A/N This is a strange idea I had a while ago that I finally got around to writing. Hope you enjoy :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing :(

John willingly accepted a drink from the barman and slumped against the table in exhaustion. It was late, the bar was almost empty with the exception of two drunk men flailing around on the dance floor to an old blues track. Flashing red lights played with John's vision and he rubbed his tired eyes as his surroundings began to grow blurry.

Today had been rough. John had woken up that morning to find that Sherlock was gone. Again.

This shouldn't have affected him as badly as it did. He knew full well that Sherlock had been dead for six months.

And yet, with the right combination of alcohol and sheer exhaustion, John would occasionally walk to his flat to find his best friend waiting for him, leaning against the door frame with a sad smile gracing his lips. Each of these times John had dismissed as a dream, a cruel trick of his imagination. That didn't stop him from anticipating his next meeting with the detective.

The first time this had occurred had been a mere two weeks after John had entrusted his friend's body to the earth. His mind had been swimming enough from the dangerously high volume of alcohol he had consumed that day and the sight of the tall figure in the dark coat waiting by his front door had sent him reeling with shock. He couldn't recall much about that incident, only remembering his shaking hand reaching out to touch Sherlock's cold face while muttering incomprehensible words, his shock messing with his already hazy mind.

Then his vision had faded to black as he collapsed from exhaustion and entered a dreamless state, waking up on a hard mattress with a raging hangover and a freshly broken heart.

He'd managed to remain sober enough to visit Sherlock's grave that day as a reminder that no matter how badly he wished to be reunited with him, he could never see the mad, brilliant detective again. He settled for talking aloud by the gravestone, mentioning that he missed his friend dearly, and letting his hand lightly touch the black stone before leaving for home, knowing that that was the closest he'd ever get to physical contact with Sherlock again.

Or so he'd thought. A week passed and his previous dream about the detective had been long since forgotten in the midst of another set of dull seven days. However, as he shakily turned the key in the lock and stumbled into his flat he found Sherlock once again awaiting his arrival, a hint of anguish crossing over his pale features as he took in the dishevelled form of John before him. Despite his drunken state, John was not as paralysed by shock as he had been the last time. Once again he reached out a hand, his fingertips gracing across Sherlock's cool, porcelain cheek. He was surprised by how real and solid the detective felt beneath his touch. He'd expected his hand to slip through the image of his friend and for the illusion to fade away around him.

Mild shock gave way for crushing grief and a sudden sob escaped John's throat as his heart clenched painfully with the reminder of what he'd lost.

"Oh God, Sherlock!" He choked as sobs wracked his body and his legs gave way, launching his body into Sherlock's arms. For all he knew he stayed there for hours, crying his heart out while the detective cradled him protectively in his arms, his body growing tense as everything John had wanted to tell Sherlock in that final phone-call came pouring out between sobs.

When John had finally finished talking and had resorted to gabbling nonsense words instead, he closed his eyes in a bid of desperation to remain in this dream-like state. He let a hand rest across the detective's chest next to where his head lay, letting the steady heart-beat beneath his fingers comfort him as his body lost its strength from the mixture of alcohol and grief.

He didn't want to leave this safe haven in the comforting darkness behind closed eyes while the false thought that Sherlock was alive sent a beautiful comfort throughout his body. Pulling away from his best friend would make the moment finite, breakable and he couldn't bear the thought of his surroundings fading away to nothingness if his active imagination failed him.

"Forgive me John."

John froze at that familiar voice, one that he'd missed so much. John adored that smooth, velvet baritone that he had heard so often during their days in Baker Street, the voice that could command an entire room with its intelligence or could impress even the hardest to please with its scatter-gun delivery of the detective's deductions. However the voice he heard now seemed strangely alien to him, as if his imagination was simply playing a broken record of what it thought Sherlock was meant to sound like. It was too quiet, too emotional and there was too much defeat lacing his tone. His dreams were giving him a rough copy of what it could recall of the man's brilliant voice and John's heart shattered at the realisation that one day he'd completely forget what his best friend had sounded like.

