It was raining outside. The silver drops slid slowly down the window that John was staring out, a small fog spreading across the glass with each sigh he let out; his body still waking up from his nap, but his mind already swarming with thoughts. Mrs. Hudson rapped quietly at the door, sticking her head into the living room and saying meekly, "John, dear. Can I make you some tea?"
John shook his head slowly. "I had another nightmare. Just trying to clear my head."
Mrs. Hudson came up and put a tentative hand on his arm. "I'll put the kettle on, in case you change your mind."
John didn't move, just nodded in thanks. He was watching the lights of Baker Street blur and smear down the window with each new drop that hit the glass, breathing slowly and trying to think of happier thoughts. The nightmares are frequent again. Never about Afghanistan, though; those horrors long healed and faded. No, these nightmares were about a different war entirely. One he and a comrade, a colleague, a friend, a genius, and a savior had once fought together. The war wasn't over, but there was no way now for John to fight. He discharged himself and watched from the sidelines of 221B.
The doctor wiped his face on his sleeve, and decided to take the tea Mrs. Hudson had offered. They sat in silence for hours, sipping cup after cup of tea and listening to the rain. Finally, as night fell hard, John decided to turn in. Fearing the nightmares, but too tired to stay up all night, John slipped into a restless sleep, and a long forgotten memory:
"John, you needn't be afraid." His mother's voice had always been calm and sweet. "Everyone has their own guardian angel to watch over them. He won't let anything happen to you. Especially when I'm not around."
The five year-old John snuggled deeper into his mom's arms, drying the tears his nightmare had induced. "What is my angel like, Mummy?"
"Well, Jonathan, he has soft, midnight black wings to be a comfort to see. He is much taller than you to provide a protective feeling. He has a suit of deep blue, and a-"
"Why blue, Mum?"
His mother smiled. "Because it looks good on him, John. Even angels like to be fashion forward!" John giggled, and his mom continued. "You particular angel is a peculiar one, because you are not an ordinary boy. You're a special boy who's much stronger than he thinks. That's why your angel needs you, too. He needs to know someone believes in him."
"Why do angels need someone? Aren't they strong and fearless and capable of healing and helping everything and everyone?"
"Sometimes even the bravest, smartest, most fearless angel needs someone to believe in him. Always believe in angels, John. Especially yours."
John Watson shot straight out if bed and onto the floor, gripping the side of his head in grief. Without even changing his clothes, he grabbed a jacket and raced out into the rain, hailing the first cab he saw.
The cabbie pulled up to the graveyard, and John threw a twenty in his face, before sprinting off across the gravel paths to the tree they buried him under. He stopped at the plot, and suddenly seemed to be suspended in time. He no longer felt the rain, no longer recognized the chill of the wind through his thin pajamas. All he could see was his reflection around the marble words: 'Sherlock Holmes'. John slowly sunk to his knees in the rain-drenched grass, watching the water slide down the headstone in slow drips from the leaves above. Each silver drop carved a slow path down the stone like blood pouring from the depressed wrists of a sky mourning for the losses of the Earth. John lifted his face and let the water wash over him, letting the heavens attempt to pour out new life and fresh starts onto his face, until his tears mixed with the rain as they all fell upon the spot where his angel now laid to rest. John bent down, wrapping his hands around his head and pressing his forehead to the ground. "Not all angels have wings, Sherlock. But all angels heal and all angels protect. I was never afraid when I was with you, only afraid for you. You healed me. You helped me. You were the bravest, smartest, most fearless angel of them all. And that's why I always believed in you."
A coat was draped over his back, and a hand rested on his shoulder, a voice saying gently, "And that's why I believed in you."
John lifted his face to see Sherlock leaning over him, his curls flattened against his face and his purple shirt clinging to his thin frame. The rain dripped off him in rivers, a small shiver running through his body as he smiled at John, looking for forgiveness. John's breath caught in his throat, and he stood up quickly. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't make any coherent noise other than "You're back." He threw himself into Sherlock's arms, but rather than falling into a strong hug, John passed right through, landing hard on the dirt. The phantom dissipated, and John lay shivering, alone, on the ground above where they buried his hope.