"You … you told me once … that you weren't ahero. Umm… There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... there. I was so alone ... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one moremiracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be ...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this… »

The sun was shining above the quiet London, as if time had stopped. Sherlock watched John leave the cemetery, head held high, as usual. Yet despite the distance, he believed distinguish a tear sliding down his cheek. The detective continued to follow him with the eye, his heart tighten to John's grief and distress. He was alive, and John was suffering believing him dead. But to protect it, it was worth it.

Several yards away, John was leaving the place that brought him so much grief, not suspecting for a moment of the eyes fixed on him. Feeling the tears poured, he wiped his eyes with a furious gesture. It had to be strong, as brave as was his friend. While deep in itself, a huge void was growing. Arriving near the exit, he spotted Mrs Hudson in a taxi and apparently waiting. On large spanned, he joined the vehicle and opened the door:

"John is that okay?
-I ... Yes. Go home, I'd be back later. "

The old lady nodded briefly, eyes still wet with her sorrow. The doctor replied with a sad smile before closing the taxi door. It went into a roar before disappearing at the corner of the street under the watchful eye of John. The minutes passed, all more murderous than the other while the man stood still on the sidewalk, swinging his arms and eyes vague. He risked a glance to the cemetery and saw off the black marble tomb. Holding back the tears again, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat and began walking. A new life awaited him. So alone.

Months passed, doesn't attenuating the grief of John Watson. He remains prostrate day after day in his chair waiting for who knows what. John owed his subsistence to Mrs. Hudson who brought him to eat all day. The 221B Baker Street had become too sad in three months. The man sometimes went to the cemetery, talking to his friend and he returned each time a little more internally destroyed, a little more alone too. And the inevitable happened. The day promised to be rainy in London, as if the room had an effect on weather. As if the sky was crying too. Mrs. Hudson brought his daily snack to her Dear John Watson when she saw him. That day, a scream sounds at 221B Baker Street.

A call. Mycroft. Sherlock swung his phone across his improvised room. Nothing mattered now that he was ... dead. The bell rings again. Lying on his makeshift bed, Sherlock put his hands over his ears, shouting to whoever would listen that he would not answer. The phone, lying on the ground, rang again and again and then suddenly stops. The detective was delighted; his brother let him alone at last. At least that's what he believed since of the blows and screams were heard outside his front door. The brown stood up at once, until his brother gets tired but he was tougher as he thought. The door was shattered, probably by well-placed shoulder strike. Sherlock stood up gasping ready to welcome the intruder. And it was a punch that replied. The man crumpled to the floor holding his jaw.

"And what is your pleasure. I hope you have a good explanation.
- And you I hope you have good excuses, Sherlock. "

The detective gave him a questioning look. For once, he did not know what was happening. Still on the ground, he stood up, his jaw still painful.

"In my memories you punched softer.
- Sherlock, for once, shut up, take your coat and follow me. Without a word. "

This time, the man thinks the situation had to be very serious to put Mycroft in this state. Probably a terrorist? Or a theft? Yet he had promised to be discreet, despite the boredom which assailed him every day. He grabbed his coat and his inseparable scarf that he tied around his neck. The detective left after his brother. In front of the dilapidated building, a black car was waiting.

"Where are we going?
- Fix your mistakes.
- MY mistakes? What are you talking?
- You'll see, you will understand. "

Mycroft had grave air on his face. His eyes were sad. Sherlock, if he began to be anxious doesn't showing anything and remained impassive. Mycroft opened the car door and let her brother were engulfed before joining him and shut the door in a sharp movement. In a nod, he told the driver to departure. The ideas followed one another Sherlock's the most eccentric, even if he forced himself to stay mentally the most logical. Whatever happened, it was undoubtedly, and in view of the speech of Mycroft, his fault. But what had he ever done wrong? Three months had passed since his "suicide" and he had kindly withdrawn from public life, forcing himself to boredom and laziness. The streets ran beneath his blue eyes, but Sherlock didn't see them, too busy to think.

"We arrive"

He nodded, not really listen and spent another few minutes, in a heavy silence. He did not even feel the car slow down and jumped when the hand of his brother caught him.

"There we are. I hope you have well thinking about what you would say.
- I have absolutely no idea what you're talking! "

Sherlock was annoyed. For the first time in years, he didn't understand what was wanted. Mycroft gave him a poor smile.

"Look behind you. "

From a quick gesture, he did what he was asked. A hospital. Could it be ...?

"You, who are so intelligent and gifted to deduce usually, you really thought he would survive without you? "

The detective took his head in his hands, while muttering meaningless words. When he looked up to Mycroft, this last could see tears in the blue eyes of his brother.

"Room 142. You better be gentle. "

Sherlock nodded and went off a whirlwind to the building of a dingy white. Above him, the dark and threatening clouds began to give way to sun. Entering the hospital, he quickly spotted the floor plans and disappeared into the maze of corridors, all so similar, that stretched before him. The place seemed deserted, except for some nurses doing their rounds. During his wild chase, his steps were echoes through the silence. Soon he saw them. Rooms 140, 141. And finally, room 142. The man took a breath, allowing air penetrated his lungs on fire. He put his hand on the door handle, his apprehension enclosing his bowels, ready to go running. What had he done? Finally, the detective takes his courage and lowered the handle. Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound of machine reasoning in the dark room. In the middle, on the hospital bed, his only friend was asleep, as white as his sheets. On his wrists, bandages covering the remains of his desperate act. With an uncertain gesture, he sat on the bed at his side, as he always have do so and with a trembling hand, Sherlock passed a hand over his friend's face. Two blue eyes opening slowly and fix him, their eyes sinking into each other. The detective murmured softly:

"Hey John. I'm back. "

Hi~ Here a new one shot! This time about the BBC serie Sherlock. I hope you like it. I want to thanks Yuri-to-Momoka from deviantArt for giving me some inspiration with her picture "The end of Waiting".
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