thoughts.

Leaning one arm against the shower wall, John closed his eyes, letting his right hand travel slowly down his chest and torso until it reached his cock. He groaned and put his head down, feeling the steaming water run over his body and relax the tense muscles. This was his only time to forget—the only time he could forget—about everything and just let go. John ran his fist slowly along his hardened shaft, feeling the fatigue unravel itself from his mind. His breathing quickened with each slow progression; every time the sleek head appeared from between his closed thumb and index finger. All he could hear now was the rushing of blood in his ears, instead of the sickening thud of Sherlock hitting cement. All he could feel now was the warmth radiating throughout his body, not the chill of the London air as Sherlock stood atop St. Bartholomew's. He began to thrust slowly, feeling the pit of his stomach clench in anticipation. Faster, faster; until everything became white hot pleasure and sweet nothing. For just a moment, all of John's worries were washed away. For just a moment, he could forget.

Now dressed, John made his way into the kitchen to make toast and tea. He sat on the couch with his breakfast, looking around the small room as if trying to memorize every detail. He had left much of Sherlock's work alone, not knowing what to do with it, but not having the heart to toss any of it. His wandering eyes met the skull, still sitting on the mantelpiece. Its large empty eye sockets seemed to stare right back at him, and John couldn't suppress a small smile. That skull had helped John through so much after Sherlock's passing. Though he felt stupid at first, the good doctor had found himself talking to the skull, spilling his heart out, and then being surprised to hear it respond.

The detective's scoffing voice had replied to John the first time he had spoken to the skull. It had startled him at first, but now he had grown accustomed to hearing Sherlock's voice once again. And even though John knew it was all in his head, he found the skull oddly comforting. He had even gone so far as to name it after Sherlock himself.

"So, Sherlock," started John, taking a sip of tea. "What's new?"

I truly admire your feeble attempt at making conversation, John, retorted the skull, but obviously nothing new has happened since we spoke last. Which, by the way, was exactly seven hours and twenty-three minutes ago. I am just a skull, you know.

John was crunching through his second piece of toast now, sighing inwardly. He really needed a hobby…