The rain got heavier as Dr. John Watson walked the usual route back to 221B Baker Street. He had stayed longer than usual, he noted, as he glanced up at the now darkening sky. It had been two weeks, only two weeks since the funeral of his friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Since that day John's new routine had consisted of getting up, having a cuppa, visiting Sherlock's grave and thinking, just thinking. Thinking of when's and where's, how's and why's. The most painful of all for Dr. Watson, were the if's.
What if? What if Sherlock hadn't jumped? What if Sherlock was still alive? What if he had listened to the people who knew him and Sherlock, the ones that insisted they were a couple? What if he had tried?
He would stay at the grave and think for hours barely keeping track of time until all the unanswered questions grew to be too much and he had to leave, go home and escape into the realms of sleep. If only for a few precious hours. Then he would do it all over again the next day.
John sighed and turned the collar of his coat up against the rain. His clothes were now drenched and he was beginning to shiver slightly. John muttered a curse under his breath. Why hadn't he thought to bring an umbrella? The rain was still going strong and he was quite a bit away from home. John was just thinking to himself that he was most likely going to catch a cold when the rain suddenly stopped.
It took him a moment to realise that the rain hadn't actually stopped but rather something was covering him, shielding him from the downpour. John looked up to see the black material of an umbrella obscuring his view of the night sky.
"For a doctor you really do seem to care so little about your own health." A voice said.
John froze and his breathing halted as his mind registered the voice coming from behind him. A voice he would recognise anywhere. He wanted to turn around and make sure that his assumption was right but he was afraid that if he did turn around the illusion would break and he would be alone.
"John?" The voice implored.
John closed his eyes and inhaled. It had been too long since he had heard the rich, deep voice of his best friend, his roommate, his colleague.
"John, look at me." The voice demanded.
John couldn't help but chuckle. He was still as bossy and impatient as ever. John slowly turned, eyes still closed until he was facing the general direction of where the voice was coming from. He heard a huff of exasperation and couldn't help grinning like a fool. Some things really don't change, not even in death. John winced at the thought and quickly shoved it aside.
"Will you look at me already?" The voice asked.
John was able to feel warm breath caressing his face. It felt real, but this couldn't be real. Could it?
"No." John said simply, and felt rather than heard the voice sigh in response.
"I'm scared." John admitted to the voice, knowing full well that this was the only person in the world that he would admit something like this to.
"What are you afraid of?" The voice asked sounding half exasperated, half concerned.
"That you will disappear." John replied.
There was silence for a long moment and then John felt long arms pulling him into an embrace. John suddenly felt the urge to cry but he quickly pushed the feeling aside. He wouldn't cry. He had done enough crying in the last few weeks, enough for a lifetime.
"I'm not going anywhere, John, not without you." Sherlock said.
John felt long fingers tugging at his chin, forcing him to look up. John could feel breath hitting against his face and he couldn't stand not looking anymore. He slowly opened his eyes to see the sharp cheek bones, supple lips and hypnotic eyes of his best friend. John slowly reached up with one hand and placed it on the man's face, just to make sure he was really there. As John's fingers made contact with the smooth skin of his cheek the urge to cry became too strong to ignore any longer.
"Sherlock," was all John said as the tears started to roll down his cheeks.
Sherlock Holmes smiled slightly as his fingers gripped John's chin more securely and lowered his head down until their lips were almost touching.
"John. " Sherlock said before closing the small distance between them and pressing his lips lightly against John's.
John jumped awake finding himself in Sherlocks bed, where he had been sleeping since Sherlocks death, drenched in his own sweat. The room was still fairly dark, indicating that it was early morning. Maybe 3 am, John though to himself as the reality of what just happened hit him. It was just a dream, only a dream he realised as his eyes started to water. John sat up hugging his knees to his chest as he gave himself over to grief. The tears ran freely down his face as huge sobs racked through his body.
About an hour passed before John was able to pull himself together. Once his body has stopped shaking and the tears had finally dried up, John lay back down on the bed. He snuggled his face into the pillow and inhaled. Sherlock's scent had started to fade, being replaced with his own, John noticed with displeasure.
Another hour passed before John gave up on the idea of going back to sleep, the feeling of Sherlock's lips on his own haunting him. With a sigh John got out of bed and walked on weak legs towards the living room. Maybe a cup of tea would help.
The room was pitch black as the curtains were shut, so John stumbled about until he reacted the light switch. The bright light blinded John for a moment before his eyes adjusted and he was able to make out the scene in front of him. The living room looked the same as always; two armchairs in front of the fireplace on one side, and the coffee table in front of the sofa on the other.
The only difference was that there was now a figure lying on the couch. The figure's arm was slightly over his face, shielding his eyes from the light. He was looking right into John's eyes. John was frozen, he couldn't move a muscle. Slowly the figure rose from the couch and make his way towards John until he was standing right in front of him.
"I'm home, John, " was all Sherlock said.