A/N: Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them.

Due to some over thinking and re arranging, I've lost some chapters and I'm re-adding them. I apologize for all the re posted chapter emails.


Sherlock met him at the door, late one rainy September night. He seemed quite pleased with himself and didn't even give John a chance to take off his coat as he led the protesting doctor into the dimly lit living room, dragging him by his coat sleeve with exclamations of "Come on John, just give me a few minutes, you won't regret it."

John sighed tiredly and rolled his eyes as he watched his flat mate throw himself onto the living room floor amidst a pile of pillows that were strategically placed, and grinned up at him. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked warily. He knew a happy Sherlock meant a mess that John would have to clean up and a moody Sherlock to deal with soon afterwards.

Sherlock only grinned gleefully up at John in reply and patted the floor beside him with his hand. Shaking his head and knowing he was going to regret this somehow, John slowly lowered himself to the floor beside Sherlock and rested his head on the pillow Sherlock handed him as his eyes immediately took in what Sherlock was trying to show him.

He couldn't help but gasp in surprise at their now transformed and star-studded ceiling that seemed to shine down on him and Sherlock like a glorious chorus of colors. Placed on the ceiling were about a hundred or so glow in the dark stars and planets, each had their own unique shape and color and were stuck gracefully to their sky with sticky tack. They all shone brightly against the blackness of the room and they seemed to be swirling and sweeping across the ceiling.

It seemed as if the colors touched and mixed with each other and the old water stained ceiling had come alive with bright hyper active stars that John knew were victims of the latest experiment of the genius sprawled beside him, clutching the old union jack pillow while trying to act casual.

"You're like Vincent Van Gogh with glow in the dark stars and sticky tack, Sherlock." John laughed, his tiredness and annoyance now forgotten. "It's beautiful." He heard Sherlock chuckle softly. "I knew you would like it, today was terribly boring and we ran out of tea and so here they are." Sherlock gestured proudly at his luminous artwork with a sweep of his hand

"I thought you didn't know or care for anything about stars and such?" John asked Sherlock, who lay beside him trying to contain his excitement at John's praise. Sherlock shrugged, trying to act nonchalant "I know a little more than you think and the rest I just made up to make everything as I see it."

Sherlock pointed to a large orange moon, "There's Mycroft," He motioned to a small purple star, and a pink half-moon, "There are Mrs. Hudson and Molly." He continued on pointing out different stars and planets and their names, Sherlock's version. Lestrade was a flaming green comet and Donovan and Anderson were two tiny yellow shooting stars that appeared as if they were going to crash into the large yellow sun.

He's showing me his universe thought John and he realized that he was starting to understand what Sherlock was trying to share and explain to him, in that way of Sherlock's that you had to use your heart instead of your eyes to understand.

"And who are those two stars, Sherlock?" John asked as he pointed to two light blue stars that were close together and it seemed as if all the constellations and stars swirled and centered around those two small stars. "That is us, John," Sherlock softly answered. "Just the two of us against the rest of the world." The quiet and simple reply surprised John, he never realized until now that this was how Sherlock pictured them.

"It's a pretty big world, Sherlock." John whispered as he swallowed past the lump in his throat at the gift Sherlock had just given him. "I know," Sherlock replied, "That is why you are there next to me, because I… I can't do it alone." Stillness hung over the room as John thought over those words and he knew that it was true for both of them.

"Those are pretty brave stars, Sherlock." John softly replied as he looked over at his friend. Sherlock nodded, his curls spread out on his pillow like a dark halo. "Yes, I suppose they are, the funny thing about these stars is that they keep on shining so the other one knows where it is and that they are both still alive. They know if they just keep shining they can keep each other alive in the sky and not let the other fall. That is what makes them brave, it's each other."

Sherlock's voice faded as if surprised by himself and what he was letting himself say and he tried to cover it up by a wave of his hand at the stars. "Sentimental things, stars." Sherlock laughed softly. John looked over at Sherlock and let the honest and strangely humble words coming from Sherlock wash over him and they looked at each other for a moment and John smiled at Sherlock, "I'm glad... I'm glad you picked me." He whispered and as they silently turned to look back up at the ceiling, they let their eyes trace the twin stars and John heard him softly but clear as day whisper back, "I'm glad you picked me."

