Written with the prompt, 2 a.m.

Disclaimer: Obviously not mine.

Since the fall, his nightmares had changed. There was still blood. There'd always been blood. On his hands. On the ground. Staining clothes. But where once there'd been the screams of his comrades, there was now only his. The soldiers running about, chaotic, panicked, had been replaced by civilians, all running towards the side of a building. The explosions were gone, now only a deep voice telling him that this was His note to take their place. And where he'd seen countless bodies flying through the air, he now only saw one. Falling.

Each night, this was what he saw when he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

John started awake as he saw His body hit the ground for what must have been the thousandth time. He kept still for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling, drenched in a cold sweat. If he stayed this way for a while, he could just pretend that it had all been a horrible dream. That He was downstairs, sleeping, or lying on the couch lost in thought, or rustling around the kitchen working on some horrific experiment that was taking up space in the fridge.

John sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. 2 a.m. Too early to get up.

But he was too frightened to go back to sleep.

Before the fall, He had always somehow known when John was having a nightmare. John would wake up in the middle of the night, terrified, to a violin playing a soothing melody. The playing would continue until John had calmed down enough to return to slumber, and then would stop. Somehow, He always knew when that was, as well.

Now, when he had The Nightmare, he awoke to the sound of his own gasps, and nothing but silence from below.

John sat up with a groan, turning to hang his legs off the side of the bed. He stayed that way for several minutes, staring at the cane in the corner of the room until finally pushing himself up and limping past it.

The psychosomatic limp had returned with a vengeance, which hadn't really surprised him, as had the tremor in his hand. His shoulder ached continuously, but it had never really stopped. He'd just always been too distracted to notice it before, when Sher- . . . He'd been alive. But it was more than all that.

His body was decaying. He could feel it. His legs were shaky, his arms weak. His back hurt all the time, and he felt like he had a constant crick in his neck. He had no energy. His mind was sluggish; he couldn't think clearly.

He knew he should go to see a doctor, or even return to seeing his psychiatrist. He just . . . didn't want to. Because this life – a life without Him – wasn't living. It was just . . . existing.

He made his way slowly down the stairs, grasping onto the railing to keep his bad leg from buckling and sending him tumbling down the stairs. He trudged into the kitchen, stopping to take in its cleanliness before going to put the kettle on.

He'd always hated the experiments. Heads in the fridge, fingers in the produce drawer. Eyeballs in the microwave. Acidic and basic chemicals cluttering up the counter, sometimes not even covered. Various questionable substances strewn about the table. He'd thrown fits over the state of that kitchen. He'd wanted it to look the way it should and function in its proper role as a location for food storage and preparation. Now, he'd give anything to be able to nag and snap at Sherl- . . . Him . . . for the state of the room.

A whistle filled the air and John monotonously took it off the heat and prepared two cups of tea. He made to carry them into the living room and froze in the doorway, staring at the cups in his hand. He took a long, shuddering breath before turning to dump one of the cups in the sink. Months later, and he still couldn't get out of the habit of making a cuppa for Him.

He settled into his armchair with a sigh and switched the telly on. He flipped through the channels mindlessly, sipping his tea. Nothing on. Not a surprise. He'd become more than accustomed to the middle-of-the-night programming. He yawned and set his now empty mug on the coffee table, settling back into the armchair. His eyes drifted shut as he dozed off to the soft sound of voices emanating from the TV.

John rolled over onto his side as the girl in his bed – he honestly couldn't remember her name – snuggled up to his back, smiling in her sleep. He pushed her back slightly, scooting as far as he could to the edge of the bed without falling off. He stared at the wall blankly, wondering just what in the hell he was doing.

It had been a year and a half. A year and a half since John had separated the years of his life into Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. A year since he had stopped expecting him to come running up the stairs to drag John along on one of his cases. Nine months since he could say his name again. Six since he'd accepted that Sherlock was actually dead. Five months since he'd gone numb.

And one month since he'd stopped trying to live.

Everyone was worried about him, he knew. Mrs. Hudson had stopped accepting rent and grocery money. Molly kept coming over with food. Lestrade took him out every few weeks. Harry kept trying to set him up on dates (hence the girl currently cuddling up to him) and visited more in 3 months than she had in the 2 years he'd lived with Sherlock. But he just didn't care anymore.

John sat up and grabbed his dressing gown, wrapping himself up in it. He heaved himself to his feet with a groan and hobbled out of the room and down the stairs, leaving the girl without a glance. He contemplated making himself a cuppa, but something kept his feet walking past the kitchen, through the living room, and down the hall he'd avoided for a year and a half.

He found himself standing in front of the strong oak door. His hand reached out tentatively, pausing before he touched the handle. He diverted its progress, instead, reaching up to place it on the smooth wood. It was cold. He rubbed his thumb across it softly, lowering his head. Then, steeling himself, he dropped his hand to the handle and twisted, pushing the door open.

