Lucid

John Watson stood solemnly at his window. It was bright and sunny outside a while ago, but the sun was now setting behind the skyscrapers of London, leaving orange and pink streaks on the silvery windows of each modern building. Baker Street was buzzing with busy citizens on their way home from work. He watched the people walking down the sidewalk and the cars driving down the street for a few minutes before shutting the curtains and turning his back to the window.

It had been about maybe three, four months now? He didn't know exactly. He hadn't been particularly keeping track of the days, he actually stopped counting it had been about a month and a half. The time had passed and he'd tried to forget; it was difficult, though. He couldn't get it off of his mind: Sherlock Holmes, his best friend and partner, was dead.

No amount of warfare, or old wounds, or getting rejected from his numerous female dates could compare to the pain he'd suffered when he'd watched the man take his final step off of the St. Bartholomew's Hospital rooftop. Blinking a few times to rid his head of the thought, John grabbed his cane that was leaning against the wall next to window and began to walk (painfully) towards his desk where sat his laptop. He slumped into the chair and opened up the computer. His blog was already opened and ready for his next entry.

John's fingers hovered over the keyboard for a few moments, he was thinking. He typed slowly and carefully, letter after letter, observing the keys with his grey irises and making sure he hit the right ones.

"I'm afraid my old leg wound might be acting up again… I can't say I've missed this cane at all." He typed into the text box then clicked on the 'submit' button in the bottom right corner of the screen. He waited until the window switched to where the submission would appear and then he closed the computer screen and backed away. He stared into nothing for another few minutes. A while after he began living at 221b Baker Street by himself, his right leg had begun to become difficult to walk on again. He'd started to limp with his cane supporting his weight like before, so he tried to avoid walking any far distances. He mostly stayed at the apartment, waiting for any calls from any of the places where he'd applied for job so he could still pay the rent and buy groceries.

Glancing around the room momentarily, John sighed as his eyes passed over the spray-painted yellow happy face on right wall of the main room. He grinned at it even though it struck him with sadness; a reminder. He tried to forget about that though, there was no use staying sad over his departed friend. He knew he would have gotten a stern talking to from Mrs. Hudson if he was seen sulking like what he was doing, and that thought made him grin some more.

John began to walk towards his bedroom, the scenery outside had gotten dark and was only lit up by the moon and the streetlamps outside. He shut the door then placed his cane against the night-table and hopped over to his bed to sit himself at the edge of the mattress. He took off his sweater and his pants and replaced them with some more comfortable sleepwear before throwing his legs over the edge and pulling the sheets over his torso.

The only noise in the room was the faint sound of traffic in the distance and the occasional passing car and the ticking of his clock. He focused on the ticking, which hypnotized him and not long after he shut his eyes did John fall asleep. Drifting into the dark world of slumber and awaiting the next day.

It had felt like only a few minutes had passed when John's eyes snapped open and stared at the ceiling, feeling a presence other than his own. He quickly grabbed the gun under his pillow and hoisted himself upright as fast as he could, pointing the weapon at the area where he felt the presence.

There was indeed somebody else in the room with him, but as soon as he noticed the other person his expression softened and he lowered his arms in disbelief.

"Hello, John." Spoke the deep and familiar voice. John could barely respond to the man. He had no idea how to react, what to say, what to do—

"You're losing your alertness." added the pale-eyed man, "I've been waiting for you to wake up for a few minutes now. You should have been pointing that gun at me as soon as I had stepped at the front of your door."

John's lips twitched into a smile at the comment, the typical and slightly snarky remark that he missed so much.

"Hello, Sherlock." He finally uttered. John put his gun down on the bedside table and shifted his legs over the edge of the left side of his bed so he was facing his friend. "Where on Earth have you been? Everyone thinks you're dead but… you're alive! I can see you here, right in front me!" John continued with a wide smile, but Sherlock did not answer to that.