He remained close to the cold form of his best friend until exhaustion claimed him once again and he slept in Sherlock's protective hold. Once again he awoke to another day in his now monotonous existence, alone and grief-stricken. He spent an entire morning ransacking his apartment, searching for something, anything to suggest the detective's presence there the previous night but there was nothing. No evidence to prove he'd been there at all. John's mind had once again played cruel tricks on him, raising Sherlock from the dead for a short time only to tear him out of John's grasp once again.

However as more weeks passed, his dreams of Sherlock grew more frequent. As always he'd wake to the horrible realisation that the night before had been the work of his imagination and each time this knowledge hit him harder than the last.

He tried desperately to let go, he really did. In the earlier days, when he wasn't drowning his sorrows on particularly bad days or trying to avoid Lestrade's constant offers to help out on cases, he was visiting Sherlock's grave, hosting one-sided discussions about everything from the weather to fascinating new cases he'd read about and attempted to solve using Sherlock's methods. He could almost hear Sherlock's frustrated shout of "Boring!" as he spoke but in the end it was all to remind himself of the reality. His best friend could never return to him.

It didn't help though that just as John started to accept this he would walk to his flat and find Sherlock there, either sitting silently on the sofa, deep in thought or waltzing around the room complaining about the lack of interesting cases to excite his mind with.

John enjoyed seeing Sherlock again, while he hated to admit it. It was nice to see that his memories of the detective remained vivid, that his imagination could replicate every mannerism and mood of his best friend. On Sherlock's sulkier days John did what he'd always done; tried desperately to deal with the detective, arguing with him if necessary and smothering a chuckle as Sherlock's boredom resulted in him performing an unintentionally funny act.

And when Sherlock was quiet, a rare occurrence and a pleasant one at that, the detective would simply sit and face John, listening intently as John discussed how his life was getting on, how he'd managed to improve his drinking recently, a feat which had led him to be persuaded by Lestrade to get involved in new cases. Sherlock drank up his words, showing genuine interest in John, much to the other man's surprise, and seeming genuinely impressed when John described how he'd managed to solve a new case. Each dream was individual in its own right, the only constant was that just before John was dragged back into reality, Sherlock's tone would turn sad and lost as he asked for John's forgiveness.

The realism of these dreams was cruel. While John had accepted long ago that they weren't real, he still found himself desperately wishing that Sherlock would still be there with him in the morning. And, while waking up alone continued to be an agonising experience, he still found himself eagerly anticipating his meetings with the imaginary detective. John knew this was hardly healthy, he should have been pushing his life with Sherlock behind him instead of embracing these foolish dreams while his best friend rested six feet underground.

However, he found that he wasn't ready to give up Sherlock quite yet.

The barman's yell for closing time brought John back to the present, with his drink sitting untouched beside him and the two drunk dancers complaining loudly as the music was cut off. John quickly downed his shot, thankfully his only one of the night, before grabbing his cane and heading out of the bar. He didn't need his cane as much these days, but his limp had a habit of returning and he didn't want to risk having to drag himself home. Exhaustion once again crept into his system after taking a short cab ride to his new flat, making his eyelids grow heavy as he shakily turned the key in the lock with limited vision. The red lighting in the bar seemed to have burned his retinas.

His heart sank when he stepped into his flat and noticed that his friend was absent, the only thing there to greet him was bleak emptiness. He would be lonely that night.

Without bothering to change his clothes he staggered into his bedroom and collapsed onto the bedsheets, allowing tears to wash over his cheeks as the horrible emptiness of the space swallowed him whole.

Waking up alone was bad enough these days. Going to sleep alone was tortuous.

As he quickly drifted off to sleep it occurred to him that he had forgiven Sherlock long ago for leaving him alone and for dying before his eyes. Now all he needed Sherlock to do in return was to one day be there for him when he woke up.

Thanks for reading :) Whether Sherlock was a dream, real, hallucination etc is up to you. This is just a strange idea that I've wanted to write for a while, so I hope you enjoyed. Reviews are welcome :)