Author's Note:

Jee, thanks for reading this! I really hope you like it! I am not sure whether to keep this is a one shot, or continue it as a fanfiction. If you wonderful readers like it enough, I might expand on this just a bit for you, because I do love you all~! Please let me know what you think of this, I appreciate constructive criticism! Thank you so much!

Dr. John Watson abruptly awoke from sleep, screaming a name on the top of his lungs. His name. The name of his best friend that he could no longer say without breaking down into a fit of sobs. John took slow and steady breaths, trying to get his bearings and calm his reeling head and heart. Trembling hands reached up to wipe the moisture away from his tired eyes. Almost everytime he tried to rest and get some relief from the horribly dull and painful days, the same nightmare would plague him. It would sneak in his brain unwanted and make him watch Sherlock Holmes take the sickening plunge off of the hospital building, falling down, down, down...until finally landing with a horrible and final thud on the pavement. That wasn't the worst part; no, far from the part of the nightmare that shook John Watson the most. The worst part was that no matter how hard he tried, how loud he shouted, Sherlock couldn't hear him. John's cell phone would ring, and he would always answer, but Sherlock could never hear a word that was said to him. No goodbyes, no comforting of any kind. In complete despair and with so many words unspoken, Sherlock would always jump to his death.

The terrible scene would play in his mind night after night, until it got so unbearable John finally couldn't take much more and wouldn't sleep for days at a time. He would do almost anything to avoid the nightmares that terrified and hurt him so. He would even suffer from the scenes of Afghanistan like he used to, a hundred times over in fact, just to be rid of the terrible scene of Sherlock dying right before his eyes. The ex army doctor lethargically turned his head, zeroing his vision on the harsh red numbers shining far too brightly on his clock. It was only three in the morning! He had only managed to collapse on his bed around midnight.

"Can't I get one night, just one night where I can actually sleep?" he groaned to the darkness of his bedroom as he slid out from under the covers and shuffled out to make some coffee. There was no point in laying around in bed anymore if sleep was impossible now. He made his way through the very barren flat he had managed to get with the rent being taken care of by the government for his service in the military. The only real pieces of furniture that adorned the small and shabby place were a couple of worn but comfortable chairs that sat near a nice sized window, and a small table near the kitchen that only housed the nessessities. In the bedroom there were only a small bed and a dresser for his clothes, and next to the bedroom was a tiny bathroom to complete the flat. With a steaming mug full of the caffinated beverage held in his trembling hands, he plopped down on one of the chairs and stared outside. After a short time of this, he had to open the window a bit to let in some fresh air. This was one of the biggest problems with this flat; it always felt stuffy and closed in. Tired hazel eyes closed as John relished the cool air flowing in and surrounding him. It almost felt peaceful, until memories began to flow through his mind as freely as the cool breeze.

"The weather is pleasant, isn't it?" Sherlock had asked one day as they were on their way to the gorcery store. Ever since the fight between John and the machine, he had begun to accompany him to the store, unless he was busy with a case or locked away in his mind palace again ('If you keep getting into fights with those things we will never get any food, so I might as well make sure it doesn't happen again, correct?' he had countered when John had stared at the taller man in amazement).

"I thought you didn't care about such things, Sherlock." John had replied in a slightly mocking tone, shooting the detective a smirk.

"I don't, but I can appreciate them from time to time. It's weather like this; the cool breeze and the bright sunshine, that allows me to think best. I suppose in a way it makes me feel...almost peaceful."

John stared at his friend, trying to figure out if he was mocking in some form or being sarcastic. After all, Sherlock deleted information from his mind that he did not deem important and was never one to understand feelings in general, often dismissing it as sentiment and moving on. But staring at Sherlock, John could see that he indeed was being completely serious. His normally cold and calculating blue eyes were trained at the sky, narrowed as to be almost closed completely as he relished the cool breeze that flowed all around them. John had never seen this side of Sherlock before, and he was certain he was probably the only person who had ever seen him like this. A smile spread across the army doctor's face, a warm and tender one. He couldn't help but notice how young and alive the other man looked like this, guard down and smiling, staring at the sky. The smile was very small, but genuine this time. Beautiful was the only word Jonh could come up with the describe such a sight, and upon realizing this crimson seeped onto his face. He quickly looked away to hide it. In what felt like no time at all, the store was in sight and Sherlock reverted back to his old self once more, but John would never forget this, as short as it lasted. No, this was something that he would cherish for a long time; he could possibly use this as blackmail in the future...possibly.

John pushed the memory back into the farthest reaches of his mind, a fresh wave of tears flowing freely down his face. No matter where he went, or what he did, Sherlock always seemed to invade his mind, breaking his heart all over again. He covered his face with his trembling hands and began to sob openly. It had been years since his best friend had left him. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, wasn't it? Was that how the saying went? John deduced that this wound, the pain and the loss and the emptyness, would be the cruel exception. It was too deep, too sharp to heal. He sobbed harder still upon realizing that it would probably not get any better.

'Oh, God, how I wish this pain would stop...' he thought with anguish. He slowly lifed his head out of his hands, not even bothering to wipe the tear stains away. Without even realizing it, his eyes were trained on something sitting on the floor. With a flood of relief wahsing over him he reazlied it was a solution. A way to end the pain that had plagued him for so long. Without giving a second thought, his fingers were wrapped around his gun; strong and steady now. Slowly he lifted it towards his head. This was it, the only solution. With one pull of the trigger, the pain would stop, and he would get to be with Sherlock again, safe in Heaven or wherever he would end up. A small smile graced his chapped lips.

"I will see you soon, Sherlock..." he whispered, closing his eyes and bracing himself for his final act of pulling the trigger. A breeze flew from the window, surrounding John and bringing with it a sound the broken man thought he would never hear again. The sound of the violin graced his ears, playing the most beautiful melody he had ever heard. The notes were haunting, softly played, and surrounded him in a shield of peacefulness that he never expected to feel anymore. The gun was lowered and set on the ground as John slowly crept to the window and stared out into the darkness, hoping to find the source of the beautiful music. There was nothing to be found, and in utter confusion he plopped once again in his seat. He closed his eyes to better hear the haunting melody; to let it wash over him and surround him with peace and calm. With one last sigh and a small smile, he drifted off into sleep as the violin played, and for once, no nightmares haunted him for the rest of the night.

Hidden in the shadows of the darkness, a tall and lanky figure stood staring up into a nearby window, having the perfect view of the now sleeping John as he played his violin gracefully. With a flourish the song ended, and the figure, now certain the man by the window was fast asleep and would be for a while, gave one last sorrowful and longing look at him before escaping into the night. Two words were whispered before the figure took leave.

"Soon, John..."

With a flourish the figure dashed away. It was too dangerous to stay here for very long. Too many strict rules were broken as it was just for leaving the safety of the private flat that was accomodated to keep hidden. But John was not sleeping, not eating. He was suffering. This problem was going to be corrected, no matter what happened to the mysterious figure slipping back to safety.