Authors Note:

Hello! I just thought I'd give everyone some info on this fanfiction here. First of all this is not a story I will be writing on my own. If you are confused then I shall take the time to explain. This is a collab. So yes it's a team effort. The way we have split this all up is that I will be writing in the point of view (P.O.V) of Doctor John Watson. While my partner in crime will be writing in Sherlock's point of view. Well I'm not sure point of view is the right thing to call it. It's more like the chapter is driven by ether John or Sherlock. Also just another note, this story will be set at a T rating for the first little bit but it will become M. Not sure when or how Mature this story will be but the rating none the less in time will go up!

Please enjoy! All reviews are more then welcome feedback is great.

John Watson P.O.V

"I'd one of those bad days

Yeah, it left me a scar

One of those where the sun don't shine like she used to."

They were never exactly the same. Sometimes John would be looking above to the hospital rood, or in others he would be on the roof behind Sherlock. However, there was always one thing that stayed the same in all of these nightmares. The sound of Sherlock smashing into the pavement below.

This dream maybe have been so far the worse. John found himself on the rooftop with Sherlock. In this dream Sherlock was already dead. It was terrible to have to look at the decomposing skeleton of your best friend. The consulting detective had his bony fingers wrapped around his cellphone.

"Goodbye John," the dead man spoke. The army doctor screamed but Sherlock of course couldn't hear him.

Arms stretched out like frail wings, head up to the sky, Sherlock leaned forward. John soon enough was looking over the ledge as the other man fell. But just before the bag of bones collided with the pavement grave John shut his eyes. There was a loud chilling cracking sound. John slowly opened his eyes expecting to see the mess of Sherlock's body, but, instead found himself in his bedroom in 221B.

With a grunt John Watson fell into his arm chair. The cane he had once again become reliant on lay close to his feet. The man took a bite of his toast and reached for the remote so he could flick on the t.v.

"It had been five months since the fake genius Sherlock Holmes com-" the news reporter began but John had already turned the t.v back off before he could listen to anymore of the report. It hurt, it hurt more than anything. More than being shot. It hurt John to think about Sherlock. There was a hole in his life, one that would never leave him.

There wasn't much to live for anymore. He worked as much as he could. But when John had some free time we spent it alone in the flat that was once shared. Watson rarely said a word unless he had to. It was as though he was just the empty shell of a man.

Weekends, the man hated them. There was nothing to do anymore. John didn't work on Saturdays or Sundays. His therapist said he needed the break. John ran his fingers through his hair and slowly got up. He needed a shower.

The warm pelts of water burst against his bare skin. John closed his eyes and tilted his chin up to the shower head. Water streamed down his face and fell to the floor after jumping from his chin.

A tear then slipped slowly down the mans cheek. Then another, and another. John rarely let himself cry but he just couldn't stop the tears now.

He missed it. He missed it all. The cases, the clients, the blogging. He missed the laughs, the times he was happy, the times he was mad. He missed saving Sherlock's life. John missed the experiments, the violin at three in the morning, and the bullets that had been shot into the wall between cases.

But more then anything, John missed Sherlock. He missed Sherlock's blue eyes, his messy hair, John missed the feeling of being short when they stood side by side. He missed the complaining, the yelling, the insults, Sherlock's coy smile, the texts, the mystery, the sauciness, the pouting, the deduction. Hell, John even missed feeling stupid around Sherlock.

Life just felt like a dream. Nothing seemed real anymore. It was like John was sleep walking all the time. His mind foggy and blank. He had never been one for having to much hope in things. He was never one for wasting time dreaming. But there was a part of John that wished and prayed that maybe he'd wake up one day and these five months would be a dream. He'd be able to see Sherlock working away. He'd be able to feel alive again.

John slowly stepped out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around himself. The man limped over to the small mirror over the bathroom sink. The glass was all fogged over. Watson lifted his right hand and slid it against the glass. The man moved his hand. He had cleared away enough of the fog that half of his face was looking clearly back at him. His face was lifeless. The man looked as dead as he felt.

The laptop purred softly as John clicked on the Internet browser. He was never completely sure why he did this or even how he started it but it was maybe the most comforting thing in his life at the moment.

Moving the mouse over to the search bar, John typed in the address to Sherlock's website, The Science of Deduction. Nothing of course ever changed on the site but John really didn't care. He could easily waste away a day off work just siting and reading all the posts Sherlock had once written.

It was almost as though when John would read the posts that he could imagine Sherlock perched upon the arm of the couch or on top of his favorite chair. The man would have his hands resting under his chin. Elbows placed on his thighs. There was a happy feeling when John would take the time to do this. Because even for a little while his best friend was back in the flat being his same old self. John just wished that when he read the last word that Holmes wouldn't fade away like he hadn't ever even been there.