Well, it seems my friend has me hooked on writing fanfiction again seeing as this is now the third story I've written for Sherlock in the past month. And now on to the new tale.
John jolted up in bed, his eyes opened and his pupils dilated. Another nightmare, just as vivid as the day it had happened.
"Goodbye John." His mouth hung open in shock as he watched as gravity took hold and destroyed the one person he truly cared about. Then there was the bloody pavement, where medics declared him dead and carried his body away. His blue eyes still open and empty, the mind behind them now just an empty void.
"After three years, I'd hoped the nightmares would've stopped by now." John muttered to himself, his eyes adjusting to his dark bedroom. In all honesty, it had been a while since he had last had a nightmare. In part, he blamed it on the excessive amount of alcohol he had consumed the previous night. Mary had surprised him by taking him out to dinner at the small restaurant that he and Sherlock had gone to during their first case. Not that she had known, but long story short, after their dinner together John had wandered into a nearby bar and had one too many drinks.
"I'm bored," a baritone voice John would recognize anywhere whined. It seemed to be coming from the chair in the corner of his room.
John rubbed his eyes, "Sherlock?" He flipped on his bedside lamp and sure enough, his friend was sitting sideways in the chair, his long legs sprawled out over the arms of the chair. His head was tilted back and his gaze followed the tiny ball he was continually tossing up at the ceiling.
"Damn alcohol." John mumbled, again rubbing his eyes. This was new. Hallucinating his dead friend.
"I want a new case."
"I," John paused. He tried again "You're de-" he again stopped, deciding whatever this was, a dream perhaps, it'd be easier to just play along.
"Sherlock, it's" he glanced at his clock on his nightstand, "four in the morning. Most clients aren't awake at this hour."
Sherlock tossed the ball in frustration at John, who caught it, and threw it back.
"I'm bored" Sherlock repeated, this time dragging out every syllable of the word bored for extreme emphasis.
"Go back to bed, Sherlock. There'll be a case in the morning." John yawned.
Sherlock pouted.
John rolled over and flipped out the lights, ignoring his friend's complaints.
When John awoke, the sun was streaming in through his blinds. He checked the clock. It's bright red digital font read: 8:12 am. He moaned, but he knew he wasn't going to be able to fall back to sleep. He sat up in his bed and his gaze fell upon the chair in the corner of his room. Sherlock. The memory of his dream from the previous night returned.
John sprung out of bed and walked down into the living room of 221B. He checked the kitchen, everywhere, a part of him hoped that maybe Sherlock would be there and that Sherlock sitting in the chair the previous night hadn't been a dream. He almost called out for his friend, but he didn't want to alarm poor Mrs. Hudson, who would think he was crazy and would surely suggest that he returned to therapy.
Suddenly, a searing pain ran through his leg and John fell to the floor. He managed to pull himself up onto the couch. His damn psychosomatic leg had returned a few months after Sherlock's death.
"I thought you'd gotten over that?"
John spun his head around to see Sherlock leaning against the doorframe sipping tea.
"Am I still dreaming?"
"I don't know, are you?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"Aren't all wounds supposed to heal with time?"
"Perhaps."
"Then why are you here? I thought I was getting better again. The nightmares were fading, but now hallucinations?!"
Sherlock scoffed, then disappeared into the kitchen.
"Sherlock?" John called out.
"Did you say something, dearie?" Mrs. Hudson asked, entering into the living room.
"No. You didn't" John was about to ask if she'd seen Sherlock, but stopped because if she had passed him in the kitchen, she would've reacted for sure. "Never mind."
Mrs. Hudson gave him a worried look. "Would you like some tea? I prepared some in the kitchen."
"Sure." John said, his voice flat, "Tea would be great."
Mrs. Hudson went into the kitchen then reappeared, setting the tray of tea down on the table in front of John. She poured tea into the first cup, and then paused. "That's funny," she said looking puzzled, "I could've sworn I had set out two cups."
John looked at the tray and sure enough, like Mrs. Hudson had said; there was only one cup on it. He suddenly remembered Sherlock had been drinking tea just minutes before
Mrs. Hudson had entered.
"I'm definitely going crazy." John mumbled.
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