AN: A post-Reichenbach fic~ John has a hard time believing Sherlock is really back. So he tries to accept this by going through the list of his five senses: Hearing, Sight, Smell, Touch, and Taste. So far, I've categorized this fic into five chapters, dedicating each chapter to one sense. John's POV.

A free cupcake to anyone who guesses the song I named this fic after ;)

Warnings: Spoilers to Sherlock Series 2 (obviously), John/Sherlock pairing, and a few curse words scattered here and there.

Disclaimer: Until Gatiss and Moffat magically give me the title to Sherlock, I do not own anything.

.oOo.

"It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

In that moment, it had felt as though time itself had completely halted. Initially, a million things were racing through my mind in that one second when I heard the consulting detective murmur a goodbye into my ear through the cellphone receiver and whisper my name for the last time.

That unique and gorgeous name of his had ripped through my throat but it made no difference at all. His arms spread eagle, my best friend fell from the hospital rooftop and I watched in complete horror and shock as the silhouette fell.

Time had betrayed me as my gaze travelled downwards with the fast-falling body. But one thought, one strong thought had coursed through my veins. I could not erase that particular thought and to this very day I still cannot.

I couldn't save him this time.

A sharp and shrill note rang through the flat, jerking John Watson out of his deep sleep and instantly setting his army-trained nerves on hyper alert. Images and sounds from his nightmare still haunted the doctor's vision and hearing as he forced his body out of the warm bed.

"I will burn the heart out of you."

With a quick shake of his head, John willed Moriarty's voice away. Now wasn't the time to dwell on those thoughts – someone was in the flat. By chance, Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson could have let themselves in without their usual shout of greeting. But no, this felt different. Mycroft usually sat in the common room in utter silence until John's waking, and Mrs. Hudson always bustled into his room, opening the window and muttering complaints on how dusty it was or such. Not this time though.

John slid his hand under one of the pillows lying on his bed. Fingers curled around the cold gun placed there and he quickly flipped off the safety button. However, before John could even reach his own door to the hallway landing, another note filled 221B – this time more tuned and peaceful.

But the doctor was anything but peaceful. It was a violin; he realized then – not a scream or shriek like he had thought it had been. A couple of more notes were played. John felt his heart constrict. Who was playing a violin (no, the violin – his violin) this early in the morning? A quick glance out the window confirmed John of the time, and his eyes landed on the clock beside his bed. 4:00 AM.

A melody drifted up the staircase to John's door and it took all of his strength to not collapse on the floor right then and there. Only one person he knew played the instrument that skillfully.

But he's gone.

So who was now down the stairs, plucking experimentally on the strings as if to test and warm them up? Who dared take the precious violin down from its place on the wall where it had been for the past three years?

As John quietly stepped out of his room and into the hall, he mulled over a couple of thoughts. One explanation: he could still be dreaming. No, certainly not. He knew the difference between his dreams and real life – and given the fact that only nightmares filled his sleep for the past thirty-six months only gave him more proof. He was not dreaming. Another explanation: he was alive, healthy, and in the flat of 221B playing his own violin. If not for the current situation, John might have laughed at the absurdity of the thought.

Taking the steps cautiously, John made his way down. His hands were steady as they held the gun, and other than a drop of sweat sliding down his temple - there was no indication that the ex-army doctor was frightened. But John's heart continued to beat furiously inside his chest, so hard in fact that he thought maybe it would suddenly burst at the slightest sound.

He was met with the darkness of the flat once reaching the final step. John swallowed the thick lump that had formed in his throat and his eyes skittered about the room and to the doorways.

"Who-" His voice cracked and John cleared his throat. It sounded extremely loud in the now-silent flat. "Who's there?"

When no response came, the doctor inched his way towards the light switch, his fingers scrambling over the wall. Light filled the room.

John then realized he had been holding his breath; he had also been hoping beyond hope that he would find that blasted consulting detective seated upon the couch, maybe. Or perched by the window, violin in hand. Or maybe even just standing there awkwardly.

Tears pooled his blue eyes as he stared at the empty room, no sign of another human being present. John did not bother to wipe them away. No, he let them flow freely, and they splashed on his night shirt one after another.

Of course he was not there – he was not coming back. He couldn't, come back. He was dead, wasn't he? John squeezed his eyes shut. He would always believe in the man, always. There was absolutely no way John would accept the last words the detective had told him. But the doctor had watched as his best friend fell from that rooftop, and anyone could tell you that one could not survive a fall like that.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and took a rather deep breath, sucking in oxygen to clear his clouded mind. "Stop this…just stop it now…" he whispered. Whether he was aiming the words at himself or that man, he did not know. Maybe both.

"John."

A yell erupted from his own throat and John instinctively whirled around, gun held by both hands, and pointing at the source of the voice that had come from behind. A finger on the trigger, breathing steady now-

"John." The voice soothed.

And as quickly as it had come, John could feel his breath whoosh right back out of his lungs.

Before him, quite alive, was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock fucking Holmes. The faint light from the kitchen behind slightly illuminated his features. His hair was a little shorter, though not by much, and the pale green eyes that had haunted him were steady and cautious. Long, pale hands were held up in front of him as if to calm the frightened and shaken doctor. "John, put the gun down."

John's eyes raked over the man in front of him, ignoring the request. His mind raced along with his heart. Just the sound of his voice unraveled his entire being; it completely ruined John. It always had. He could feel the gun being gently tugged from his grasp.

"John."

"Sh…" John swallowed. "Shut up…" He saw Sherlock wince a little, eyebrows drawn in as if thinking hard, but he obeyed anyways. Silence quickly loomed over the two men. After finally finding the ability to speak, John did so. "You're alive."

Instead of voicing his response, Sherlock merely nodded.

John gave a sharp shake of his head. "No…" his voice was barely a whisper. "No, say it…" He needed to hear the words from another person rather than himself.

Sherlock met his eyes then, and John felt a rush of relief and warmth spread throughout his body at that moment. The next two words that escaped from Sherlock's lips were the last he heard before blackness shrouded his vision and the sensation of falling took over his entire body.

"I'm alive."

So? Yay? or Nay?

Review if convenient, if not convenient review anyways~