Just a Dream

I knew it was just a dream.

But there he was, standing in front of me as if he'd never been gone, his coat collar turned up the way it always was when he was trying to show off his cocky brilliance, his soft blue scarf wrapped around his neck, his dark curls an untamed mop. No scars from the fall, nothing… just Sherlock.

I should be angry, I thought. Angry with him for leaving me, for leaving all of us. And for a moment, I tasted my fury—hot, stinging, and repulsive. But it left me almost instantly, replaced with an overwhelming desire to speak to him. I had missed him horribly.

"Sherlock…" I called to him, trying to catch his attention. But he stared past me, through me… As if I wasn't even there.

"John," he said, his deep voice resonating in my ears. The sound was rich and almost beautiful, a sound I had missed desperately. My eyesight blurred at the mention of my name, the sound of his voice. Even in death, Sherlock still cared.

"John, can you hear me? Are you there?" His voice was calm but urgent, and beneath it I could hear a tremor of desperation that betrayed his anxiety to hear me say something, see me do something, just to show that he wasn't alone.

I shouted his name as loudly as I could, screaming it until my throat was raw. But there was no response, no answer. I felt tears falling down my face as I tried again and again.

"John," he repeated. "John!"

I was almost in hysterics, shaking violently as I thought wildly, trying to find something to throw at him, if only to let him know I was there, I missed him, I hadn't abandoned him. But the room was empty, devoid of all the things that should have been strewn around my bedroom… nothing!

Sherlock bowed his head; a single, crystal-like tear fell silently to the soft carpet beneath his feet. And then another. And another.

And in that moment, one simple, impossible idea touched my mind. At first, I dismissed it. It was too small a gesture, too tiny a detail. Unaware of this unnoticeable difference, my best friend would disappear, despairing. But this only fuelled my determination.

I saw another tear fall from Sherlock's blue-green eyes, and without another thought, just as Sherlock began to turn away, I caught it.

The tear splashed, small and warm, against my palm, creating the tiniest of sounds. For a moment, I had a horrible feeling that Sherlock hadn't noticed; somehow, somewhere in the back of his illustrious mind palace, his alert senses hadn't heard the little splash, hadn't noticed the subtle difference between that and the sound of a tear hitting thick carpet.

But then he turned, and I saw his eyes—the haunting sadness, the loneliness… But above all, the desperate hope, the tiniest prayer that he truly was not alone. He stretched out his hand, his long fingers feeling the thin air, just as he had so long ago on the roof, reaching out to me, searching.

Slowly, I raised my hand, and our fingers touched.

I felt as if I'd brushed against a downy feather; the touch was so light, so transparent. I had always that that ghosts would be cold and frightening, but this one was warm, comforting.

Tears blurred my eyes again, and somehow I knew that Sherlock felt my hand, too.

"John," he whispered, but it wasn't a question. It was a realization that someone was reaching out for him, and that mysterious, invisible comforter was me.

Finally, he turned to go.

"Don't—" I begged, but suddenly everything vanished. I blinked, confused.

Sunlight, golden and warm, filtered through my curtains; the sound of London traffic—cabbies swearing, horns blasting their impatient symphonies, tour guides discussing the landmarks as they rolled by in busses—swirled in through the open window, the one Mrs Hudson always propped open on summer nights to help cool the room.

I knew it was just a dream.

But as I rolled half-heartedly out of bed, something stopped me.

A shoe print, too large to be mine or Mrs Hudson's, was embedded in the malleable carpet. Sherlock's print. I touched it, expecting it to vanish, but it didn't. I blinked, and it seemed to shrink to my size. I shook myself and headed for the bathroom.

It was just a dream, nothing more… just a dream.

Wasn't it?

A/N: Okay, hopefully I'm doing this part right… So, hope you liked it! This is probably my favourite Sherlock one-shot I've ever done. I might not have gotten the British spellings and everything exactly right… I'm American, and I may have missed a few spots because I checked it pretty quickly… but anyway, please review! There will be more stuff to follow!

Also, the line "And in that moment, one simple, impossible idea touched my mind" is based on the track name of the piece "One Simple Idea" from Hans Zimmer's incredible soundtrack for the movie Inception (I swear, the top fell). This one shot was based on a photo I saw online; it's also the cover photo (hopefully) for this story.

Enjoy!

Love,

Arwen ;)