John opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling.
He had been having this spectacular dream where Sherlock was here, here in his flat, taking care of him...
It was a spectacular dream, but it was also a nightmare. It was a nightmare because it reminded John that Sherlock was never coming home. He would never see his best friend again...
"John, I made soup, if you want any..."
John's gaze immediately snapped to the person in the doorway of his bedroom.
"Sherlock..." John mumbled, blinking slowly.
"Yes, my name is still Sherlock." The voice sounded annoyed now. "Now, do you want soup or not?"
John didn't immediately respond. There was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, something that wasn't entirely nausea and not entirely butterflies. He figured that it was leaning more towards nerves.
The fact that Sherlock was still in his flat made him nervous. It made him sick to his stomach to imagine that Sherlock was going to vanish. That this was all just some elaborate thing that his mind was making up...
... and real or not, it made John sick to think that it was all going to go away again.
"John?"
"You're not real..." John said, the words barely a whisper under his breath.
How could have he been so blind? How could he not realize that he couldn't hang onto this? This is was a hallucination. This was a dream. How could he even try to hope? Why would his mind even put him through this?
"Don't be ridiculous, John."
The sad thing was, while John hated himself for giving into the hallucination... Sherlock was right there; he sounded so close and so near him and John just wanted to believe-
"I think I'm going to be sick..." John whispered, pushing himself into a sitting position. The sick feeling had, definitely, given into nausea and he had the terrible feeling of the few seconds before one was about to be violently sick.
"What?" Now Sherlock's voice was, if anything, still annoyed, but also slightly panicked. (John had to be imagining that.) "Why?"
John opted not to reply, pressing his hand over his mouth. As miserable as life happened to be right now, he really did not want to vomit all over his bed.
He fumbled with the blankets, trying to push them out of the way. However, in the next second, John recognized his rubbish bin being shoved into his hands and he wasted no time in being sick.
"Vomiting isn't a typical symptom of a fever, is it...?" For once, Sherlock's voice sounded unsure.
John wanted to grab the detective and hug him and sob and cry and maybe punch him in the face, because he was so stupid in his intelligence. But he couldn't; Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was buried in the ground. In a casket. Rotting.
His vomiting renewed.
"Get a grip on yourself, John," was the response.
John nearly laughed. Nearly.
Because, in the next moment, his eyes were stinging with tears and he wasn't quite so capable in brushing them all away.
There was a long silence that followed. John was trying to control his stomach and control his stupid, bloody tears and everything was silent. It reminded him eerily of how his life was before Sherlock had shown back up (hallucination as he was). Quiet, but not peaceful. Calm, but not welcoming.
And... he was so...
... sick of it.
John sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
"Are you finished?" Sherlock asked dryly.
This time, John did laugh. Albeit a bit hysterically.
"Finished..." John echoed.
"Yes, finished snivelling."
"Finished with everything..." John murmured.
There was another silence that seemed to stretch on for much too long. John wondered if he had admitted something that he ought not have, but decided that it ultimately didn't matter since he was just talking to himself.
"Why would you ever say that?" returned Sherlock's voice.
John didn't really understand Sherlock's tone. The detective's voice was nearly emotionless, but it sounded... well, somewhat annoyed. Maybe a little unsure.
"Why wouldn't I?" John retorted. "You're gone and life is boring and you know as well as I that I don't handle boring well."
"But I'm not-" Sherlock stopped, taking a deep breath. "What about Harry. Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Greg. Your rugby friends-"
"Friends," John muttered.
What were friends? John had one friend, one true friend, and he was a hallucination right now.
"Yes," Sherlock said firmly.
"You don't believe in friends," John replied.
"Not true."
"Whatever..."
"John!" John glanced back at Sherlock. The detective was staring at him, looking livid. "You have people that care for you. Do not throw that away over me."
"But you were the only one that mattered!"
John didn't know why he was saying this. He didn't know why he was saying all of this, much less arguing with a hallucination. Or why he was saying this to Sherlock, of all people, real or imaginary, dead or alive. It had been the worst thing, one of the most difficult things ever, to tell Sherlock how much he meant to him. (And the 'I was so alone, and I owe you so much' echoed in his head daily, hour by hour, painfully.) But now, he was spouting all of this crap to Sherlock without so much as batting an eyelash and why? John couldn't answer.
Sherlock looked taken aback for a moment. How could Sherlock not have deduced how much he had mattered? How hadn't he been able to look at John and realize just how much his meant to the blogger doctor companion?
Because Sherlock hadn't been flawless, that was how. But John had learned to accept those flaws and he had grown to get used to those flaws and now those flaws were gone. And it was... so empty, really.
"John..." Sherlock started, but John shook his head.
"Forget it..." he whispered.
"I can't forget it when my only friend is contemplating suicide!"
John smiled weakly. "Dead men have no friends, Sherlock."
"Don't be so sure."
The statement was so solid that it made John do a double-take at Sherlock. The detective had that stubborn look, the light in his eyes that made John think he was missing an obvious fact.
"Uh huh..." he replied, for a lack of anything else to say.
John finally pushed the blankets out of the way, making to stand.
Sherlock immediately noticed. "What are you doing?"
John looked back at him. "Going to the bathroom...?" He said it like a question.
"You think you can walk?"
"Of course I can walk..."
"Can you?"
John glared weakly. He wouldn't admit it, but he still felt horrible. He felt too warm and he was shivering, and everything hurt and ached and... well, he hoped that he could walk.
"Yes."
John had barely stood up when he collapsed back onto the bed. Overly humiliated, and not wanting to give hallucination-Sherlock the chance to say 'I told you so', John huffed and said "I can't walk".
"Obviously."
Sherlock was suddenly in front of him, his hand extended. John blinked at it for a moment. He wouldn't admit how very much like St. Bart's rooftop this felt like, Sherlock reaching for him.
John reached up and took Sherlock's hand.