It's funny. He looks so much like he used to – same hair, same nose, same blasted cheekbones. Were this a normal day –
John grimaced. As if "normal" could ever be used to describe his time with Sherlock.
Were this a typical day, I would shake him awake and send him to bed.
Stop it!
John's therapist had been urging him to embrace this new life, to consider the endless drudgery that now plagued his days as "typical". She insisted that as long as he tried to compare his present circumstance with his exciting past, he would never truly move on. Anything, she said, would seem dull by comparison. Everything did.
This isn't a typical day. Or it is, just a new sort of typical. A depressing sort. I'd best quit staring. Force my legs to move. Past his chair. Into the kitchen. He'll fade away – he always does.
John took a halting step through the doorway. A year ago, he would have considered it the hardest step he'd ever have to take. To pass by the figure in the chair without so much as a glance. The pain it caused was now a dull ache, a mere ghost of the torture he had experienced the first time Sherlock reappeared in his life. He had hoped the hallucinations would stop. They had, for a time, but it seemed Sherlock's memory wasn't ready to quit the flat altogether.
Of course. The scarf this morning.
A stranger in the coffee shop had put on his scarf just as Sherlock always had. John had caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and turned, only to be knocked back in his chair by painful memories.
That did it. Must have. The memories brought back the hallucinations.
John took another step into the room. His legs had gone stiff from standing in the doorway for so long. He had been caught off guard by the sight of Sherlock dozing in his favorite chair and had been staring at his departed friend's form for a long while. The light in the room had faded from bright yellow to deep amber as he stood.
Another step brought him closer to Sherlock's chair. He fixed his eyes on the entrance to the kitchen and picked up his foot, prepared to continue on. A change in the figure's breathing made his heart skip.
Stop it!
His foot found purchase on the ground, but a spoken word halted his motion.
"John."
That voice. His voice.
John kept his eyes riveted on the kitchen. Months of progress could be undone if he allowed himself to look at the figure in the chair. He just needed to make it to the kitchen. Past Sherlock's chair. The image of his old friend would fade, and he would face a rough night full of familiar, terrible nightmares. But better a night or two of pain than a swift descent into madness that embracing his hallucinations would surely begin. His feet remained rooted to the floor.
Get a hold of yourself! One foot in front of the other. What good is a solider that can't march? Just one foot in –
"John, please."
The same voice that held him prisoner seemed to set his feet free once again. John took another step toward the kitchen, passing within inches of Sherlock's chair. A hand shot out to grab his forearm. The touch burned like a branding iron.
"Don't touch me!" The explosive force with which the words came out of John's mouth surprised him. He hadn't had such an outburst since before… since before. The jolt of emotions – revulsion, anger, elation – sent him whirling to face the chair. His hallucinations had never reached out to him before. This was a very bad sign.
What good is a doctor who has gone insane?
The hand released its grip. The figure in the chair frowned. If John hadn't known better, he would have said the image of his friend – projected into the chair by his subconscious – looked hurt. And tired.
So very tired.
"Listen, John – "
"Don't. Don't speak. Don't you dare." John found his fists full of material as he half-hoisted the hallucination out of Sherlock's chair. His face was suddenly very close to the specter's.
"What gives you the right to be here? To sit in his chair? To follow me again after all these months?" He began to shake the figure by his shirt front.
"I'm getting better! I'm moving on. Why can't you? Why can't you?"
Why can't I?
Looking directly at the hallucination had been a mistake. It's features were so familiar, so realistic, they brought tears to his eyes. After all this time it felt good to see that face again.
Good. Right. Real.
"John, stop. Let me explain."
John released his grip and the figure sat back heavily in the chair.
"I said, don't." The words came out pleadingly. John sank to his knees by the arm of the chair, averting his eyes to a dark spot in the carpet. He could still remember the day Sherlock had upended one of his experiments in a fit of joy over cracking a particularly tough case. Mrs. Hudson had yelled at him for a solid half-hour about the nasty stain she was sure would be a deal-breaker with future potential tenants. Sherlock hadn't listened to a word – he sat in his chair, eyes bright with the victory of outsmarting another criminal…
Stop it, now!
"Why can't you leave me alone? Leave me in peace?"
In pieces.
"You want me to go?"
The voice was soft, questioning. It was all John could do not to turn his face toward that voice. Instead, he kept his head bowed, squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the form rise from Sherlock's chair, felt the movement of a foot raised to take a step toward the door. John's body convulsed and his hand shot out to grab the figure by the calf.
"Don't."
Not again. Oh God, don't leave me again.
The foot lowered; its owner sighed wearily.
"Will you let me explain, John?"
The voice propelled John to action once again. He dropped his hand, stood, and crossed the distance to his own chair. The cushions felt strange – familiar, yet distant, like the comfort of returning to a childhood bed one hasn't occupied for years. In truth, it had only been a year since he had last used his chair.
A year and a lifetime.
His eyes drifted back to the stain on the carpet. Looking at Sherlock's chair would hurt; looking at the hallucination again would tear him apart. As the silence stretched on, the voice started again, obviously interpreting John's silence for capitulation.
