AN: I haven't written much in ages now, have I? Well, I guess it's time. I'll try a rebound with this post Reichenbach BBC-Sherlock fic. I've just fallen so for the show that I had to - then again who hasn't...? I hope you like it - please tell me what you think if you read it so that I'll know whether to continue or not, yeah?

Oh, and as if you did not know - Sherlock does not in any way, shape or form belong to me. The original works belong to the fabulous author Arthur Conan Doyle, and the version that this fic is based on is property of BBC. Now that that's over, let's get started.

Love, Silly.

What you want, what you don't.

Chapter 1

John is a doctor. He is a man, and a soldier - but firstly a doctor. It is his nature, so deeply ingrained in his being that it is man which has become second nature, not profession. It has gotten worse since that damned day he will not let himself think about because it will only do harm, and you have to live on. John is a doctor, and that is why he understands. That is why, when Sherlock appeared on the couch one day out of the blue, he did not acknowledge him. He did not talk back. He even tried to avoid looking, but the man moved with his gaze, making it rather difficult. If there was one thing the doctor in him did not want to admit it was that he coped so badly with his former flatmate's suicide that he had begun to hallucinate, but there was no other way to see the situation. He has considered getting help, but I know these are hallucinations, I know he's not really here, so I can handle it myself.

Day by day. That is how John Watson handles his life, always has. More than twenty-four hours in his head at any given time would make him feel the pressure of time, which scares him. Not many things do, but time, and increasingly the faux-Sherlock wandering about in his mind. He tells himself he should be able to handle the situation better - he's seen so many men, and quite a few friends, die before, some of them even in his arms - still... Still he kind of likes having the detective's ghost walking about, it makes the long, dark days easier to get through. Things aren't the same since he jumped. John still can't walk past that block, always detours. It has been hard settling back in to the apartment again as well - he even stayed at Harry's for a couple of days at her will before managing to go back at all. The place was, still is, almost all Sherlock's things. The army doc didn't own too many things, he'd been abroad for too long to bother, so he hadn't had much to contribute with interior-wise. Almost everything is still standing where it was before... It's been months and I still can't say it, think it. This isn't good. The only thing he's moved, the first thing he did when he returned to 221 b, Baker Street, was the microscope in the kitchen. It was where Sherlock had sat so often, and he just couldn''t stand the constant reminder that he is not there any longer. That he was no longer alive. That's how he puts it; Sherlock is no longer alive - still unable to phrase it any other way. Gone. Dead. He knows he should be there by now, that he should be able to face what has happened - it's what normal people do, but instead he had looked over at where the genius would sit with his microscope one day to once more see the emptiness there - only it wasn't empty. Sherlock had been sitting there, carelessly, giving him that quick, slightly menacing smile of his before returning to fiddling with some little thing on the table. I needed it to be you, Sherlock. I needed you to be back, but I knew you weren't. I knew it was all in my head, that I was breaking.

The good doctor has thought about going back to his therapist, but he won't. He's been to see her a couple of times after the death of his best friend, but found it of no help. When she tried to make him utter the words that Sherlock was really dead he stopped going at all. No, he'd said. He just couldn't. Can't. Then he told her he had no intention of returning, but not to worry, he wasn't going to harm himself.

Without Sherlock around, his life has become eerily hollow. Empty. No more excitement or strangeness, a complete lack of the eccentricity that the younger had brought with him to their friendship. Now it was only John and work and sleep. Sometimes he eats, but he skips most meals these days, having begun to pick up the habits of his dead friend. Oh, God, Sherlock, I miss you so much. Truth be told, Sherlock was the only best friend John had ever had. Sure, there had been friends and lovers and girlfriends before him, but Sherlock was the only best friend he ever had. Fuck. The ghost speaks to him sometimes, and he wants so terribly to return the conversation, but he can't allow himself. If he does, he knows he would only fall further into a world of dreams (or are they nightmares) and ghosts and things that cannot be. He still has people that care. Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, Harry, Molly - heck, even Sally Donovan checks up on him every now and then. He goes out for beers with Lestrade every so often, has dinner with Mrs. Hudson most days, talks to the others a couple of times a months. Mostly, though, his life is an empty shell around him.

He has helped so many soldiers back to life both physically and mentally, but now, when he needs to help himself, he can't. Helping himself would mean moving past Sherlock, but he can not and will not do it. The gaping hole in his heart would not close so easily, of that he is sure. People wondered, some had even asked (and one of those ghastly, glossy magazines had gone as far as to print an article about) whether they had been a couple, romantically involved. John could not blame them, had he seen how he was coping (Oh, God, I'm so pathetic these days) he would have wondered himself, but all he could do was shake his head. No, we were not lovers. Not a couple. He was my best friend. He thinks back, remembering every detail and each single word spoken between them. Not in public, Sherlock. People might get the wrong idea...

