"You certainly look terrible."
"Why, you too."
"Have you been eating enough?"
„Have you ever considered doing a diet? Would be necessary, believe me."
"Or sleeping, for that matter?"
"With your face etched into my memory, there's not going to be much sleep for the next weeks."
"John, care to answer?"
"Obviously not, you waste of-"
"Yes, indeed Harry", John answered, interrupting the fake-Sherlock who was currently throwing a very exclusive mix of insults at his sister. "You're just to fast in asking questions for me to answer." 'And on the currently empty chair to your right is someone sitting whose answering more than enough', he added in thought.
Harry huffed annoyed and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Contrary to what the illusion had said, she did look rather good.
She had gotten herself a slight tan over the summer which suited her well. Having regained the weight she had been missing when John saw her the last time her cheeks were not hollow anymore and had a slight pink tone due to the fresh air.
They were currently sitting in a café in Basingstoke, where Harry lived at the moment. It was a little café, nice and cosy. The siblings were sitting outside in the warm sunlight, which strength was already fading as the cold seasons drew nearer. But for now it was enough to let the people forget their jackets at home and keep the last twittering, migrating birds here, trees lightened up in warm colours as if everybody was eager to uphold the cliché of the late summer afternoon. Everything fitted into that image, everything aside from John.
Where his sister had regained her healthiness, John was the opposite.
His skin was pale and there were bags under his eyes from his lack of sleep. His face seemed haggard and the hair which had previously kept into a neat cut had outgrown and matted. The only thing that was missing to make him into a copy of his sister at her worst times was the tell-tale reek of alcohol.
"John", Clara started careful. The pity in her eyes told him already, what she was about to say. Damn thing that he was still too polite to tell her to shut up.
"You've got to move on. It's been over one and a half year and he-" "Shut up", he and the illusion said synchronously. The past time had seemed to take its toll on his patience and politeness.
Shut up.
I know.
Move on.
My therapist said so.
Sarah said so.
Ms. Hudson said so.
Everyone said so.
Even I.
Harry just looked at him. "Alright", she said.
He woke up panting, fingers immediately reaching to his right to turn the lamp on. He cursed when he realized that this was not his bedroom, but Harrite's guest room. After he recalled where the light switch was (right above the headvoard) he turned it.
When he sat up he noticed Sherlock standing in front of his bed, the black hair a ruffled mess and the long coat wrapped around him.
John sighed and let himself fall back, hand probing around to find the light switch blindy, while he was doing his best to just ignore the hallucination.
"John", the fake-Sherlock whispered.
"Bugger off", John cussed through clenched teeth.
"John, I'm alive."
The doctor's fingers paused just above the switch they had just found. He let out a shaking breath.
"No, you're not. You're just an illusion", he replied quietly.
Sherlock shook his head. "I'm real." Lies. "The suicide was faked." Desperation. "I've come back." Hope. Crushed. Hope. "I'm ali-"
"Don't say it!", John all but screamed.
Sherlock startled and stumbled backwards as if John had just delivered him a physical blow. John's chest heaved in heavy breaths which he tried forcibly to become calm again.
Grey eyes sought his, deep worry evident in their depths.
"John", Sherlock began to say. That was when the door crashed open and Harry burst into the room – her first step bringing her right through Sherlock's abdomen.
The look of mild surprise on the hallucination's face was the last thing John remembered before everything faded to black.
"I'm fine."
"No, John, you're not. You've just fainted yesterday."
"Just had a bad night."
"I was awoken by the sound of your screaming!"
"Nightmare, I can deal with it, believe me."
"John, you really need professional help."
"I'm already seeing a therapist, Harry."
"…yeah, I know, it's just…"
"It's going to be fine, Harry. I've got to go know, the train is just about to depart."
"Yes… you know, if you ever need something, you can come to me, okay? I'll do whatever I can to help you."
"Thank you, Harry. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
But you can't help me. There is nobody anymore who could help me.