He didn't want to sleep.
He'd been having the most vicious of nightmares in the months since Sherlock had left him, ripping him apart with a phone call. How he had forced John to watch, as he stood upon the ledge. Two words that shredded his whole world into vast nothingness.
Goodbye John.
Without Sherlock, John's life became slow, dull, and average. There was no more a consulting detective to give his life meaning and excitement. He had stopped eating, and eventually, Mrs. Hudson would sit there in the kitchen of 221B and make sure he ate, even if it was only a little.
And the dreams.
Those pitiful, horrid, gut-wrenching dreams. How over and over again he watched as his best friend leapt, waving his arms as though he could fly. How his body hit the cold, hard ground, bruising the pale skin. He could never forget that his pulse was gone when he looked, how blood stained the angular cheekbones of Sherlock's face. He never would forget that man. That wonderfully glorious, insane man.
He feared sleeping, but all the same, his body began to slow as he sat in his friend's armchair. He began to doze as he stared at the lonely violin he kept dusted off. He at last fell to the darkness of his subconsciousness.
When John opened his eyes, he sat in his armchair across from Sherlock's in the middle of the sitting room. Everything was the same as he remembered, the violin on the table, the skull on the mantel, the cup of tea he had never drank.
But then... There was Sherlock.
He sat in his armchair, right across from John, not meeting his eyes. The detective looked around the room, but not at his still living flat mate.
"I hope you don't mind that I moved you... I just thought it would be better for you to wake up naturally with you in your chair and me in mine. I... Well..." Sherlock trailed off.
"My mind is torturing me again. It was bad enough watching you jump every night... And now it gives me dreams that you're still alive. I'll wake up and you won't be here, and it will just be me in a dusty flat like always. Because this is a nightmare in disguise," John whispered, standing.
Sherlock rose with him and walked to his side. When John turned away, he could hear a small sigh from the other man. A cruel dream... That was all it was. No matter how hard he tried to believe it, he didn't want it to end. Unbidden tears rose in his eyes, and he put up a hand to hide them.
"Why are you crying, John? I know it's been hard on you with me being away, but it had to be done, because I love you!"
Sherlock's voice brought John to look at him.
"This is a dream," John said.
"If this is a dream, wouldn't it be a happy one? Why are you crying when it's supposed to be happy?" Sherlock questioned.
"Because it is a dream, but I want so badly for it to be real. I want to look at you every day, like this. Not having to remember that you went off and killed yourself right in front of me. I want to tell you about my irritating work days, and I want for us to make jokes about your brother, and insult Anderson. I want you to be here again, but you can't be... Because... Because you're dead. You're dead, and this is my mind's way of trying to delude me into thinking that the best man I've ever met is still here."
John flopped back into his chair and openly began to sob. It was uncontrollable. He heaved with the pains of longing, of grief. He forced himself to ignore the mirage in front of him, reminding himself of the hurt caused by the death of his loved one.
No one could have fooled him. He knew Sherlock, and Sherlock wouldn't let him suffer and fall to pieces. Because despite it all, Sherlock was his friend. Friends don't lie to each other like that.
"It's just a dream... Just a dream... Just... A... Dream..." John murmured, and the dream began to fade away.
John snapped awake, still in Sherlock's armchair.
It had been a dream. Why... Why couldn't it have lasted just a little longer? Why did it have to be him to suffer?
He had promised Mrs. Hudson that he would not get into anything, but this, this was just to much. His medical training gave him everything he needed to know. One or two well placed cuts, and it would be over. One shot with his gun at the right angle, and the pain would end. There were so many way he could stop it all now, and join Sherlock, his beloved Sherlock, in death.
He had forced himself not to think about it. Had done everything to keep his mind elsewhere, but there could be no more denying it. John had loved the madman. Loved him with everything he had. He never realized until he was gone though, and that was the worst part.
