Hello everyone! So this (as many other fics have been) has been inspired after the events of the 'Reichenbach Fall' so if you haven't seen season 2 this will contain spoilers.

I am hoping to post one to two chapters every week. That is of course the reviews want me to continue it!

Anyway, one further note this story will contain eventual romance between John & Sherlock (aka slash) so if you are not a fan then this may not be for you! To all readers, I hope you enjoy this story and please let me know what you think! Thank you. :)

John wakes with a jolt. "SHERLOCK!" he screams.

His breaths are deep and shuddering as he clutches at his bed sheets. His shirt is damp with sweat and tears unwillingly fill his eyes. It was the same dream again. The same dream he has been having since he had seen Sherlock fall. The same terrible image of Sherlock's body, cold and bloody, paints it way across his eyes every time he tries to sleep. It has been one year since that life altering moment. When Sherlock fell, hit the ground with a sickening thud and everything had simply stopped. Sherlock had gone from his life as quick as he had entered it. John leans his head back on the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut trying in vain to force that day from his mind. He wants to try to find whatever part of his brain is still holding onto Sherlock. To that last conversation, those last few words and scrape them from his mind.

"This phone call…it's my note. It's what people do don't they…leave a note?" … He can still recall the way his stomach had dropped in that sickening way. The way Sherlock's voice had cracked and had been more broken than he had ever heard it. He had refused to understand what Sherlock meant…

"Goodbye John…"

Shudders rack his body as he finally allows himself to quietly sob into his hands. He had been so alone before that he had thought he would be alright. That eventually his life would settle into the same pattern of ordinary days as it was before. But Sherlock had changed him. He often found himself trying to analyse people the way Sherlock had. He kept trying to 'see' and observe; anything to keep Sherlock with him. Anything to keep Sherlock alive. At Sherlock's grave, he had begged him not to be dead. To come back to him.

"One more miracle Sherlock… for me …don't be…dead".

But he never got any answer, the black stone slab just stood there in the earth so cold and still; so unlike the man it belonged to. But he still came every day after work, as if perhaps one evening he would find the slab missing and Sherlock stood in its place. In the beginning he had tried to live at his own apartment for a while but he had found it didn't matter where he was; Sherlock was still everywhere. It was only a few months before he moved back to 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had met him at the door with a sad knowing look in her eyes and simply handed him the keys.

"…How have you been dear?" he remembers her asking; to which he had smiled tightly and answered with the usual 'I've been fine'. Just talking with her had brought back so many memories so did the flat. But it was home. He had moved his belongings back into the flat (which took little over an hour as he didn't have that much to begin with) and had sat in his chair. It was hard, to sit there, hearing the silence knowing that Sherlock wouldn't come bounding in with those longs legs his, covered in pig's blood or whatever else he had managed to get submerged in. But at least he here, he could be allowed to relive those memories; to grieve and to maybe finally accept reality. That Sherlock was really gone. Sometimes he found himself wishing he hadn't done what Sherlock had told him and ran into that building as fast as his legs would carry him and maybe…just maybe he could have…he shook his head trying to clear his thoughts.

He glares at his alarm clock; reading the red numbers that stand out against the black plastic '4:00am'.There wasn't any way he was going to be able to go back to sleep now. Frost clings bleakly to his window and the air bites into his skin with cold teeth. Sighing heavily he decides he may as well get up, pulls back the covers and gets out of bed. His damn leg is stiff again but he refuses to use his cane. His therapist had said it was because of the shock…he grimaces at the memory, even he knew that, it still didn't help him. She had been trying to get him to open up about Sherlock, but he still couldn't bring himself to talk about him, even after a year it was still as painful as the day it had occurred. He received weekly calls from Harry and even Lestrade would call him now and then making sure he was alright which meant a great deal to him. Reporters and journalists had come to his door in the few months afterwards trying to get him to 'give them the dirt' about the fake Sherlock who had tricked John. However after one of them had been ushered from his door with a fist to his face; they had seemed to get the message that all he wanted was to be left alone. He refused then and refuses now to believe that Sherlock was anything short of the real deal. He smiles slightly at the memories swirling around his mind. Sherlock unreasonably ordering him to get things for him…

"Pass me my phone"… "Where is it?"…"Jacket"...

Or shooting the wall because he had no case to work throwing himself on the sofa like a petulant child having a tantrum.

"BORED!" Bang"..."BORED!" Bang!

