"Sherlock." John muttered in his sleep. "Where are you?" Since Sherlock's death John had seen glances of him everywhere, in the street he saw a swishing coat under a halo of curly black hair, or he saw someone on TV who bared a resemblance to his former best friend.
He woke up to a startling bang followed by a sharp silence. He got up and walked to the door slowly.
"Who's there?" He shouted as he walked out of the room, he was wearing his usual sleeping attire, shorts with a t-shirt, and he had nothing to defend himself with. He heard another bang then a bit of cursing. "I'm warning you, I'll call the police. Who's there?" John repeated.
He stepped into the kitchen and saw a human silhouette leaning into the fridge.
"Stand up!" John said as he picked up a chopping board from the table next to him.
The man stood up, "I needed some files." He said. John dropped the chopping board and the man turned to face him.
"Sherlock? You can't be here. You just can't. You're- dead." He couldn't say the last word and he couldn't move.
"John, I know what you're thinking.."
"I'm thinking this is a dream, I'm dreaming, you can't be here." John didn't think this could be real, he didn't believe Sherlock could be here.
"No, you aren't. I'm here, it's me. I'm back, for good." Sherlock seemed different, John couldn't think how he just did. In the lighting John could only see one physical thing that was different, he had a light scar circling his eye, very faint and quite old but John still noticed it.
He reached out lightly and stroked it. "What happened?" Sherlock leaned away from the touch but nonetheless John stroked the scar, tracing the patter on it.
"Little bit of a mix up, I'll explain later." Sherlock said lightly, savouring the feel of Johns hand on his face, the feeling almost electrical left a zing even after John pulled his hand away.
"But you can't explain it later, you aren't real, you're a dream." John said, he was trying to persuade Sherlock what he thought he knew.
"John." Sherlock sighed, "I'm not." But John wouldn't take it.
They sat up all night, talking about everything but at the same time nothing; John filled Sherlock in on what was going on at work, with his friends, Molly and Lestrade, and what Mycroft was doing. Sherlock was particularly interested in what Mycroft was doing, especially when John said they didn't speak since the fall.
"John, you're falling asleep, go back to bed." Sherlock said, he'd interrupted John but by now he wasn't talking, he was too tired to talk, he just mumbled.
"I already am asleep, but okay. I think it's time I wake up and sleeping might do this." Goodbye Sherlock, if you're still alive and can hear me from my dreams then come home, as soon as possible."
"I will," Sherlock whispered, he walked over to John and lightly kissed his head, with severe caution, he didn't want John to reject him. John kissed back; his hand slid under Sherlock's top and he was stroking spirals into his spine. This electric feeling between the two men got John wide awake but when Sherlock pulled Johns hand out he was immediately tired again.
He wasn't really tired, he didn't need the sleep, he was tired of not having Sherlock, and he was always tired. His eyes were always heavy and he could hardly ever make it through the day.
"Goodbye" John made his way to bed and fell immediately to sleep.
He dreamed of happy things, he dreamed of Sherlock as usual.
When John woke up to the sound of his buzzing alarm he walked to the kitchen and made a coffee for himself, and an extra one, just like every other morning, just in case Sherlock came for breakfast. John was still persuaded that Sherlock being there last night was a dream; Sherlock couldn't be there, he could never come back.
Thinking this obviously got John even more surprised when he picked up a coaster and found a note.
John, I'm sorry for leaving, you thought I was a dream, I couldn't stay. I'm sorry. –Sherlock.
It was signed with a signature that John couldn't believe he would ever see again.
He sighed and sat down. He'd lost his chance.