This is kind of a weird story for me. Still, I hope it's all right. It's post-Reichenbach and inspired by "Just a Dream", by Carrie Underwood, which I highly recommend listening to as you read this. Please enjoy, and do review.

Disclaimer: I don't own this. All credit to the BBC.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone and held down the 3– speed dial. It was about noon, a bright and sunny August day, and the familiar sights and sounds of London filled Sherlock with a giddy kind of glee. It had been three years since he'd been back in London, three years of travelling and destroying Moriarty's web of spies and killers. Just two days ago he'd killed Sebastian Moran, the last of the bunch, a vicious sniper and Moriarty's right-hand man, and now he was done, he was free, he hopped on the soonest train to London because everything he had was here, kindly Mrs. Hudson, sweet Molly, and John, wonderful John…

The phone kept ringing. Come on, come on, he thought irritably. Pick up! Finally there was a click, and Lestrade's voice echoed over the line. "Lestrade, what can I do for you?"

"Lestrade, yes, it's me."

"Sh-Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? God, your brother told me you were alive, but I didn't think…"

"No, you didn't think. Listen, where's John going to be in an hour? Is he still at Baker Street? I need to see him again." His voice was strained in an odd, pathetic sort of desperation; this was John, his John, and goddamn if anyone was going to keep him from seeing him after three years.

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Sherlock, Mycroft must've told you… John is–"

"I do not have time for this, just tell me where he'll be."

There was silence, and then Lestrade gave him the name of a church not far from Baker Street. Sherlock couldn't fathom why John would be at the church, but perhaps it was something with his sister. Perhaps Harry was getting remarried. Perhaps John was getting married. Perhaps that was what Lestrade was trying to say. In which case, Sherlock ought to dress a little nicer. Without saying anything else (especially goodbye), he hung up and rang Mycroft, who of course already knew about his arrival and was on his way.

Mycroft's car (of course it wasn't actually Mycroft) took Sherlock back to the Diogenes Club, where he showered, shaved, and changed clothes. If he had some more time he would have gotten a haircut– his dark curls were halfway to his shoulders– but that couldn't be helped. He'd lost weight over three years without John to force him to eat, so the clothes that once fitted him perfectly, occasionally to the point of being too tight, hung a bit loose on his skinny frame. Still, he looked presentable enough, so at ten to one he snuck out of the Club before Mycroft could see him and walked down to the church.

It looked entirely deserted from the outside. Sherlock leaned against the cool brick of the exterior and closed his eyes. He wasn't nervous, of course he wasn't, that would be stupid. He was just… a little apprehensive. He hadn't heard anything from Mycroft about John's personal life, he just got a note once a month that assured him John was still alive. Mycroft was his only informant, and he gave Sherlock no other information than if John was alive. Sweeping away Moriarty's web was entirely Sherlock's responsibility, Mycroft gave him no help with that, but he did exactly what Sherlock needed him to.

Sherlock stood up straight, all six-plus feet of lanky body, and steeled his resolve. What was he so nervous about? He was just seeing John. He felt a smile start to spread across his face, because it didn't matter that John would be angry with him, he'd forgive him in the end, and he'd missed his best friend in a way he didn't think he would. He took the stone steps of the church two at a time as the bells tolled one o'clock, threw the doors open, and sauntered in, smiling wide.

The church was full of people. The altar was draped with black and bouquets of flowers were everywhere. Sherlock's smile started to slide off his face as he realized this wouldn't be a happy occasion. He hoped it wasn't John's sister, that would kill him, losing the only family he had left. He saw Lestrade towards the front of the church, sitting with Sally Donovan, a curvy woman with the same thick ash-blonde as John, and a very thin, very pretty brunette holding her hand. Harry and Clara, Sherlock thought. What were they doing there? Where was John?

Lestrade noticed Sherlock looking around and quietly made his way to his side. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, eyes lowered. "I tried to tell you…"

"Where's John?" His voice was sharper and rougher than he'd meant. "You said he'd be here. Where is he?"

"Sherlock…" He pointed towards the front of the church, and for the first time, Sherlock noticed the coffin, draped with the Union Jack, with a picture frame on top of a smiling John.

"No," Sherlock said hoarsely. "No, no, he couldn't have, three years, why now, no, he can't be, he can't be, he isn't…" John was extraordinary, always had been, even when Sherlock solved the case and took the credit and bragged. John was the incredible one. John had survived the war, and more impressively survived Sherlock, survived Moriarty, survived everything. John Watson was not supposed to die an ordinary death.

"It was two days ago. He was hit by a car, died instantly. I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I know how much he meant to you…"

No, you don't, he thought, but he couldn't bear to say it out loud. He wasn't going to cry, no, he couldn't, Sherlock Holmes didn't cry, didn't have friends, didn't have to go to funerals… "I thought he was getting married," he managed to say in such a small, soft voice. "I thought… I didn't think…"

"I never wanted you to find out this way, I tried to tell you on the phone, I didn't want you to come here not knowing…"

Without another word, Sherlock turned and fled, long legs carrying him far from the church where John was, where John wasn't, where everything was wrong and Sherlock didn't belong. He made it a few blocks before he couldn't do it anymore, just turned into an alley and threw himself to his knees, burying his head in his hands and letting out low, shuddering sobs.

He couldn't believe it, not really, and it would take him days before he really understood it, months until he stopped seeing John just around the corner, heard his voice late at night when Sherlock was on his fourth consecutive night of no sleep. It would be a year before Sherlock found the strength to visit John's grave and it would take three months after that before he managed to kick the drug addiction he'd picked up again. It would be a lifetime before he ever forgot, and even as he aged, he couldn't help but wonder if it was just a dream, if he'd ever known John Watson at all.

It was telling, then, that his very last words, forty years after the Fall, weren't a goodbye, but a hello: I'm coming, John.