The room was just as Sherlock had left it. John had gone in once, to check for any experiments that would need to be saved or discarded, since Sherlock had died. Since then, he'd avoided the room, pretending it didn't exist.

Now though, he took a few halting steps into it, his eyes sweeping around it. There was a thick layer of dust coating every surface. In the back of his mind, he heard a faint echo from another lifetime: dust is eloquent. John bit the inside of his cheek, walking over to the bed. His hand brushed over the bedspread and he dropped to his knees, clenching his hand into a fist around the blanket.

Huge, wracking sobs filled the empty room, piercing the air that hadn't been disturbed in so long. He hauled himself onto the bed, curling into a small ball. He pulled the pillow down to hug it and Sherlock's distinctive scent filled his nose, memories being pulled up from the pit he'd thrown them into.

It had taken a long time for John to realize what Sherlock had actually meant to him – and even longer for him to admit it to himself. And it just made everything so much worse. He loved Sherlock. God, did he love him. He was John's perfect match, in every conceivable way. He'd found his soul mate.

Too late.

He buried his nose in the pillow and cried himself to sleep.

A harsh ring echoed throughout the apartment and John lurched out of bed, his heart racing. A glance at the clock told him it was well after 2 in the morning. He groaned, his head falling back onto the pillows that still smelled faintly like Sherlock. Maybe if he ignored it, they would go away.

Five minutes later, whoever it was was leaning heavily on the doorbell. John whipped the covers off and grabbed his cane, propelling himself down the hall, down the stairs outside the flat to the front door. He ripped it open to reveal Harry, looking disheveled and a combination between heartbroken and pissed.

"Took long enough," she snapped, pushing past him and vaulting up the stairs.

John followed with a sigh. When he entered the living room he found that Harry had wasted no time in making herself comfortable. She was sprawled out across the couch, flicking through a book John had left on the coffee table.

She looked up when he came in the room. "How 'bout a cuppa, then?" she asked pointedly.

John chewed the side of his cheek, then said, "Harry, it's the middle of the night. What are you doing here?"

"No cuppa, then?" John just stared at her. She sighed, propping herself up with her elbows. "Clara kicked me out."

"Why?" he asked emotionlessly, not in the mood to be sympathetic.

Harry rolled her eyes. "Because she's a bloody bitch, that's why."

John rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, then walked to his armchair and settled into it. "Well, that's a bit unfair, isn't it? Clara's not going to just toss you out for no reason." His eyes flicked over her. "Did you start drinking again?"

She pursed her lips. "I just had a few beers."

"Harry!" She glared at him and John sighed, knowing from the past that lecturing her wasn't going to help matters. "Fine. You can stay here for a few days if you need to. I'll get your bed made."

Five minutes later John was herding Harry up the stairs as she threw him questioning glances. "Isn't this your room? I'm fine on the couch, John."

The emptiness of the room spoke loudly enough for him. She dropped her overnight bag on the floor and turned back to him, a pitying look on her face. "How long –"

John pulled back the covers on the bed and pointedly said, "Goodnight, Harry."

Her mouth closed, thinning. Stiffly she nodded and crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. "Goodnight, John."

}{

The next morning, Harry announced her presence downstairs with a disturbing declaration.

"I'm moving in."

John jumped, nearly dropping his tea. He twisted around in his armchair to gape at her. She was standing in front of the stairs, her arms crossed over her chest, and her chin sticking out stubbornly.

"What?"

"I'm moving in. Here. With you."

"Ah, no." John stood stiffly, walking over to her with as much of his old military stance as he could manage with a cane. "You need to go work things out with Clara."

"It's over with Clara. I'm sick of her griping on me all the time for wanting a beer every now and then. I'm done. Moving on."

"Every now and then? Harry, you. . . ." John snapped his mouth shut. She didn't listen to reason, his sister. Never had. "You'll get just as much griping from me. More."

"Good." Without warning, she pulled him into a hug. "Griping is how you show that you care. It's been too long, John. Two years. You need to start caring again."

He wasn't sure what to say to that, so he settled for awkwardly placing his hands on her back in a hesitant hug.

"I'm home," John called as he softly shut the door behind him. He stretched, leaning against the door. It had only been a few weeks since he'd started work again, but Harry had been right: it felt good to get out of the flat.

John made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "Harry?" he called. He heard a distant thud at that from the depths of the flat. The kettle slipped out of his hands, hitting the floor with a loud clang. He hobbled out of the kitchen and down the hall as fast as he could, whipping open the door to Sherlock's – now his – room. "What the hell are you doing?"

