Hello and welcome to my take on the Reichenbach feels. I might include the developments of the new season in this story after I have watched the new episodes, otherwise this is going to center mostly around my interpretation of the aftermath of the events in season two. Either way, this will contain M/M, more specifically Johnlock, in some form, so the don't like-don't read policy applies. And if you do like, well – enjoy!

- Chapter One -

„One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be -dead. Would you do this, just for me? This... Stop this. Stop. It...".

John could hear his voice break, could see his face twist in the distorted reflection on the black marble headstone. Waited, anxiously, for a reply, anything. A miracle "just for me", like he counted. Like he'd thought he counted. Of course, nothing happened, no one replied, no matter how much he felt he was being watched.

He felt the grief returning, stinging from under his eyelids, slipping out hotly, choking him. Just a few seconds, he let himself cry, heard the small, helpless noises forcefully pressing from his throat. Then, he wiped his eyes, squared his shoulders, nodded at the grave, just once, the way a captain would be expected to do when given orders to resume duty by a superior officer. Turned around and walked away.

Alone. No whipping coat to follow anymore.

After that last visit to the grave, it took him six more months of isolation and therapy to finally come back to the one place that could either console or destroy him. 221B Baker Street.

Even the front door of 221 Baker Street was almost too much to take in, and John was suddenly glad he hadn't given in to the impulse to tell Mrs. Hudson that he was coming here. His keys still fit even after half a year, of course, why would he feel so conscious about a pair of keys now? He hurried up the stairs before the urge to flee could become too strong, only stopping for a moment when his key, again, unlocked a familiar door. The metal teeth of the key scraped lightly over his palm, strangely reassuring, like the lonely piece of brass forgave him his long absence.

Holding his breath, John stepped over the threshold and forced himself to look. Dust was dancing through the apartment, stirred by the movement of the door. Everything was the same, but it looked all wrong and misplaced, like someone had moved everything just a few millimeters. Maybe to a different dimension. John stared, in a somewhat unhinged manner, at the dust particles as they settled on the rug before he remembered how to move his eyes again.

He took in the bullet holes and the spray paint on the wall, the leather chair sitting across the cozy arm chair, the skull on the mantelpiece, probably returned there by Mrs Hudson a while ago, lastly the couch. He realized then that the profound feeling of wrongness came not only from the memories assaulting him in this room, but from the fact that he couldn't feel the presence of that mind, much bigger than his or anyone's, thinking out loud, never saying a word.

There was no one occupying the whole couch to stare at the ceiling, so John gingerly took a seat, laid down and turned on his back.

Hm. Odd.

He didn't feel anything. Nothing in particular, at least. No sudden closeness to what was gone. What did he expect, anyway? The appearance of some relic of that great mind that used to take up so much space in this very spot where his head now touched the worn leather, maybe smooth as the curls that used to rest here- and this was the moment where his eyes snapped open and he noticed he forgot to breathe again. All heaving chest and racing heart, John was the very picture of pathetic.

"Dull."

His memories could only do a faint impression of that dark, rich drawl, but still it was almost enough to send him into another coughing fit. Now he hadn't come here just to indulge in a good old panic attack (had enough of these for a lifetime, and no, no he didn't want to see some more), so John carefully took his hands down from where they were moving to scratch at his eyes and clasped them together in front of his knees, schooling his breathing into the controlled rhythm he learned through many embarrassing psychiatric sessions. After a couple liters of dusty, solitary air, the blackness around his vision ceased and he stood up to continue his ineffective search for traces of his personal ghost.

TBC soon :D thanks for reading!