"You're… a ghost then?" He added after a few seconds of silence. Sherlock laughed lightly,

"Now don't be ridiculous, Watson. There are no such things as ghosts or paranormal activity." He replied, serious about that statement and John thought that might have been stupid to say; paranormal activity and the like could be deduced as something completely relevant to the world of the living if Sherlock was the one investigating something of the sort.

John took a pause to just stare at the detective in the dark of the room; turning on the lamp hadn't crossed his mind since he was too occupied by his visitor.

"… This is a dream, then." He finally muttered disappointedly. His heart felt broken yet again. The last thing he wanted right now was to realize that this whole encounter was just his mind playing a game with him, tricking him and giving him false hope. Sherlock's mouth twitched into a small smile almost the same way John's had when he'd discovered him sitting by the wall on the opposite side of the room from his bed.

"Perhaps. I can't tell you; you'll have to find that out for yourself." He said quaintly and took a few steps closer so he was standing directly in front of the old military doctor. John's eyes were fixed onto the floor until he saw the black leather shoes replace the floorboards under his gaze. He trailed his eyes up to look at his friend's face: alert, analytic, lips set in a straight and serious-looking line. Without thinking then, John reached up and grabbed Sherlock's tweed trench coat, pulling him downwards and pressing his lips against the other man's. Sherlock showed no signs of resistance from the action albeit looking quite surprised by it. John's heart raced and he gripped the material in his hands tighter, keeping his lips locked onto his partner and never wanting to break away. He backed off to breathe after a few seconds though and pulled the taller man into a tight hug, keeping him close, burying his face into the nook of his shoulder and fighting back tears as best as he could.

"I miss you so much, Sherlock." He whispered, voice breaking as he fought back the sadness welling up in his throat which was beginning to tighten. He felt arms wrap around him slowly, carefully. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do, so he simply leaned his head against John's and hugged him back. John closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of Sherlock through his coat. He missed everything about this man. His hasty walking that sometimes left John in the dust during a case, the way he would do unpredictable things when he was bored, his pale eyes that would study John every day to determine what he did and who he saw while he was out… Why would he ever want to die? He just did not understand. The world began to drift away again; his eyes remained shut and refused to open, the world went quiet apart from his and Sherlock's light breaths and the last thing that was clear was a deep voice, muttering:

"I miss you too, John… Very much."

John woke up in a flash the next morning and sat straight up, his heart was racing and his eyes darted around the room, frantically searching for something. He stopped for a moment and looked over to the right, at his bedside table: nothing but a lamp, an empty glass and a book. He slipped his hand under his pillow and felt his gun placed underneath it like it was when he went to sleep. He look across the room and checked the chair that was against the wall, it didn't look like anyone had been sitting in it.

His eyes lingered on the chair for a moment. He could just picture Sherlock Holmes sitting just there, waiting for him to wake up and take notice of his presence. His faced dropped in disappoint, it felt like the second time he'd done that in a short span of time. He turned to look at his hands and his bed sheets that covered him; they looked like he hadn't even moved that night. It really was a dream then…

John's hands came up to his face, covering his eyes. He gave out a long sigh and felt his throat tighten. It felt like he'd already gone through this, but he was not sure why. He was positive last night was a dream… or at least, (out of embarrassment) he almost barely hoped.

John Watson stood solemnly at his window. It was bright and sunny outside and the sun was just rising from behind the skyscrapers of London, leaving orange and pink streaks on the silvery windows of each modern building. Baker Street was buzzing with busy citizens on their way to work. He watched the people walking down the sidewalk and the cars driving down the street for a few minutes before shutting the curtains and turning his back to the window.

It had been about maybe three or four months. He didn't bother to try and remember. He didn't care about keeping track of the days; he actually stopped counting it had been about a month and a half. The time had passed and he'd tried to forget a tragic death. It was difficult, though. He couldn't get it off of his mind: Sherlock Holmes, his best friend and partner, might still be alive.