Love Doesn't Die

by Nina Kellz

It's been two months since Sherlock Holmes "died," and the world is forgetting him quickly, but there's one person who can't. John Watson can't stop dreaming about him, longing that his best friend was still alive. Yearning for the man he secretly loved. But is Sherlock really dead? Is he, too, longing for John? Rated T for later chapters, slight sexuality/cursing. Johnlock.

JOHN

"Sherlock!"

John awoke with a jump, his heart beating terribly fast in his chest and his breath coming hard and quick. He was bathed in a cold sweat that caused his bedclothes and sheets to stick to his skin. His eyes were wide open now, so he just stared at the ceiling idly. He knew he wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep tonight, that it was just going to be the same as every other night in the past two months. All he could do was think about his dream, the same dream he'd had since Sherlock had jumped.

Since Sherlock had died.

In his dream, John was on the same street and he was looking up at the sky and being blinded by the sun. Then something blocked it. By now John only knew too well what was blocking the sun's rays, but in his dream, he was puzzled. What could it be? Is it a bird of sorts? A plane? He couldn't figure it out. He would stare and stare and then, like a whisper in his ear, John would hear "I'm so, so sorry, John," and then he realizes what it was blocking the sun with a jolt of terrible fear that felt like all his heart was stopping. It's Sherlock.

No, John would think, no, no, no, no, no.

Now Sherlock would shout. "John, do you hear me? I'm sorry. Tell them what I was, that I was a fraud." He would stop then, look down, and make eye contact one last time, even from so far away. "I'm so sorry," Sherlock called out and his voice would do something John had never heard before. Sherlock's voice would crack with pain and anguish and those would be his last words.

He fell.

No, John thought.

The body of his best friend fell from the top of St. Bartholomew's and took with him the sky and sun, as if they were sewn to his coat. He took all the light and made the day as black as night, made the world as dark as it would be without Sherlock. John just stood there, paralyzed with shock and fear. Sherlock seemed to fall slower and slower as he got closer to the ground and, without telling them to, John's legs began moving, running toward his friend. But he wouldn't make it. He never did. In a last ditch attempt, he would reach out his hand, and call the last thing his best friend would hear.

"Sherlock!"

But it was too late.

The man John loved was lying on the cold, hard pavement. Dead.