"I've come back, John. My work is finished. You're safe now. You're all safe. I can finally reveal myself."
John laughed humorlessly.
"But only to me."
Only ever to me.
John had tried once, just after it happened, to make others see Sherlock. It didn't take long to come to the conclusion that his friend's appearance was simply a trick of his subconscious – a last ditch effort to escape the horrifying reality that Sherlock was gone forever. Everyone passed John's episode off as a singular event perpetuated by grief. He was content to let them think so. But Sherlock was everywhere. In the coffee shop. At the bank.
On every rooftop.
He only revealed the extent of the visions to his therapist after a particularly gruesome hallucination left him dazed in the street. The quick reaction time and expert driving skills of a cabbie were all that stood between John and a fatal accident. It wasn't the danger of the situation that drove John to tell his therapist, but his disappointment at surviving. After having seen Sherlock dive once again from the building across the street, John had welcomed death as an alternative to reliving The Fall every time he stepped outside.
Once his head had cleared, he was afraid of his reaction. The visions needed to stop before he did something drastic.
Therapy had helped. The hallucinations came less often, until they finally stopped altogether.
Until now. And it's worse than before.
"No, John. To everyone. I'm ready to go back to work, to start living my life again. But you had to be the first."
Living his life? My subconscious is ruthless.
"When did you become so cruel? Talking, touching. You should stick to jumping off of rooftops. It's easier to handle." John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Tears would not help the situation resolve any faster. Or maybe they would.
No. This facsimile of Sherlock doesn't deserve my grief.
"I don't understand, John."
Oh, don't you?
"My hallucinations have never been this corporeal. I've never interacted with one. I would just stand by and watch them jump. Watch them fall."
Watch you fall.
"John."
John's eyes popped open. The hurt and pity in the voice was palpable. John could feel the specter's gaze boring into him, reading in his appearance every detail from the year of Hell. He had missed the way Sherlock could read him so easily. Sherlock's specter was doing an excellent impression of its predecessor.
"John, look at me."
The stain on the carpet seemed to shrink. Soon there would be nothing left to hold John's gaze. He was in severe danger of indulging his hallucination.
"I'm getting better. Or, I was. I haven't had a vision in months. Then you show up. It had to be the scarf this morning. Brought you back. But I can't go back to this. To seeing you. It's not safe. It's not sane. I came so close to… to the edge. But the therapy has been working. I can't go back to that place."
The dark. The desperation.
"John, please. Look at me. I'm not a figment of your imagination. I'm alive."
Alive.
The word broke John's focus on the ever-shrinking carpet stain.
My ever-shrinking grasp on reality.
His gaze turned slowly upward to meet the eyes of the figure sitting across from him. Familiar eyes.
His eyes.
The agony seemed to cut off John's breath. He couldn't look away now if he fought with all of his remaining strength.
"What can I do, John? How do I convince you that I'm the real Sherlock Holmes, not some apparition come to pour acid on your wounds?" The words were frustrated, sharp.
Warning bells went off in John's head. If hallucinations meant that he was unstable, what did an unstable hallucination mean?
Breathe. First, breathe. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale.
The first breath was the hardest, but the next came easier. He realized the figure was waiting for a response.
Calm.
"I'm afraid nothing can be done, Sh –"
Stop it! Not his name.
John had been very careful to avoid saying Sherlock's name. Seeing such a realistic vision of his old friend today had forced the word to the tip of his tongue.
"I know what you are saying isn't true. It can't be."
"You think I'm lying to you, John?"
"I think my mind is trying to cope with the memories that resurfaced today at the coffee shop. It's projecting my emotions into that chair, telling me what I want to hear. Trying to escape the truth. Trying to be kind."
And the kindness will kill me.
The specter bowed his head and rubbed his temples. The loss of eye contact tore at John.
"Please don't. Don't cover your face."
The figure lifted his head and locked his eyes on John, who sighed. Minutes went by without a sound.
"I know what needs to be done, John. We must call a witness. Maybe you will believe someone else's word over mine."
Tried that already.
"I can't. The first time was bad enough. The worry, the whispered concerns over my mental health. If anyone knew that I'd actually spoken to you – touched you – I'd be locked away."
"I'm sorry, John. It must be done." John's mobile phone fell from the spirit's fingers.
When did my hallucination grab my mobile?
"What did you do?" Dread was beginning to settle in John's stomach.
"You summoned Lestrade. He thinks he's coming to collect some old case files that you found in my things. Trust me, John. Everything will be alright."
Trust him? Never.
And always.
"Sure, everything will be alright for you. You'll fade, like you always do, and leave me to clean up the mess. Again."
You'll leave me.
"I won't leave, John. Not ever again."
Several moments went by while John pondered the implications of such a vain hope.
"And when you do leave? How am I supposed to go on? How am I supposed to work, or sleep, or stand?"
It seemed his hallucination had no response but to stare unhappily back at John. John drank in what little time he had left to memorize the face of his departed friend.