She stared up at him, her eyes wide, from where she was crouched on the floor, trying to pick up a pile of books that she'd knocked over. "Get out of the way," he said, crouching down to pick the books up and cradling them to his chest. Since he'd moved into Sherlock's room, he'd only disturbed the bed. Everything else – the desk, the bookshelf, the dresser – was just as Sherlock had left it before he'd died. Until now.

"What are you doing in here, Harry?" He carefully placed the books back on the desk, trying to align them with the dust pattern left on the wood. Dust is eloquent.

She looked nervous. She was wringing her hands and chewing on her bottom lip. "I was just . . . trying to help."

"With what? What could you possibly be trying to help me with in here?"

She jumped at the tone in his voice. Was it possible she was actually frightened? "With . . . well. . . . Mrs. Hudson said she'd never seen them in the washing, so. . . ." She glanced at the bed.

John stared at it, his heart sinking. She. . . . She couldn't have. She wouldn't. "Get out."

"John, I –"

"Get out."

She took in a deep breath, standing a little straighter as she did so. "I'm trying to help you, John."

"And this is how you do it?" he snapped, gesturing to the bed. "Getting rid of the one thing –"

"The one thing?!" Harry spread her arms out, sweeping them around the room pointedly. "This entire room is a shrine, John! Your clothes are in a dresser in the living room because you don't want to disturb Sherlock bloody Holmes' dresser." John looked down at the floor, biting his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. "You're trying to keep him alive through his stuff, but guess what, John." He looked up. "He's dead. He's dead, John. Do you not get that? Do you still think he's going to come sweeping in here like the great big pompous git that he was?" John looked away again, staring out the window blankly. "Well, he's not. Because he's dead. How many times do I have to say it until you get it?"

Silence. John swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. Still staring out the window, he said, "I know he's dead, Harry."

"Then what is it? It's been two and a half years. Longer than you even knew him. You weren't even like this when Mum and Dad died."

"It's different." John closed his eyes, and all he saw was that moment, playing behind his eyes continuously, an endless loop. "He was . . . my life. Everything. And I didn't even realize it. That I . . . was. . . ."

"In love with him," Harry finished. He opened his eyes in surprise. "I know. We all know. He was the love of your life. Your soul mate. And now he's gone." Her voice softened slightly. "It's hard. So hard. Trust me, John, I know –"

"No, you don't!" John shouted. "You have no idea what this feels like; what I'm going through. And don't say that you do. Clara is alive, Harry. She lives right across town. So don't you bloody tell me that you know how it feels to not be with your soul mate. And until she calls you from the top of a building and tells you that she's going to jump, you will never know what this feels like."

He paused to swallow the lump down once more, and when he started talking again, his voice was softer. "Did you know I don't have nightmares about Afghanistan anymore?" She gave a small shake of her head. "Not for two and a half years. Now I have nightmares about that day. Every time I close my eyes I see his body falling through the air. I hear his voice telling me that this is his note. Saying goodbye. And I try to think of what more I could have said to save him. And I feel so fucking guilty that I couldn't. Because he trusted me – with his life – and I failed him."

His eyes were prickling with tears threatening to fall. "And what makes it so much worse is how much I missed out on. If I had only figured it out before. . . . We could have been so much more. And maybe I could have saved him then. But I was too stupid to see it. And now it's too late, and I have to live with this regret for the rest of my life.

"So don't make my mistake. If you really love Clara, go fucking tell her before it's too late. Because, I'm telling you, if Sherlock walked through that door right now, I wouldn't hesitate to tell him, right after punching him in his smug face, and I would never stop telling him."

He walked to the edge of the bed, clutching the pillow in his hand, his back to Harry. "Now get out."

"John –"

"I said, get. The fuck. Out."

Hesitation, then footsteps retreating from the room and the door shutting. John sank slowly down onto the bed, running his hands over the newly-washed blankets. He pushed his nose down into the pillow, the scent of laundry detergent overpowering him. He pressed the pillow against his face, a scream ripping out of his throat. Sherlock's smell was completely gone, and John had never felt more alone.

It was late when John finally opened the door to 221B after taking care of a patient's medical emergency. A quick glance at his watch showed the time as 1:58 a.m. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack near the door, groaning as he stared up at the daunting stairs. His legs and back were completely stiff, and he really didn't want to drag himself up, but he gritted his teeth and started.

At the top of the stairs, he paused, checking his watch again. 1:59. He hadn't even realized it. He was already two hours into the anniversary of Sherlock's death. He pursed his lips, his eyes prickling dangerously. It was going to be a difficult day.

He pushed the door open, not bothering to flick on the light, as he was going to just go collapse into his bed. But as he staggered across the room, a lamp switched on. John froze, turning back slowly. His mouth dropped, his eyes widening. It wasn't possible.

"Hello, John."