Sherlock sighed, placing the pen on the desk. Seemed just yesterday John had been tossing him that same pen. He raised his whiskey to his dry, parched lips. He sighed and leaned his head back. And it was there he fell asleep. He was not accustomed to sleeping, and therefore, when he did sleep, he did so in random places, such as the other day on the tube, and then he ended up all the way across London. He had decided to walk back. He rarely dreamed, but when he did, it was always the same dream:
Sherlock burst into the flat, looking around wildly. As he was doing so, Ms. Hudson came down the stairs, looking worried. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" He simply stared at her for a second, wide-eyed. He then turned swiftly around, coat swishing after him as he stumbled out the door and into a cab. "St. Bart's, as quickly as possible." He yelled at the driver. The cab pulled out and raced toward St. Bart's. Sherlock urged the driver to go faster, but he seemed only to go slower, and every second was one second closer to getting to John. He threw several bills at the cab driver, not bothering to think about over or underpaying. He had only one focus: finding John. Sherlock felt he was in trouble, and he had to... just then his phone rang. He fumbled around trying to get it out, but it kept snagging on his coat. He finally wrenched it free from his coat and pressed the answer button.
"John?"
"Hello Sherlock."
"Where are you?"
"Look up."
Sherlock looked up to see John on the edge of the roof.
"What are you doing on the roof? Hang on, I'm coming up."
"No! Stay there. I have to tell you something. It was all a lie."
"What? What was a lie? I don't understand."
"Our friendship. That's the lie. I was never really your friend. I never cared. I'm an actor. Hired by Moriarty. To get close to you. To see what makes you tick. But I never meant for it to escalate to this."
"Escalate to what? What do you mean?"
Sherlock's voice broke on the you.
"Goodbye. Sherlock. I..." John hung up and tossed aside the phone. Sherlock's heart was racing. What could it mean, what was John doing, what did he mean by 'goodbye?' What was he going to say before he hung up? John stretched out his arms. Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized what was happening. But it was too late. John leaned forward and fell. Sherlock ran forward, rushing, trying to get to him in time, but John was falling too fast. He hit the ground with a sickening crack.
"NO! JOHN! JOHN NO!" He rushed over, pushing through the gathering crowd. "Let me through, let me THROUGH! That... That was my friend."
Sherlock's eyes burst open, and he jerked his head up from the uncomfortable angle it was laying at. His black curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat. He pushed his curls off his forehead and sighed. That was the fifth time he had had that dream this week. And it was only Tuesday (he had fallen asleep multiple times on each day). He pushed his chair back from the desk, and stood up, stretching. He had a pounding headache, no doubt due to the four bottles of whiskey he'd had. He sulked over to the kitchen, fumbling around in the drawers until he found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit up and placed the cigarette between his lips, taking a drag. A knock came suddenly at the door. He half walked, half dragged himself to the door and yanked it open. Molly stood in the doorway, clutching at an envelope. She held it out to him. "Lestrade sent it over. Case information." Sherlock did not take it. He shook his head. "I will not be returning to work for a week or two. I shall see when I return." And he shut the door in his face. He walked back over to the desk, and sat down to write another letter to John.
John
I have not returned to work yet, and I might not for several weeks. I feel so different, John. I'm not me, not anymore. Molly came by with case information, and I informed her she should tell Lestrade that I will not be at work for a while. I have forgotten what it is like to feel excited over cases. It's not the same without you. You never know what you're missing out on until you have it, but you don't really appreciate it until it's gone.
John
It has been a week since Molly came by. Ms. Hudson has been leaving me alone for the most part, except the occasional check in, to make sure I'm not dead. I've forgotten what it's like to feel sober. My alcohol consumption grows ever higher, as does my cigarette count. I've stopped sleeping again, and have fallen back on horrible television. I miss your reaction to my commentary. Your chair has been moved upstairs. I can't bear to look at it anymore.
John
Today Lestrade came by. I didn't open the door. I just told him to leave. I don't want to see anyone if they aren't you.
John
Lestrade is here. He forced his way in and is now demanding I come live with him.
"Sherlock! You cannot keep living here! You're wasting away! You're always drunk and you are tearing up your lungs with that smoking. And when was the last time you slept?" Lestrade ranted to Sherlock.
"You sound like my father." was all Sherlock said.
"Sherlock, please. Just come live with me. I think it will be good for you." Sherlock sighed. He got up and headed toward the door, to tired to protest any more. He stomped down the stairs and waited for Lestrade by the door. Lestrade finally came down the stairs about five minutes later carrying Sherlock's coat and scarf and a small suitcase with some of Sherlock's things in it. Just as he was about to go outside, Sherlock said, "Wait. I need something!" and ran upstairs.
"It better not be those blasted cigarettes!" Lestrade called after him. Sherlock returned a few seconds later with a handful of envelopes. He pulled on his coat and stuck them in the inside pocket. He then opened the door and strode outside, hailing a taxi.