I can't believe what I am hearing.

"Leave a note, when?"

"Goodbye, John."

I stare up at the brilliant detective now perched at the top of St. Bart's hospital. He is so far up; I can just make out his bright blue scarf and curly black hair. He stands there talking to me on the phone.

"No… don't-" I see him throw the phone aside. He looks down at me for a brief second. I reach up to him. Tears form in my eyes, and I don't make an effort to brush them away. He spreads his arms out wide, like an angel spreading its wings to fly.

"Sherlock!" I yell. He falls off the rooftop. I don't see him hit the ground. 'No, no, no… This can't be happening…' I think to myself. 'Sherlock, what have you done…'

I run toward him, my heart beating a million times a minute. 'No… no…' I can see him now- my heart stops. He's on the pavement… I run over to him and the first thing I smell is blood.

Blood. So much blood… Sherlock's blood… The smell is everywhere. I'm drowning in it. It is overwhelming.

'Sherlock- no…' I see him on the ground. People are crowding around him. I must- get to him. "Please! Let me through…" They try to push me away. "No, he is my friend- please…" I grab his wrist hoping for something, anything.

Nothing.

"NO!" I jump up in my bed. My heart is beating hard against my chest. A drop of sweat moves down my face and I feel it slide down my neck. "It's just a dream, John-" I tell myself. "The same nightmare you have been having these past three years." Tears form in my eyes. "Three… years…"

Sherlock Holmes has been dead for three years now. I hate to admit that I still haven't come to terms with it yet. I still see him sometimes. On the streets, in the flat- whenever I least expect it. He is still the same Sherlock- the same old git. But I miss him terribly. I miss the adventure- the thrill of pursuing a murderer, or running through the streets of London just for the fun of it. I miss the feeling of the cold wind on my skin and the smoky air in my lungs. It isn't the same without his constant presence by my side. He got on my nerves most of the time, but I appreciated all that he did for me. He was brilliant.

He was my best friend.

I get up out of bed to make myself a cup of tea. I walk over to the kitchen and start preparing it. I glance over toward the window, and I see a figure standing there. I move closer to see if I can make them out more clearly. They are wearing a long coat. Their head is down, and their hands are in their pockets. I can't really make anything else out. They are standing a fair distance away from the flat. I think nothing of it, and turn back to the kitchen. As I take my first sip of tea, my phone buzzes.

'Who could be texting me this early in the morning?' I pick it up, and see that I have gotten a text from an unknown number.

[6:15am] NUMBER BLOCKED

John. Open the door for me.

-SH

"What?" I drop my cup of tea, and the cup smashes on the floor with a crash. Pieces of glass litter the floor, the hot tea is spilled everywhere. "Oh my god…" I whisper. The glass and tea are no longer relevant. I step forward, mesmerized by my iPhone screen. "If this is a joke, I swear to God…"

I walk toward the front door of 221b. My whole body seems numb. 'Could the figure outside have been Sherlock? Or am I just hallucinating, like all of the other times this has happened?' I don't notice I have arrived at the door until I walk straight into it. I hit my face against the wood and drop my phone. I don't hear it hit the ground. I grasp the door handle tightly.

'What am I going to do? Sherlock could be behind this door…' I decide that I should open it. I take a couple deep breaths. In and out. Then, I throw open the door. It hits me like a ton of bricks. Standing outside 221b is Sherlock Holmes.

The first thing I notice are his eyes. They are bright blue, and they sparkle just like they did before. And they are staring right at me. I notice creases on the sides of his eyes, the ones that show me that his smile is genuine. As I move down his face I get to his mouth and his defined cupid's bow. Right now, he is smiling. His lips are pink, and are chapped from the cold. I can feel him breathing, his cold breath puffing out in small clouds. He takes a step toward me. I am so close now, that I can see every birthmark- every freckle. My eyes move back up to his hair. It is just as curly and black as I remember. One curl sits right on his forehead. His eyebrows furrow- he is concerned why I haven't said anything.

A shiver runs down my spine. I realize that I am standing outside the flat in nothing but my red pair of pants. I dart back in and close the door.

"John?" he says to me through the door. "John? Are you alright?"

His voice is so deep.

"I'm… fine… I'm-" My bare back is pressed against the door, and I am shivering from the cold.

"John- I'm coming in."

"Sher-" Sherlock opens the door and looks back at me.

"John..."

"Sherlock…" I look down at my feet and gasp. I see the pieces of glass sticking out of them. 'Wha…' I look back toward the kitchen and see the trail of blood I have left.

"John, what happened?!"

"Sherlock..." I can smell the blood. My blood.

I focus on Sherlock's face as my world turns black. He catches me in his arms as I fall to the ground. His face is distraught. 'Sherlock Holmes cares about me?' I think as I lose consciousness.