Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC Sherlock characters herein.

Summary: Post Reichenbach Fall. It's 7 months after the fall, and John finds a journal written in a familiar hand.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst

Of Ashes

Over and over he fell before John's eyes. Sometimes from the roof, sometimes from the clear blue sky. Always with that same determination to take his own life, and with no variation in the ending. And it always ended; no, he was never spared that vision. That horror. Tonight's dream being no different, the poor doctor watched as his best friend stood on the end of his bed, facing away from him and gazing down as if the floor was not simply a few feet below him. Sherlock's dark curls moved as if brushed through by a wind that wasn't there. Just as he wasn't, couldn't be, there. With a glance over his shoulder, the detective locked eyes with John. And then he began the drift forward, with the older man already moving to grab him, to pull him to safety. But never was there enough time, enough speed, for John to save his friend. He was helpless against the fate cast on this other man who seemed destined to repeat his death every night in the doctor's dreams.

And just as John reached the edge of the bed, clambering over and onto floor, Sherlock's form disappeared from sight. He found himself half-sprawled on the floor, clawing at the carpeting, tears beginning to prick his eyes as, once again, he had witnessed the fall. He clenched a fist and brought it down hard on floor, remaining there some minutes before feeling an odd sensation sweep over and through him. He pushed up and spun in one movement, coming to face his bed in a semi crouch. And then he staggered forward, holding himself up with one palm against the footboard. There before him, on his comforter and among his pillows, lay the bloodied and broken form of Sherlock Holmes, blood slowly pooling and seeping around him. That pale face with those sightless eyes staring into the beyond. His vision swam as his breathing became frantic, heart beating wildly beneath his ribs. Soon he could no longer see clearly at all, as if he had been whisked away to another dimension where the other senses took precedence.

And he soon came to realize that he was covered in something. Blood. Dark and thick. Everywhere, copper tang and metallic stench. Covering his body, entering his mouth and nose. His stomach rebelled, attempting to force bile up and push out the offending fluid. But blood was the stronger and forced its way downward, causing him to choke as some of it avoided his epiglottis and slid down into his lungs. Now gasping for air, he clawed at his throat, but it was too late for him as well. He fell to his knees in this blinded world, and then onto his side as his struggles became feebler with each passing moment. His heart pounded in his head, drowning out all other sound. And at the last edge of conscious thought, he tried to whisper, though it came out as more of a gurgle, "Sher…k."

Eyes flying open to discover himself firmly wrapped in his blankets and shining with a cold sweat, John began to form rational thoughts once more. Nightmare. Again. They were almost nightly, but not usually so intense. His heart was still racing as the adrenaline subsided and left him with a nauseated, hollow feeling. And how he hated this! This helplessness, this tragic unfairness and permanence of his friend's death. The knowledge that no matter how hard he wished, or tried, or prayed, nothing would ever change the fact that Sherlock, his best friend, was dead. His hands clenched as the tears began. His friend had gone where John could never follow. One last adventure, but he made it alone. How like him! And a macabre chuckle issued forth from the tears dimming his vision. For what else was there to do but find a way to move through this heavy loss? Even seven months into it, and he still couldn't get past it.

He moved through his morning rituals with a zombie-like attendance. Mrs. Hudson may have come by, but truthfully, he was in such a way today that he had no means of deciphering whether her visit had occurred this day or the one before. Finally, he could slightly understand the manner in which Sherlock had been able to become lost in his thoughts and disregard all the world around him. Perhaps he should create his own "mind palace" in order to further retreat from, and avoid, the outside world altogether? He wondered how that would work. Could he avoid the pain by secluding himself within memories that held only a living breathing detective?

Sighing deeply, he was just about to settle himself down onto his tatty old armchair, resigned to staring at the empty space that his friend should have occupied, when he caught sight of the little notebook. He caught himself and pushed off towards the composing table where Sherlock used to scribble his various sheet music compositions. There upon its darkened surface lay the untouched workings of a most brilliant mind. He gazed down at them blankly, attempting to remain objective for the moment, as his eyes settled on the notebook peeking out from underneath several other unfinished works. He had noticed it a few days ago, but had paid it no mind at the time. Most likely it was a book of further compositions, and since he was not particularly musically inclined, he left it be.

Now, though, something had caused him to notice it once more. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had moved it a bit when she came to straighten things? She did that infrequently, but even then, she was not prone to moving the late detective's things. She probably sensed the small comfort that John took from having things just as they were. As if the younger man would come bounding in the door at any moment, hollering for John to grab his coat and fly out in the night with him to solve crimes. If only, thought the good doctor as he reached hesitantly for the worn booklet.

He flipped open the cover and found not music within, but writing. Much writing. Unmistakably penned in the hand of the world's first, and last, consulting detective. And as his eyes scanned the page, he realized with a start that it was a journal of sorts. Heart jumping ahead of him, he quickly located a date at the bottom of the first page. January 29th. His heart stuttered. Stopped. He closed the notebook and held it to his chest for a moment before quickly returning to his armchair, where he flopped down and arranged himself before opening the little book once more. He tried to contain his eagerness so as not to harm the much abused pages. He could almost hear his friend's voice leap out from the words on the page, written in a flourishing penmanship.