It has been half a year now. Six months to the day, and it is one of those hellish days where everything seems dark and impossible. Every once in a while this happens. his chest feels heavy as a mountain and he won't bother getting out of bed. He calls the office to say he won't make it in, a discomfort not made any better by his ex-girlfriend Sarah being the one to pick up the phone. He mumbles what he called to say and is about to hang up when she speaks.

"John," she says. Her voice is soft and warm. "I'm worried about you. Are you all right?" She seems sincere, not just asking to see if he is still able to do his job, mentally speaking, but actual concern.

"Today? Not so much. In general I'm fine, though. Don't worry..." He hears her sighing on the other end. Imagines her shaking her head, remembers the flow of her hair.

"I do." His turn to sigh. "Let's go out for coffee after work tomorrow. I wan to make sure you're really fine."

"Ok." Hang up. Beep. Fine. Bit of an overstatement. Coping badly, more like it.

He falls asleep.

When he wakes up he feels a presence. He looks around the room, but Sherlock is not there. Quick deduction; there is someone in the flat. The soldier pulls himself out of bed, feeling the weight of the world crashing down on his bones. It takes him a couple of minutes, but eventually he manages to get on his feet and walks slowly down the stairs to the sitting room. He feels a wave of unease at the figure posed in what used to be Sherlock's chair, same upright pose and a faint familiar likeness.

"Mycroft?"

"Hello, Watson... John."

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" The fact that the two of them started out rather unpleasantly has never quite been righted.

"Now, now," The remaining Holmes brother says in his typical, slightly threatening politician's voice. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. It is, after all, my foolish little brother's fault that you are... below par - shall we say - lately." It feels like every atom freezes.

"Your foolish little brother would still be alive if it weren't for you!" John snaps. Every last bit of composure and calm built up by his years in military service discarded. There was a limit to how much even he could take in a day, and Mycroft's statement had flooded that pool. He feels tears press on the back of his eyes.

"The one thing I truly regret." Mycroft sighs. His words sound like riddles.

"So you are capable of emotion, then?" Composure regained, but there is still venom in John's voice. Normally he controls the anger, keeps it out of sight, but today is not one of those days.

"I am sorry, John." The politician is being honest for once, no repellent walls of lies concealing truths any longer. Unspoken went what he wanted to but could not say. (He's still alive. I helped him. He's watching over you, we both are. He had to. He has to stay out of sight to clear his name, and keep you safe. He'll be back, John.)

"Please leave."

Mycroft is a clever man. So similar to and yet so different from his little brother. He knows when he has overstayed his welcome, and exactly how long he can do so for before it ends badly. It is time to leave, truly.

"Good bye, John. Take care."

The door closes behind him and John breaks down. He falls to his knees on the floor, tears running freely from his eyes. His entire body is shaking like a violent fit until there is no more water left that his body can spare to make rivers. He still shivers for hours after his cheeks dry up. When he finally finds the strength to get himself together and off the floor, he settles in the nearest thing, his chair. For a long time he simply sits there, exhausted both emotionally and physically. He hasn't eaten for about three days now, he guesses, eyes still closed. It is beginning to take it's toll. You wouldn't even recognize me any more if you did come back, Sherlock. When he eventually opens them he sees the envelope that Mycroft must have left on the table. He contemplates throwing it away without opening it, but his better judgement (and Sherlock's voice in his head - Well, think about it next time, we could used the money... - Sherlock sitting curled up in the chair opposite him) sees him open the envelope, cursing as he causes himself a paper-cut. His not-really-there genius of a flatmate looks at him with eyes saying "how did you manage that?" before he speaks. "Be more careful, John. I don't like you getting hurt."

The doctor wants to look up, he wants to answer the man he so wishes were really there, but instead he keeps his eyes on the envelope now slightly reddened with his own blood and prays for the hallucination to go away as he opens it all the way. "You know I'm not going anywhere, John. Why are you even trying, you don't even believe in this God you're asking for favours. It's quite silly, really." There is money to last him the month there, as always when Mycroft stops by, but this time there is not only the bank-notes, a little foreign coin also falls out of the envelope as he turns it upside-down. Had he not know the I play a small part in the British government Holmes he would have assumed the coin ended up there by accident, but he is the British government Holmes never had anything happen by accident. The man had never made a mistake his entire life, of that John was sure. The coin was definitely intentional, but why?

"Think, John. Even your average brain can figure this out."

It is so hard for the doctor not to reply, retort like he would have if his flatmate/best friend/not lover was still there. He has to concentrate to not part his lips and speak. He used to think it would get easier with time, but that hope is fading. It has only gotten harder so far, the more time passes the more difficult it becomes to deal with the ghost of someone so dear to him. John is not the dramatic type, he has never wanted to die, but he is not so sure any longer. It is so difficult to keep going without his conductor of light there to pull and push him through the otherwise far too mundane days. He's back to the cane again, the yes, I know it's psychosomatic limp has returned along with the shivering of his hands when he is not under pressure. He needs something to happen, to throw him out of the routine that has been killing him slowly for the past half year.