A quarter of an hour passed in silence. A knock at the door shattered the uneasy calm that had settled over the flat. John sat forward in panic, unable to take his eyes off of the figure across from him. The apparition was forced to break eye contact, to move. He stood out of Sherlock's chair and gestured to the door.
Don't leave me!
"John, you must answer the door."
"I can't."
He'll make you leave. You'll leave me.
"You can, and you must, John."
The figure bowed his head and drew a sharp breath.
"I've no right to ask it of you, John. But do this. Do it for me."
No!
No.
Yes.
Anything.
John stood and walked slowly to the door. Another knock. Lestrade would want to know what took him so long to answer. His hand rested on the knob for moment.
For you.
Steeling himself, John opened the door. Lestrade's hopeful expression was colored with worry as he took in his friend's appearance.
"It's good to see you, John. I'll admit, I was surprised by your text. But I'm proud of you. It's time. Time to go through his things."
John moved aside wordlessly so the detective could enter. He shut the door. With his back still turned, he heard Lestrade's mobile hit the floor.
"Impossible!"
"Not entirely, Detective Inspector."
John whipped around. The voice – his voice – was addressing Lestrade.
Impossible.
Lestrade looked back at John, then back to the figure across the room.
"It can't be! It's him. It's you! You're here. How? John, it's him!"
What?
"Thank you, Lestrade, for being perceptive as always."
No. No, no NO!
Stop it!
Lestrade looked at John again.
"John? Where did you find him? How? John? It's him, John. It's Sherlock!"
Don't.
John lowered his eyes.
"Don't say that name. I can't – I can't bear it."
"John."
His voice.
John moved his eyes slowly across the room, landing on the vision of his friend.
"He can see me, John. Hear me."
The figure walked across the room and laid a hand on Lestrade's shoulder.
"He can feel me, too, John."
"I don't understand. John? Sherlock? What's going on?"
The figure removed his hand, took a half-step back, and turned away.
"You see, Detective Inspector, John doesn't believe I'm actually here. Thinks he's hallucinating. Again."
The last word came out between clenched teeth.
"It's my fault, Lestrade. I was never a very good friend. I tried my best, a year ago. By jumping."
Jumping.
Falling.
John felt like he'd been struck in the stomach. He let out a soft groan.
"I'm sorry, John, but I did it to protect you. All of you. It was the only way to keep my friends safe. But look what it did to you."
The figure twisted around, a beseeching look in its eyes.
"I knew it would hurt you, John. For a time. But you would move on. And I would return when you were safe. You would be angry for a few weeks. But you would forgive me."
Hurt. Safe.
Angry. Forgive.
John turned to Lestrade cautiously.
"Detective, you can –" The words stuck in John's throat.
"You can see it, too? You can see him?"
Lestrade grimaced. The pity in his eyes reminded John of his first hallucination.
Of course not. It's the same as last time.
"I can, John. This time I can see him, too. Because he's here. Actually here. Alive."
Alive.
Alive?
John faced the figure again.
"Alive?"
"Yes, John. I'm alive. I'm really here."
Alive.
Stop it.
Alive!
John took a lurching step toward the figure of his friend.
"Sherlock?"
That name. Good. Right. Real.
"Yes, John."
Two more halting steps brought John across the room. He sank to his knees in front of his friend, head bowed, and began to weep.
"Sherlock. Sherlock! You're here. Sherlock, you're – "
Alive.
Alive! Alive! Alive!
Sherlock knelt and grasped John's shoulders.
"Can you forgive me, John? I didn't know. I didn't think it would hurt you like this. I didn't know, but I should have. I'm so sorry, John."
John started to laugh.
"Sherlock's alive, Lestrade. He's alive, and he's here!"
Alive! Here.
The detective smiled.
"He is, John. He really is."
"Detective? Just so you're aware, I'm going to murder him tomorrow."
Sherlock started laughing, too.
"Even with the heads up, it will take him a week to solve the case."
Lestrade turned toward the door.
"If the insults are going to start again, I'll let your murder go unsolved for a month."
He looked back over his shoulder.
"We are going to have to talk about what happened, Sherlock. On that roof."
Jumping.
Falling.
John's laughter cut short. He grabbed Sherlock's arms to steady himself. His friend stopped laughing as well.
"Of course, Lestrade. Tomorrow, at the Yard."
"Tomorrow, then. I'm really glad you're back, Sherlock."
Lestrade left the flat, closing the door quietly behind him.
Glad you're back.
John looked up into the face of his friend. He knew there would be more pain to come. More emotions. Rage, confusion, betrayal. Possibly hatred. But none would last. The despair, the sadness, was gone. In its place, nothing but sweet relief.
"Sherlock."
"Yes, John?"
"Sherlock. It just feels good to say it again. Sherlock."
Sherlock!
"I know, John. I'm so sorry."
Don't.
"Don't. Not right now. Be sorry tomorrow. Be here now. Sherlock, you're here."
Here.
"Always, John."
Always.