(A/N: Now we're getting somewhere. This one took longer to post because I hadn't finished it yet. :/ What can ya' do? Anyways... To my 2 followers on this story: HERE YOU GO!)

John opened his eyes, a pounding in his head. Dim light snuck through the dark curtains, and he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. Glancing at the clock on the side table, John saw it was still late, or early considering it read 2:11. He fell back onto the pillows, regretting it almost instantly. John clutched at his head, groaning as he curled into a ball, the sheets twisting between his legs. He simply lay there for awhile, listening to the sounds of His home.

His home. Even when it's so silent, so unnaturally silent, He was there. John sighed heavily, nestling into the warmth of the covers some more.

Wait a second... John sat up again, ignoring the pain, and truly took note of his surroundings. I know this room. He looked down at the silky purple sheets between his fingers. This is His room. John shakily lifted the sheets to his face, burying his nose in the fabric and inhaling deeply. They still smell like Him. He dropped the sheets and looked about the room. But how did I get here.

John's eyes scanned the dimly lit room, starting at the door, but his attention was caught by a figure sitting in the chair in the corner. His breath stalled and his heart stopped. Time froze; seconds became minutes became hours became days.

Simple shined black shoes, undoubtedly expensive and custom made. A crisp charcoal suit with a shirt so dark the colour was unidentifiable in the filtered light. A triangle of pale skin, peeking past the collar, stretching and spreading as it grew into a long neck. Slightly parted, perfectly pink lips with their taunting cupid's bow. Curly, dark, unruly hair, that seemed longer than John remembered, framed glowing eyes that didn't blink, didn't move, didn't waver except to change colours. Blue, green, golden, silver, John mused, dark and stormy, or alight and burning. Never staying still, always moving. Just like-

"Hello John," the man said softly. John blinked slowly. He was still there. John scrubbed at his eyes. He was still there. John shook his head, ignoring the pounding and clenching his eyes tightly, before opening them again. He was still there. "John?" He said tentatively. John closed his eyes and just basked in the sound of Him saying his name. His normal, dull, little name had never sounded so glorious. How could John have forgotten how deep and smooth His voice was? He opened his eyes and looked at the man who consistently haunted his thoughts.

"Sherlock." And John breathed fully for the first time in half a year.

As far as dreams went, this was one of the better ones. Normally John would be tormented by image after image of Him: standing atop Bart's, frantically gesturing for John to not move, arms open, coat flapping, hitting the ground. The good ones were more like watching memories. The best were complete fantasies, situations created by John's mind in which He never talks and never approaches John. They just sit and sip tea and bask in each other's presence. John opened his eyes once more and smiled widely at Sherlock; even when dreaming, seeing Him lifted an almost unbearable weight from John's shoulders.

Sherlock seemed a bit taken aback by John's smile, His eyes widening as time passed and the smile didn't fade. "So you're here, then?" John asked breaking the silence, unable to keep the pure relief out of his voice. This was going to be a good dream, he could tell. Sherlock nodded.

John looked down at his hands, still clutching His sheets. "I've missed you," he whispered, the smile falling and being replaced with such melancholy. John looked back up. "But you're here now, so that's good."

Sherlock shifted in the chair. He kept watching John, silver eyes tracing over every of the doctor's features as if it were a lifeline. Finally, He spoke. "I am sorry, John." And Sherlock truly did sound remorseful. They fell into silence again. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it weighed heavily nonetheless. John was simply content to watch Him, Sherlock, while he could.

As Sherlock sat in the chair across the room from John, itching itching itching to be closer to feel the doctor's warm body in his hands to feel something again, he finally LOOKED at John. He could read the months of isolation, malnutrition, restless sleep in John's eyes and hair. Seeing more, deeper wrinkles and almost entirely grey hair pulled at Sherlock's heart. Yes. Heart. Moriarty had proven that he had one, at least when it came to his blogger, his beloved doctor.

But Sherlock also saw the relief and joy that came with his sudden appearance. And that puzzled him. He had entirely expected John to be in a rage, to knock him out cold, but this blatant acceptance was disturbing. And worrying.

Sherlock had been receiving regular reports on the doctor's wellbeing from Mycroft, but whenever he was in the area, Sherlock made it a point to see for himself. He always had to keep a distance because if John ever saw... In truth, Sherlock had no idea what John would do. In any case, he had to look from afar and the distance always skewed the data and he'd been unable to obtain an accurate reading of how John was actually doing.

But now, sitting in front of him, Sherlock could only feel hurt. Hurt on John's behalf. John had suffered through so much and kept carrying on, kept believing in Sherlock and waiting for him to return. And Sherlock had no idea what sort of strain that put on John's mind. And that terrified him.

