Hello my darlings. Starry and I really appreciate all the support and reviews we've been left! This is my post-reichenbach story from John's side. Enjoy! –xo

Eloquent

Some nights, John dreamed of angels.

Well, usually just one angel in particular, but that wasn't quite the point.

The point was that, in his sleeping hours, when not haunted by horrible images of warzones and sidewalks stained with blood and the sound of a body hitting cold concrete, he'd see the raven-haired angel with the great, feathered wings. In his waking hours he'd realize he had probably been watching far too many films on the telly, that the images of his best friend as some sort of semi-transparent kindred spirit belonged in a Shakespeare modernization, not in the dreams of a soldier for God's sake. But still, the angel came to him. Sherlock, haunting his thoughts day and night, determined to infuriate him even in the afterlife.

He hadn't put much thought into religion during his youth; it had never really been present growing up. If asked, he'd shrug and say he was Christian, he supposed. Celebrated Christmas and Easter his entire life, so that seemed to answered that question. It was easier to accept that there was in fact a God and an afterlife when he joined the military; it was much easier willingly stepping into battle with a gun in your hands when you thought you could at least get out of the bloody desert at some point, dead or alive.

Or, at least, that's what most of them told themselves.

Sherlock certainly didn't believe in God. He regarded religion with the same amount of respect as he held fairy tales—that is to say, not highly. Sherlock believed in what he could see and study and deduce and prove; everything God wasn't. He had tolerated Christmas but didn't go out of his way to celebrate it. In fact, as far as he could tell, John was the only person the man had ever given a gift to. He still wore the (extremely overpriced) watch to work every day, though he'd had to get battery replaced twice and the scratched crystal face of it repaired after…well, after. A little reminder of the heart he may have had. The heart John was convinced he'd had, though others were rather skeptical.

Despite everything (the therapist, the mourning, the return of the infamous psychosomatic limp, the nightmares, the epic battle of John Watson vs. the bills, the ever-present worried looks from his friends and family), John Watson was not broken. He refused to be. He hated his best friend for the decision he had made, for the suicide. Sherlock Holmes had been brilliant, beyond brilliant. John knew that whatever had happened on that rooftop that day had been much more than the detective mooning about his fall from grace enough to jump the fuck off a building. Sherlock wasn't stupid. Whatever his reasons for jumping, it wasn't out of shame. John was sure of this. It didn't make him hate the choice any less, didn't make him consider it anything other than Sherlock Holmes' most selfish act.

When he'd dreamed of Sherlock the first night in a non-traumatizing way, he'd woken up gasping, tears that had started in the dream continuing to pour down his face. An angel. A bloody angel! All dark, mop-like curls and shining gray eyes and wings like caressing arms wrapped around them as he stared silently into John's face, knowing smile on his pale lips. That was all. Just standing there with Sherlock, staring into the eye's he'd known so well before, and with a great gust of wind the man had flown away, and John was alone. It hurt so much worse than nightmares of his broken body.

That night was more than a month after the fall. He'd been back at 221B for a total of two weeks, having taken the time after his best friend's funeral to sleep on Harry's couch. When his back could no longer handle the too-soft cushions, he returned home. The silence was heartbreaking; there were no violins in the middle of the night, no explosions from the kitchen, no gunshots from the couch. He hadn't realized how vibrant and exuberant and full of life Sherlock had been until he was dead in the ground. It was the dream that ultimately made his decision, and (feeling stupidly afraid), he pulled on his silk dressing gown and marched down the stairs to the closed door to Sherlock's bedroom. Neither he nor Mrs. Hudson had been in the room since that horrible day; it felt taboo. He stood outside of the door for a long while. A minute? An hour? He had no idea, but when he finally reached his hand out to grasp the cold door handle, he felt himself shaking.

It was a bad idea to do this in the middle of the night; he realized it instantly. When he flicked on the switch he was confused by the muted blue lamplight, until he saw the dressing gown thrown carelessly over the shade. Everything, everything, was exactly as he had left it. Everything from the unmade bed to the books, some apparently tossed across the room in frustration, collapsed against the ground, pages bent like curved, broken backs. John walked, trance-like, through the messy room. It was as if he never left, as if he had woken up that morning, stormed about, and left on a wild goose chase. Just the dust indicated the truth, the time that had past. Dust…what had he said about dust?

It's eloquent.

Yeah, real eloquent, mate. John thought bitterly, slowly circling the room, hands hovering over the mess without actually touching anything. He couldn't, couldn't touch the things he had touched. The things he had interacted with, read, put his hands over, worn. The things that proved he'd once lived. And he was dead. Gone. Just dust settled over his life, settling in every crevice and edge of his stupid, pathetic life! And now he was in his bloody dreams too! John clenched his fist, squeezing his eyes shut. Eloquent, he'd called dust. Had Sherlock been eloquent? John hardly could remember. What had they talked about, what had they said, in quiet moments between cases? What had they argued about? Did any of it even matter now? He couldn't remember! He couldn't remember anything!

Just that Sherlock was gone, and he was alone.

