AN: AU in which Sherlock really did die. I'm not one for fluffy endings, so make of that what you will.
John had been suffering for months. Condolences meant nothing to him, and he had become as introverted as Sher- No, not him, not that name. He couldn't bear that name. His best friends name. Oh, he wasn't depressed for lack of trying. No, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had been nothing but helpful, but he was beyond help. He had sunk below the surface and nothing could bring him back.
He was certain half of London thought him mad now. On more than one occasion he had been certain he had seen him. Seen the coat whipping around the corner, the scarf coming off, the eyes and sharp features in the mirror or the glass of shop windows. Every time he thought he saw that, though, when he tried to focus, the details appeared in horrifying focus. The side of his skull, collapsed, his hair matted with dried blood, his eyes, God, his eyes. The eyes that had once mesmerized him. They used to change, he recalled. They would be gold one moment and the clearest turquoise the next. Now the appeared to him as the had on the pavement. Dull blue, like ice. There was no life behind them. That had to be one of the hardest parts. Knowing that never again would there be that spark, the kind he got when a case was particularly challenging. He would never have to search for things that had been moved to make room for the head in the fridge. He had been infuriating, but Christ he missed him. That was how he found himself here. On the floor of baker street. A mug of tea to his left and a gun to his right. He sipped his tea and muttered to himself. 'I can't do this. No, I have to. I have to be with him. But Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, they would miss me. No, of course not, I barely speak. They probably wouldn't even notice I'm gone for a few days.' It was then that it happened. Not for the first time, he saw Sherlock well, as he had been before. Sherlock didn't sit, but rather balanced himself on his long toes, his fingers together under his chin. 'You really think you can do this?' 'No- I mean, I don't know. Only one way to find out, huh.' 'And you think doing this will bring you to me?' 'I don't know. Christ, dead and you're still a pain in the ass.' 'You don't want to do this. Not really. But you will, if only to prove me wrong.' John swallowed and nodded. 'Right again.' Sherlock nodded. 'I thought so.' It was then that the healthy Sherlock started to flicker. 'No, don't leave me. Please.' John said to the form before him. Sherlock returned to a solid form, but not as he had been. It was the Sherlock that refused to leave John's memory. His blood matted his hair and streaked down his face. 'Come on John.' He said through white lips, his eyes unblinking. John's shaking hand reached for the gun. 'Oh, really? We both know you can't. you'll try, certainly.' John glared at Sherlock through tears he didn't remember crying. 'I will. I. Will. See. You. Again.' Sherlock leaned forward. 'Prove it.' John shivered at the cold lips on his ear. Willing his hands to stay steady, he raised the gun to his temple. 'I'll see you soon, Sherlock.'
So... Please please please review. also feel free to check out my other story, the only. (Shameless self promotion don't mind me)