Sherlock glanced back up at John, who was still staring at him with an absent smile. John, he silently lamented, what have I done to you? Sherlock noticed a gleam on John's face and, upon closer inspection, he realized that John was silently crying.

John kept staring at Sherlock. This is the clearest dream he's had about Him in a while and John was going to enjoy every second of it. They'd been sitting in silence for a while now, Sherlock still (Probably lost in thought, John thought affectionately) and John just watching and letting the tears fall. But suddenly His eyes sharpened, focusing on John's face, before surging forward and settling beside John, hands hovering as if wanting to touch but fighting not to.

Finally the desire for contact with John won out and Sherlock's large, warm hands grasped John's shoulders and squeezed slightly. John's eyes fluttered close as he leaned into the touch as much as he could.

"John," the baritone pulled him out of his reverie. John blinked slowly at Sherlock, whose face was only centimeters away. "John," He said firmly, His eyes flitting back and forth, as if He were trying to analyze the very soul of the sinking man before him. John smiled slowly.

"Sherlock," he murmured, sleep threatening to overtake him again. Sherlock squeezed John's shoulders again.

"John. Listen to me," Sherlock insisted. John nodded, trying to focus on His face, eyes, lips. "I may be gone, but you're still here. Live your life." John pulled back, brow furrowing in confusion. Sherlock kept going, "Listen to me. Move on. Forget me."

John began to squirm, to pull away from this Sherlock. It's not his Sherlock, He'd never say this. The dream's gone sour... nightmare... WakeupwakeupWAKEUP! John thought frantically.

Sherlock held on tighter, pulling John closer and shaking him slightly. "You are drowning in the past and if you keep at this you will die." He grew quiet, closing his eyes as if to gather enough strength to finish. "A-and I don't know if I could live without you..." John stilled.

An odd sentiment for a deadman, something whispered in John.

"Please..." Sherlock breathed, eyes screwed shut. "Try... for me."

John watched the man before him. His eyes were still closed, but His breathing was ragged and His hands were still squeezing and releasing John's shoulders. Sherlock felt John's gaze on him and slowly opened his eyes and looked up. The deepest blue, stormy with emotion, stared back and Sherlock felt his breath stutter. John is so close...

John inched forward, his eyes locked with Sherlock's, until his forehead was resting against Sherlock's and their breaths mingled. John glanced down to His lips and back up again, sleep reaching for his consciousness again. He'd have to hurry and say what he wanted to say, what he couldn't say that day at His grave.

"Sherlock," John murmured, eyes flitting between His eyes and mouth. "I want you to know..." John blinked, trying to keep himself awake. "I want you to know why I can't forget you, why I can't move on." Sherlock blinked slowly and barely nodded. "I-I can't live without you." Sherlock opened his mouth, but John cut Him off. "Let me finish. This might be a dream," a flash of hurt danced in Sherlock's eyes for a second, "and I won't ever really get to tell you, but I need to get this out." He closed his eyes and gently bumped his head against Sherlock's. "Please."

Sherlock closed his mouth with a small "clop".

"Sher-Sherlock... uh, um..." He took a deep, calming breath and exhaled it slowly. "I-It took me your ... your fall to realise how much you mean to me. A-And I don't mean just as a friend." John paused and took another deep breath. "Sherlock... I... I love you," he choked out. "I love you, and I think I always have." John broke into a teary grin as he felt the weight of his personal epiphany finally fall of his shoulders. "I love you," he giggled before closing that gap and chastely kissing Sherlock. It only lasted a few seconds, but time suspended and the moment seemed to last forever. John let out a happy sigh and fell back against the pillows, eyes drifting shut as sleep finally overtook him. "I love you, Sherlock..." he murmured before succuming to the darkness, a smile still dancing across his face.

Sherlock watched as John's breathing evened out and his features slackened, the smile remaining. He brought his fingers to his mouth, the tingling of John's kiss lingering even after his fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin. Sherlock remained frozen there, fingers just touching his lips, crouched by the man whose very existence was tied to his. After a few minutes, he shook his head, waking himself from reverie, and stood, eyes still locked on the slumbering man before him.

"John," his smooth baritone broke the silence. "I will return. I will be with you again." Sherlock swallowed. "And I will fix you again," he promised. Sherlock turned to leave, quickly grabbing his coat from the arm of the chair he was sitting in earlier. Reaching the door, he paused and looked back.

"I love you too."

The door shut.

And John truly slept for the first time in six months.

(A/N: Don't be afraid to review. I love it. :3)