A/N: Heh, this story idea just popped up into my head and I had to get it written down. (smirks sheepishly)

DISCLAIMER: Pfft… If I DID own a thing, you would've seen season 3 months ago. (pouts like your average five-year-old)

Alright. (gulps) I'm a bit nervous right now so I'll just ship this out before I chicken out. I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride!

Until We Meet Again

During the long, painful and confusing months following his brother's fall Mycroft Holmes did his best to keep an eye on John Watson. He knew, with utmost certainty, that it was what his brother wanted him to do. He kept visiting John with the persistence of a mashochist, pushed and shoved the doctor towards the land of the living. In the end he was the one who ushered John to reconnect with his therapist after finding the doctor sitting at a kitchen table with Sherlock's gun right before him. That sight would be forever burned into his nightmares.

Months blurred together. In the end over a year passed. And as ashamed as Mycroft was to admit it he no longer visited John even half as often as he should've. Even though the doctor seemed to be getting back to his feet, slowly yet steadily, it was simply too painful to see the man Sherlock's absence had created. Especially when Mycroft himself was still aching.

During some moments of anger and bitterness Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had the slightest idea of the shell of a man he'd left behind. If the detective had paused for even a second to consider.

Mycroft really, really should've paid more attention. Or that's what he told – screamed – at himself later. Should've noticed the traces of sleepless nights, the loss of weight, the forced smiles, the never fading longing in those eyes.

Because one frosty winter morning when Mycroft knocked on John's (yes, now only John's) door, no one answered him. The door was open, though. And John would've never left the door open.

Feeling ice cold dread spreading through Mycroft pushed the door and entered. His hand slipped to where his gun was while he walked on slowly, terrified of what he'd find. Once properly inside he found even more warning signs. For the first time since Sherlock's fall John had taken the time to clean up properly. Everything was spotless, organized, prepared.

Fear crushed Mycroft's chest, so hard that he couldn't quite catch a proper breath. Goddamnit, John, tell me that you weren't this stupid…! "Hello, John? Why is the door open?" he called out, hoping and praying for a response. None came. "John, are you home?" By then sheer terror was taking over his voice. He didn't care. "John!"

There wasn't a trace left of the doctor. Or well, almost none. Nothing but a letter that'd been left neatly to the kitchen table. 'To Mycroft', had been written on the envelope with John's familiar handwriting.

His fingers trembling so badly that the action was almost impossible Mycroft opened the envelope. Drank in the words although they were the last ones he would've wanted to find. As soon as he was done he alerted the police. Already then tears were shining in his eyes. It wasn't until much later he understood why.

A part of him already knew that he'd been too late.

Later on they discovered that John had taken a cab drive to a violently flowing river quite far away from the apartment. That alone was unnerving. It was winter time and the water was icy, to put it mildly. What they found there, however, shattered whatever little hope they'd had.

They found John's favorite jacket, along with a half empty bottle of sleeping pills.

'I'm so sorry that you have to find this letter. If I'd see any other choice, believe me, I'd take it. I know that this is selfish, stupid and cruel. I hope that you'll understand one day. Maybe you'll even be able to forgive me eventually.

On the day he jumped Sherlock followed his heart. Now I must follow mine.'

Sherlock Holmes found out about John's death the way no one should ever find out that the most important person in their life is gone. He opened a newspaper. And right there, black on white, the obituary was sneering up at him.

The mug of tea slipped from his fingers while he stared, stared and stared, trembling right down to the core of his being. The pain that ripped through him… It was unimaginable. In any other situation he might've wondered how in the world it was possible that he survived such agony. It should've killed him, right there and then. It really should've.

It's not true that only those who are dying see their life flashing by. Because at that very moment of pure hell Sherlock relived every single second of his life with John. The only period of time in his life that could be called actual living rather than surviving or stalling the inevitable.

He remembered every little detail. Every single moment together. Every smile. Every argument. Every case they solved together. Everything.

Sherlock gasped, black spots already dancing in his line of vision. Fumbled futilely to find something he could've used as a support. There was nothing. John wasn't there.

"This… This wasn't how it was supposed to go, you idiot!" He didn't have the slightest clue of who he was yelling at. The one his words were meant for wasn't even there to hear. Would never be. "You… You were supposed to be there, waiting for me! You weren't supposed to…!"

Only silence answered his howls of pain. And all of a sudden, without any warning whatsoever, Sherlock did the last thing even he would've anticipated.

He cried, from the bottom of the heart he wasn't supposed to have.

'I begged him for a one more miracle, you know? Right there. By his grave. And since then I've been waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. It hasn't been even two years yet I feel like I've aged five decades.

It feels like my heart and soul have been stretched thin, Mycroft. The days pass by and I just keep waiting. I keep staring at that door, expecting him to walk right through. I can't live like that forever. That's why I decided to go and find him myself.'

Sherlock didn't have the slightest clue of how he managed the three weeks that followed him discovering the news. Because he wanted to follow John, with all there was in him. Maybe his soul had been forgotten on Earth. Perhaps it was the unfinished things. There was a reputation to be cleaned. There were still people he needed to catch. People who needed to pay for John's death.

John. John. John. Always John.

One day Sherlock was just coming back from a long walk, of which he didn't remember more than a few steps, when he sensed that he wasn't alone. His hand froze to the door's lock while his eyes widened. Because his heart knew, long before he heard a thing.

"I'm sorry that it took me this long to find you."

Slowly, slowly, he turned around, terrified of doing so. Terrified to discover that he was mistaken or hallucinating. He wasn't.

Right there, only steps away, stood John with a tiny smile on his face. Far thinner than before and visibly exhausted. But alive. "Since you weren't able to give me a miracle I decided to provide you one for change." The doctor's eyes weren't dry. "You know, Sherlock… I don't know if I want to punch you or hug you for leaving me behind like that and imagining that it was supposed to protect me."

For a second – one, eight, fifteen, twenty – Sherlock kept staring. Then uttered the only words that came to his mind. "I… think that I'd prefer the hug."

'As for Sherlock… Don't worry about him. As soon as I've found him I'll have his back. Just like I always did.

Until we meet again,

John Watson'

END

A/N: (chuckles) I'm getting soft as I age, it seems. I just can't wait to see those two reunited. Please tell me that the rumors of season 3 are true! (sighs)

Alrighty… (clears throat and gulps nervously) Honestly, you guys, was that any good at all? Or total dumpster material? PLEASE, leave a note and let me know! I'll still very new to 'Sherlock' fandom so it'd mean the world to me.

Thank you so much for reading!

Take care!