And suddenly he was standing there, Sherlock. You know when you get really worked up about something online and lose the ability to type? That's what the inside of my head sounded like. AZSDFBQKAJL;;;;SDSLJSSSSSSSSHERLOCK. I…yes? No. No. THWACK! And he was recoiling, rubbing his jaw, hurt, but understanding. Christ. Did I do that? Must have done. I thought back almost four years to the last time I'd done that, before the fall, the hound, the woman. It had felt bloody fantastic then. So why not now? Jesus fuck. WHAT?

No. No this has happened before John. No. This isn't real. It can't be. And yet, he's never done that before. Oh Christ that voice. God. Haven't heard that in a while, have we Johnny? No. Has it always been that deep? Good lord.

"Hello John." Oh crap.

And darkness. Bright, merciful black. Just a dream then. Again. Oh well.

As I came to he was peering at me, worried eyes overflowing with…Jesus, was that emotion I saw in the eyes of the great Sherlock Holmes? Gah.

"You were dead," I managed, "I saw you, all bleedy and very not alive."

He smiled weakly, apologetic and very un-Sherlock.

"Hush now John. It's all fine."

I reached up to touch his face, to run my thumbs over his cheekbones. Just to make sure it was really him and he was really real, I told myself. That was why. Yes. I brushed over the tender spot where I'd hit him, I wouldn't say sorry. Not just yet. He deserved it anyway. Didn't he?

"Did you miss me?" He said, with just a hint of laughter. Bastard. I opened my mouth, not quite sure what my sharp retort would be, but certain that one would come. Nothing did. Well, nothing except more blackness. Does blackness count as nothing? I feel like it should.

When I emerged from the darkness again, he was still looking down at me, still on the verge of tears.

"Get out," I said, "Please," and as he placed my head gently on the floor I added as an afterthought, "But don't go far." A creak of the tenth stair and he was gone again. That was that. He wasn't going to come back was he? No, this was all some elaborate dream. Poor old Johnny's mind winding him up again, like it had that time someone had pulled me away from the edge of the roof of Bart's and I caught a glance of a shock of dark hair and a swirl of wool sweep back inside.

I hauled myself to my feet and made for the kitchen, tea. Tea was always appropriate, and seeing as I had no idea what the situation called for, it must have been tea.

After my second cup I heard a scream from downstairs. Mrs Hudson? I pounded down to her flat to see Sherlock standing over her, perplexed and worried.

"John she fainted." Yes, thank you for that Sherlock.
"You're...I oh God Sherlock."
"Later John," he said and he was entirely right, a woman of Mrs Hudson's age should not be fainting willy-nilly.

Much later, once Mrs Hudson was conscious and relaxed with copious amounts of, you guessed it, tea, Sherlock and I retired to 221B.

"I...seriously Sherlock. Why?"
He smirked, "Not 'how' John? I'm disappointed."
"Shut up and tell me." Prat.
Sherlock squirmed and avoided my gaze, "Moriarty, he said if I didn't...he had snipers on-" Sherlock broke off looking vaguely distressed.
Oh.

Hallo, so I wrote this a very long time ago and only just wrote it up. I assume I'm going to add more to this, but I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with it.

You know I like it when you review but no pressure.

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