As John shook his head and smiled to himself in the dark, they both silently wished and hoped that they could be as strong and brave as those stars that shone hopefully and courageously above them.

They lay there, side by side on the living room floor and they let the stars of their universe watch over them, as they made up names for the extra stars and planets and they talked about the day's events, Sherlock's newest case, John's work down at the Locum. As the night wore on and the successful experiment shone above them, they listened to the soft rain patter against the window panes and they fell asleep in the midst of their pillows, under their brave and sentimental stars.

~~0~0~0~0~0~0~~

No one met him at the door that rainy night, trying to ignore the dull ache and pain in his shoulder and leg, John let himself in the dark flat, not even bothering to turn on the light as he walked slowly into the living room, and tried not to notice the empty chairs beside the dead fireplace. He silently lowered himself onto the floor and rested his head down on the union jack pillow that still faintly smelled of Sherlock.

He lifted his tired eyes to look up at the stars that still stuck to the ceiling, though now it seemed like all their life and light had been taken from them and their colors had faded away. They no longer shone or danced and now they just appeared as they really were, like plastic stars stuck with sticky tack to a water stained ceiling. It seemed like the stars had died along with Sherlock, none of them having any life to offer John.

One of the twin stars had disappeared from the rest of the stars after Sherlock's death. John thought it had fallen down and he had searched for it frantically, but could not find it anywhere in the flat. As he lay there in the dark he wondered if the star had also been just a dream, but he knew by the empty space beside the hollow and faded star left behind that it had been so very real. It had the look of something left behind.

The universe started to blur as the tears came, and he covered his face with his shaking hands and as he lay there alone, John Watson cried. He cried for himself, he cried for his best friend and he cried for what he once had and knew he would never find again because he knew that soldiers like him never got second chances. As the tears slipped between his fingers, all he could think of was that he had let him fall, and there was nothing he could do or say to make Sherlock come back. John had failed. He had left Sherlock and let him fall.

You can't wish upon a fallen star when your best friend had become that fallen star. Wishes of fallen stars cannot save themselves. He lay there on the cold living room floor, the empty space beside him growing heavy in his mind as the soft rain pattered against the window panes in the vain attempt to cover up the sobs.

~~0~0~0~0~0~0~~

No one was waiting for him that cold night as he entered the motel room that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. As he settled down on the worn-out bed, he pulled out the faded blue plastic star from his battered coat pocket. Mycroft had silently handed it to him the last time they had met. Sherlock hadn't asked for the star; but somehow his brother knew he would want it -needed it- sometimes spying on the flat had its advantages.

He wiped the dried blood from it with his thumb, the small star had survived many hard days and nights with him during his travels but he had always managed to keep it with him. He almost lost it a few times but he always managed to find it again. He closed his fingers around it as he lay there in the run down motel room, as the No Vacancy sign flashed through his window.

He closed his eyes and listened to the rain coming down, his mind started to rebelliously wander and started to think about another rainy night and another star he once knew, and a cool wet sensation started to run down his face in the darkness. He realized that he was doing what people did when something or someone died and they knew would never see again. He realized that it was something John would call grief and he could hear John's kind voice in the back of his mind, saying that it was something that was alright to have.

He had never let himself face the feeling before, but for the first time, Sherlock Holmes admitted to the feeling of regret. To his dismayed surprise, he helplessly pressed his palms against his forehead, and Sherlock Holmes cried. He cried for himself, he cried for what had been his only friend and for what he once had and he knew he would never have again because he realized it all too late.

He didn't know as much about stars as John did but even Sherlock knew that once a star had fallen, there was nothing on earth or heaven the could place it back in the sky from where it had once shone bright. Even if it had the choice and the will to live again, it was separated forever by the vast space between darkness and light.

He lay there on the hard bed, letting the wet streaks on his weary face match the wet streaks on the cracked window pane as the soft rain pattered against it and he clutched his bloodied and faded star, hoping that someway it still might have something left in it to guide him back to the unreachable place he used to know as home.