"I've…well I've sort of taken up permanent residence in your room, mate. Don't exactly know how it happened…" John stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, shuffling in front of the gleaming headstone. "I'm sure you'd probably call me sentimental…probably mad too. God, sometimes I think I am mad. I hardly feel the same anymore, Sher…" he carded a hand through his hair, leaning awkwardly on his cane. It had been several months since the funeral, but he still spent every Sunday afternoon with Sherlock's grave. Just out of habit, really. It helped him focus for the beginning of his week, helped him channel his anger and fears and, yes, even after all this time, hurt, and dispel them so he could focus on work. And his work was important to him, it was the only thing that really made him feel like he was doing something good with his life.

He was fairly certain Mycroft Holmes had something to do with his new job at the Veteran's Hospital. The job offer came six months after Sherlock's death, two days after he had had tea with Mrs. Hudson and had apologized to her (again) for being behind on the rent because he had yet to find a new job. He didn't blame Sarah for firing him, not really. He'd missed enough work when Sherlock was alive, let alone all the time he missed when he was clinically depressed after his death. At least he'd stopped seeing the therapist.

"Been thinking about adopting a dog…I know you wouldn't approve…but the flat's plenty big enough. Lord knows I could use a companion. One of my colleagues at the hospital's dogs just had pups…" He sighed, squaring his shoulders, "Well…I'll see you next week then, Sher. I still…I mean, I'm still fighting your war, you know…Still standing up for you." He touched the top of the stone gingerly, shook his head, (as he always did) feeling stupid, and turned and limped out of the cemetery.

He did get the dog, that next Sunday. The first Sunday he hadn't visited Sherlock. A little English Bulldog pup whom he named Gladstone. He liked the dog; he was curious and headstrong and had no good sense as far as getting his nose into danger. Bit like him, he decided. Bit like Sherlock too. It was nice, having the dog to busy himself with. The two of them slept in Sherlock's old bed, went out for runs in the mornings, he even brought him to visit the grave a few times. It appealed to John's better nature, having something in his life to take care of. He was happier, and for the next year he slowly felt halfway normal again.

Except for the angel, that is. The stupid angel still visited his dreams, infrequently enough to catch him off guard and reduce him to a gasping, sobbing mess in the middle of the night. It was always the same, always a silent exchange, always huge wings wrapped around them, just staring into eachother's eyes. It was far too intimate to make him comfortable. The nightmares made him skittish and defensive, the angel dreams weak and powerless. Between the two recurring dreams, he was a wreck. While he was able to participate in life, put on a brave face, go through the motions, mornings were horribly lonely. He thought that he'd never be able to trust anyone again.

Which was why he found it very odd that Mary Morstan would ask him out in the early fall nearly three years after Sherlock had killed himself. He had hardly spoken to the woman, who was a volunteer at the hospital on nights and weekends. She was certainly pretty enough, with a bright smile and a vibrant, talkative personality. She was a school teacher, taught English Literature at a secondary school outside London, and he'd often caught her reading detective novels at the front desk during late night shifts when emergencies were few and far between. That, surprisingly enough, made him smile. She'd had one of those books tucked under her arm when she'd asked him to get coffee. And so he went.

It was an unusual first date, to say the least. She seemed to be making a point not to ask about his past or his future. Instead they spent hours shooting random questions at eachother until the restaurant had closed and the waitress had to ask them to leave. In that time he learned that her favorite color was mauve, her favorite car a Volkswagen bus, that she was also a dog person, and many other random facts. He didn't dream that night, and was surprised when he woke up to Gladstone slobbering in his face, anxious to go out on their morning run.

After that, the detective crossed his mind less frequently. The angel was still in his dreams, but he could handle those now. When he did cross John's mind, it was always fondly. He was no longer bitter, no longer alone. Finally able to accept the fact that the man was dead and was never coming back, and that was okay. His thoughts of Sherlock were fond and were subtle, like dust over his life. Eloquent. Always there but not always obvious. And for a few peaceful months, he thought that he would finally be okay again.

The anniversary of his death was hard, though. He hadn't slept the night before, instead sitting up by the fire with Gladstone snoring at his feet. He hadn't told Mary what the day meant to him, hadn't been able to explain to her that he still bore the scar of Sherlock's death on his heart. It wasn't much of an event, not really. He'd planned to just go to his grave with some flowers, sit for a while, and then go on his way. Mary invited him to an early dinner, and he'd accepted the invitation despite his better judgment. So when, after going to the grave, he gave the taxi driver the address to St. Bart's instead of to the flat, he was a bit surprised at himself. He hadn't been back on that street corner, had avoided it like the plague. Standing there, where he had stood those three years earlier, felt a bit surreal. The memories played like old records in his head, the last words faded and scratched but still remembered. He stood there for a long time, looking up at the building, quiet, when a missed call from Mary woke him from his trance. Shaking his head, he pulled out the phone to call her back, when he saw him.

Of course, it couldn't be him. Obviously. Sherlock was dead. The doubt stayed in his mind until their eyes met, and he saw the brooding expression, the eyes boring into him, deducing him. He didn't even notice that his phone fell out of his hand, didn't realize that he had ran forward to embrace him until he felt the long body stiffen under him.

"You bastard," he muttered against his chest, "I thought you were dead. Was it all a joke to you? Because it wasn't funny. Not at all."

He waited for a reply, for an explanation, or at least to wake up from this dream, when the reply rang painfully through his ears, crashing his world around him with enough force to make him want to black out.

"Who are you?"