And his mind…How quickly his mind had worked, seeking out every detail like a dog relentlessly following a scent…no…no-one could fake that kind of brilliance. So he had kept quiet to the world. And soon the newspapers had got bored (or rather Mycroft had hushed them up) and the world had forgotten Sherlock Holmes.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he slips off his t-shirt and boxers in the bathroom. He catches a look at himself in the mirror. He notices that he has lost some weight and the muscles in his upper body have become more developed. Exercise had become a great way to forget. To burn away all that anger and despair by pushing his body past its limits and falling into a dreamless sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion. He looks fitter than he ever has. But that isn't what stands out to him. It's the dead look of his eyes, how tired and empty they seem to him. He stares into them a little longer before looking away and steps under the hot spray of the shower. He presses both palms flat against the cold surface of the tiles, fingers splayed and tense. Hot water cascades down the tight muscles of his back and he wills his mind to forget and heart to mend. He wills the shower to wash away his grief as diligently as it washes away the dirt from his skin. He tilts his head up under the shower and lets the water hit his face, mouth slightly open, mentally preparing himself for another day behind a desk. Another monotonous day of treating patients and engaging endless small talk with patients and co-workers. Nothing ever happens to me, he thinks, a wistful smile touching the corners of his lips. Not anymore.

There were thousands of variables that still had to be considered. John.

So many possible threats that still remained. John.

Endless choices he could make with thousands of various outcomes that needed to be organised and carefully selected. John.

Growling in frustration he jumps from his seat, clasps his hands behind his back and begins to pace the room. John keeps buzzing in the back of his mind like white noise. It is loud and annoying. He cannot escape from the memories of the man who had inexplicably become so very important in his life. At first glance the short blonde solider with the psychosomatic limp and alcoholic sister had appeared as unremarkable as every other person in the world. He was just another square on the global chessboard; as unnoticeable as air. Until he had stopped, had seen and observed. He realised that air was what sustained him, was what gave him life; a solid and unmovable presence that was everywhere. That was what John had become to him. It was essential to his plans that he remain focused and objective. And yet his mind always travelled back to the same subject. His death…everything… was required to keep John safe; to keep everyone he cared for safe. This past year he had been tracking down the remaining members of Moriaty's web. One by one had been capturing them and putting them in the darkest holes that the world possessed.

What he had not expected was all these feelings to disturb him. He had expected to experience emotions obviously. He was still human; only a man. But for them to be as unyielding and pervasive as they were. To be still so strong, if not stronger, even after a year… was…unpleasant. He missed John. He missed the way John would glare and complain about various body parts in the fridge or how they were always out of milk. Although oddly enough he always seemed more perturbed by the latter than former. He missed being surprised by John. Despite his obviously average intelligence he still never failed to surprise him with his unwavering loyalty or compassion. He missed the compliments he would receive after he had deduced something so painfully simple, watching the way John's face would always light up in a delighted amazement. He had always liked that look on John; the carefree smile that gave him that ageless look and a happy hop in his step. He never saw John smile now.

Occasionally, when his resolve weakened, he would go to the cemetery when he knew John would be there and just watch him. Observe the scene before him; take everything in. Yesterday he had seen the sunken look John's cheeks had taken and the bruises around his eyes. They told him that he had lost over 5 pounds and that he had not been sleeping well for several weeks. The way his jumper outlined around new lines of muscle told him he had been exercising more. The way his stride was slightly stuttered told him that John's leg had been troubling him. The way he cried, silent and stiff, in the way only a solider told him that his absence still caused John pain.

Sherlock had watched John trace, almost reverently, his fingers over the black slab. It made his chest ache and his eyes sting, his body betraying his mind. He wished more than anything that he could have the freedom to run over to John and grab those fingers. To grip them tightly and tell him that everything was going to be fine, that he was alive and that he wasn't alone. That eventually he would come back for him. His skin had tingled with the need to go to John but he left; he always left.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, eyes closed, calming his mind. He sits back down again, ignoring the chill of black leather against his spine and focuses on the task at hand. He is so close now…he cannot risk everything he has worked for, risk John's life, just to offer him some comfort. No matter how much pain it caused John or him. He could wait; he had to wait for John. Sherlock only hopes that when he does finally return that John will understand. That he will still want Sherlock in his life. Still be his only friend. Still be his John.

He needed to go home. Soon.

Love it? Hate it? Please let me know what you thought about it! The muses are singing to me right now, so I will be posting regularly if you reviewers would like to read more! Thanks for reading! :)