"John." Sherlock was frozen at the door staring in at the horrifying scene in front of him.
"No, you can stay were you are! It's not like you are really there anyway." In front of the fire place was where John had planted his feet and grabbed his illegal fire arm from the army.
"Please, John, I am here, I am home." Sherlock only made it half way there before the gun was pointed at him.
"Don't you move from there, or I'll shoot!" Tears streamed down John's pale face as his arm wobbled under the weight of the firearm, "Mrs. Hudson wouldn't like a bullet in the wall." Sherlock knelt where he was to show his friend that he was not going to move.
"She also wouldn't like a bullet in your head, please, put the gun down." This was the softest John had ever heard Sherlock's voice in real life or in his imagination, but that's all this was. A concoction of made by his tired brain to fulfill his desperate longing for a man who was dead.
"You have talked me out of this before, Sherlock, you can't do it again." John's voice was tired and defeated and from that tone and from those words Sherlock understood the strain the last two years had placed on the soldier doctor's shoulders, "Not this time, Sherlock."
"John, please, I am here. I can help, please, just put the gun down." Sherlock remained kneeling voice pleading, eyes begging. John closed his eyes face taut in concentration, moved the gun to his temple.
"You aren't real. You aren't here. You died, you're dead, Sherlock. You have been dead for two years now. And now I've had enough, I can't stand being without you!" The tears flowed faster than any stream down John's face filling his mouth with the sharp tang of salt and the bitter taste of despair.
Carefully and quietly Sherlock walked on his knees to where John stood with the gun still clasped tightly in his hand.
"John, I'm here, please, don't do this." He jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice being so near and returned the gun to it's former target, Sherlock.
"I told you to stay back!" John bumped into the mantle in his haste to step away from his own figment of imagination.
"I know, but I can't let you do this. I was forced to leave you and fake my own death! To keep you safe. John, it was fake."
"NO! Don't say that! You said that before! I don't believe it!" John left his station by the mantle and ran over to the couch, using his free hand and the hand grasping the gun to cover his head. Sherlock stood and followed John slowly as if trying not to startle a cornered and wounded animal.
"John," Sherlock whispered with more emotion that he had ever used even when alive, "I am right here, please."
Taking a deep breath John calmed down and lowered his arms. Only to aim the gun steadily at Sherlock, this time there was not a weaver in his stance.
"Oh, but Sherlock you're not." Sherlock dropped to his knees again and drew his lips into a thin line while pleading with ever fiber of his being for John to reach out. If he just reached out and and brushed his fingers over familiar skin or to run his hands through the same messy curls he was always complaining about needing to cut. But he didn't do any of those things he just stared blankly at Sherlock with dead eyes and a sullen expression.
He leveled the gun to Sherlock's head, knowing that Mrs. Hudson would hate to find a bullet in the flooring, but he couldn't take this version of Sherlock promising a happy ending that would never come.
John pulled the trigger.
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But nothing happened. No bullets were fired.
"John, did you think I was going to leave you alone in an apartment with a loaded gun?" Sherlock said softly as he regained his footing. Not giving John any time to react he pulled him into a tight embrace.
"Oh, God, Sherlock, it really is you." John broke down Tears running freely, sobs racking his now thin and frail form.
"Yes, John, it's me. I'm home."
And that was where they stayed for the rest of the night. In each others arms.
Sherlock comforting John.
John grounding Sherlock to home.