Authors Note: Hey guys! This is my first fic on here. All of the characters do not belong to me. (Sadly) :D Enjoy!
John shot up in bed, a cold sweat sticking him to the sheets. The dreams where back again. Hunched over in the dark, his chest heaved. Every night for the past six months, John Watson would relive his best friends death in his dreams. All his saw was a repetitive echo of Sherlock Holmes falling, and the sick wet thud he made when he hit the ground. The sound would forever be engrained into his mind, along with the sight of his crumbled form in a heap on the sidewalk.
He swung his legs over the edge of this bed, and headed into the living room of the flat. Ever sense Sherlock left, the flat had a dark feel. No more experiments lined the inside of the fridge. No beakers and test tubes. Just the belongings of a sad man grieving the loss of the man that saved him from himself,
John eased into his chair, the yellow smile eerily looming above him. John reluctantly picked up the paper like he did every night. Reaching over, he flipped on the side table lamp.
"Suicide of Fake Genius."
The paper was weathered and torn. Water stains streaked the ink, making it barely readable. The tears cause by the only man who would continue to read this paper six months later of course. Over and over again John read the report that set the facts straight. That Sherlock Holmes, once a critically acclaimed private deceive was a phony. And to escape his own web of lies he threw himself from a local hospital roof. When he was finished, he returned to bed and wrapped himself in one of Sherlock's old jackets. Not that it was cold in the flat. The smell of Sherlock seemed to sooth John when he was in distress. John Watson slipped into a land of sleep, a cloud of cologne as his transport.
John materialized back in his old Army barracks. He held a mop and bucket in his hands. He set them down, knowing instinctively that he was to wash floors. The rooms were empty, but everything was angelic with a bright white glow to it. John closed his eyes, letting nostalgia take him over when he felt a familiar feeling creeping up his spine. One that he had only felt when he was in the lab with Molly, and... Sherlock. whirring around, he dropped the bucket. Warm soapy water sloshed over the sides and he found himself unable to speak, unable to move.
Stood before him was none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. He was dressed in all an all white, practically glowing. His previous head lacerations healed without a trace. John found himself frozen in time and space. The corners of Sherlock's mouth rose up into a quirky smile.
"S-Sherlock?" John spluttered
Sherlock nodded, rolling his eyes good naturedly.
"Who else would I be you twat?"
John ran forward, arms open to hug him. When John got there, Sherlock disintegrated like smoke before he could tough him. John stared at his hands, unable to comprehend what had happen before crying out in anguish. John frantically ran around the room, screaming "Sherlock! Sherlock come back!" Screaming until his throat went raw. John dropped to his knees, sobbing into his hands.
Sherlock wasn't coming back. Never. Not even in his dreams.