I cannot seem to order my thoughts easily today, so I have chosen to write them down so as to better review and delineate from them later. I met someone today. A potential flatmate. How horrid for him. And for me. Or so I thought. But he wasn't put off by my, well, myself. Oh, he was curious about me, as most are upon first meeting me. But the telling difference was that he didn't then spurn my company thereafter, even after my pointing out of physical flaws, such as the psychosomatic limp he has developed from his time at war. Although, as it stands, I believe I was exceptionally mild on him, as I withheld further deductions, such as I also believe he wears those frumpy jumpers and sweaters in an unconscious effort to make himself less attractive because he lacks the self-confidence to see how genuinely and refreshingly handsome he is. But, as I said, I held back this information, as I believe I had deduced him enough to test his mettle.

John pulled back from reading momentarily. Handsome? He thought. And then he picked at the so-called "frumpy" jumper he was wearing presently. Sighing to himself, he figured he truly was grateful Sherlock had left that part out. Now, he was able to chuck off a comment like that as just "Sherlock being Sherlock," but back then he might not have seen it that way. He had thought him odd enough at that beginning point as it was. His eyes returned to the words on the paper.

We met later to look at the flat together, which I had already taken the liberty of moving into, as I predicted he would be agreeable to the arrangement. Mrs. Hudson was her usual horrid talkative self, but he didn't mind, or at least didn't show it. However, what I found remarkable about this man was not his ability to tolerate my manner in short turns, nor his ability to banter with annoying elders concerning their inconsequential health issues. No. Lestrade had a case for me, and I needed an assistant. And my new flatmate rose to the challenge! He's an army doctor, and therefore very much used to gruesome things that crime scenes can present. His in-depth medical knowledge is a shared boon that enabled me to quite nicely snub Anderson as well! My flatmate's interest and dedication was to be admired as he worked alongside me to discover the murderer of several individuals.

We traveled all over, researching for the case. Stopped in at Angelo's for a bite to eat where my new flatmate asked some of the strangest questions of me. I think we had a bit of a weird moment then, but it passed soon after, when I thought I'd spotted what I was looking for across the street. I found it quite amusing how the other man leaped up to chase after me, leaving his cane in the restaurant, proving my earlier point concerning his limp.

At any rate, we had a thorough night of chasing down one particular criminal who had acted alone. It ended up being a cabbie that had decided to murder others in exchange for money for his children from a certain "sponsor," which I later was able to wring from him as being "Moriarty." I don't recognize the name but will keep it mind in case it becomes important in the future. Everything else was all well and good as I had managed to meet with the cabbie alone. He needed an audience, someone to appreciate his work. However, during the time when I had managed to get alone with this murderer and discover his methods and reasoning, my flatmate had tracked our whereabouts. I was involved in a sort of mental wrestling with the cabbie, who had played a game of chance with all of the victims, having them choose a pill to take that had a 50/50 chance of being poisoned while he took the other pill. I was a somewhat willing participant in his little game, having just chosen my pill from his bottles when the cabbie was suddenly shot through the window from a building right next to ours.

I soon after discovered that the shooter had been my new flatmate. He had seen me with the pill and decided to act before anything happened. I assured him that there had been no true danger; that I would never have really taken the pill. I think he sensed, deep down, that I was lying, but it's hard to tell for sure.

John stopped again, saying out loud, "I knew it. Damn it. I knew it!" And then he returned to the words once more.

He shot someone for me; killed him. I have no idea how I inspired such supreme confidence in this admirably calm and loyal retired soldier, but I am very grateful for it. He was of great aid to me on this case, and his ever present amazement of my deduction abilities is quite a pleasant change from the usual "piss off" response most have no trouble giving me. He even praises out loud, though I wonder if even realizes he's doing it half the time. I like it, though, so I won't challenge it.

We returned to the flat and were able to chat comfortably about the events of the case. And I wasn't annoyed or bored at all! That sounds so…well, anyway. I wasn't bored, and that is a huge thing for me to say. I think this is the beginning of something great. Something big. I sense a change coming. And I'll be ready for it. Watching. Waiting. With John Watson there beside me. –SHJanuary 29th

John closed his eyes as he finished the first entry, feeling happy and sad all at once. Was it possible to die, yet remain alive to feel the death eat at you? It certainly felt that way to him. For this brief time, he had been able to put away thoughts of his friend being dead. But now that they returned, it felt as though they were doubled inside of him. He blew an exasperated breath through pursed lips, glancing again at the notebook he had unconsciously clasped against himself. He flipped the pages through his fingers, feeling the amount of them, thinking it was going to take him at least a full day to read through it all. And now that he had begun, he didn't want to stop.

Thinking himself somewhat silly, but doing it all the same, he called the clinic and told them he wouldn't be in the next day or so. That settled, he went to the kitchen to bring back tea and biscuits, being sure to bring plenty so he wouldn't have to move for a while. Then, settling back down in a more relaxed position, he pulled the book over onto his lap and prepared himself to spend the next couple of days in remembrance of his best friend. He would read this little journal, and when he finished, he would go to the gravesite to speak. Yes. That felt right somehow. And so he flipped to the next page and continued as he sipped his tea, morning light just beginning to filter in through the dusty windows.

A/N: So, anyone interested?