It hurt, he loved Sherlock so much, it had hurt to never have been able to say it. He knew, he just knew, that if he had said the words, Sherlock might have stepped down from the edge. He would have come down, and would have known that it wasn't about the crime solving or the fame with John. It was about him. About the way he was always so focused when looking through a microscope, or how he drank his tea with a quirk of his brows. About the beautiful melodies Sherlock would play late at night, luring John to rest.
And now it was all gone.
John heard a rustling in the kitchen, sounds of a kettle being put on. Mrs. Hudson, the poor woman. She always made John food, knowing he hardly ate any of it. Bless her soul, she was so kind. He wouldn't make her feel the way John felt when Sherlock left them.
Maybe she could help him get his mind off of such dark thoughts. The old woman was so uplifting, even letting John keep the smiley face on the wall, instead of having it repaired. She understood. Sherlock had brought as much into her life as he had into John's.
He picked up the cold tea off the table, and prepared to plaster on a horribly sweet smile as he went to greet his friend.
But when he entered the other room, it was not Mrs. Hudson's hand holding the spatula over eggs and hash browns. No, the hand was long, slender, and pale. A whirlwind of black curls and a fitted purple shirt, long, thin legs. But he had awoken! He was awake, and yet... The man of dreams stood before him in reality.
He was dimly aware of the cup dropping from his hands, shattering on the floor. Sherlock turned, and seemed tense. But it couldn't be true! It couldn't be Sherlock, because that wonderful man had died.
"It was... Erm... Nice... To see that you slept in my chair."
That was not the way a dream Sherlock acted. They would profess strong emotion, declare love, and were too much like John to be Sherlock. The man before him was the way Sherlock had been. An Intellectual paradise, and never said anything beyond "nice" in terms of affection or gratitude.
But he was dead.
Maybe John was dead and this was the two of them in the afterlife. But a spirit would have no need to eat, if such a thing did exist.
"I made food," Sherlock continued after a moment. "Mrs. Hudson said you weren't eating much, and she wasn't feeling well, so I said I would do it."
"Mrs. Hudson?" John questioned.
"I went to her last night, she wanted so badly to come and wake you, but I wanted to do it this morning."
"You died," John stated.
"For all intents and purposes, yes. Moriarty had hired several assassins. They were to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if they didn't see me jump."
Assassins... The new neighbors. It did make sense...
"But its been months. Why wait until now to come back?"
"I needed to observe and be able to definitively conclude that we were out of danger for the time being. I have few friends in this world John, and I intend to protect you lot even if it really is the last thing I do."
"How did you do it though?" The doctor questioned.
"I pulled a few favors, played on other's emotions, and got the job done."
John shook his head, in awe and disbelief.
"Who else knows about you?"
Sherlock laughed. "The whole of London, if not Britain will know by this afternoon. I have evidence clearing my name, and showing that Moriarty really was a criminal. Case, closed."
"How?"
" When we were on the roof of Saint Bart's, we had a talk. He openly admitted to everything, the assassins, the murders, everything. And well..."
"Well, what?!" John exclaimed.
"I recorded it all on a camera I had set up, hidden on the doorway. Already took it in to Lestrade, he's gotten everything together. I am once again, Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and greatest consulting detective."
John felt his legs moving of their own accord, carrying him over to Sherlock. He raised a fist, and held it in the air, before throwing himself forward and embracing the other man. Tears began to fall, and Sherlock placed a hand on John's back.
"Shhh," Sherlock whispered. "I'm here now, no more need for sentiment."
"Sherlock," John gasped out between sobs. "I love you! I thought I would never get a chance to tell you after that day, but I do! I love you, and it broke me into so many pieces to think I had never told you, that I never even realized until you were gone!"
Sherlock stiffened, only for a moment. Then he pulled John even closer, and placed a kiss on his head. One kiss. Just one, but it spoke volumes. Sherlock felt it, just as strong as John did.
Something that inspired life in every being of the world.
Love.