A/N : So... Second Sherlock fic here. Less AU than the other one. Hope you like it.

It had been two years since I watched Sherlock fall from the top of Bart's medical building. Two years since I watched the first and only man I had ever loved kill himself. My life was in shambles, I worked countless hours at the clinic, and still lived in our apartment on Baker Street. I missed him everyday, waking up to silence.

I never thought I would miss even his blackest moods.

Mrs. Hudson was so supportive, letting me keep my rent, even though He wasn't there to pay his half. My therapist had helped me through the worst of it, when I began to feel as if life wasn't worth living. That had been a dark time.

Now I was stable, if not happy. I could smile at my patients without dying on the inside. I could hold a normal conversation. But, in the dead of night, I longed to hear his voice. To see his cold inquisitive eyes scan me for anything that had changed.

But I knew it was unlikely he was coming back. It would have to be a miracle.

He was always good at those.

I walked down the stairs, to Mrs. Hudson's, so we could go over what we would finally do with the scientific equipment that still cluttered our -my- kitchen table.

"John..." She said as I sat down at her kitchen table. "I don't want to move on, either, but it's been two years. Don't you think you should find someone else? Another, less... Well, you know..."

I had confessed my attraction to Sherlock to her not too long after I told my therapist. She had told me she'd always known, from the first day. It was comforting, in a way.

"There is no one else. He was the only one who made me feel like that. And he was oblivious."

"Well, it didn't help, you constantly telling everyone 'I'm not gay.'"

"But I'm not. I have only thought about one man that way, and that was Sherlock. No one else."

We both started at a small, weak knocking on the door. It was well past nine-thirty p.m.

"Now, who could that be?" The kind old woman muttered as she moved to get it. A year ago, I would have thought, prayed, that it was Sherlock. That he'd returned. But it never was. Every time my small fragile bubble of hope burst, when it was a delivery person, or a few times a person looking for lodgings.

I followed her to the main door, and as she opened it, I was in for the surprise of my life

•°•°•Sherlock•°•°•

I stumbled down Baker Street, clothes tattered, and falling off of my gaunt frame. I just wanted to see John one last time, before the wounds took their toll.

I had finally managed to dismantle Moriarty's vast criminal network, and it was time to go home. To see my John.

He was so clueless as to how I felt for him, unknowingly turning me down every time I made a slight advance. I saw in his eyes that it would have been be unwelcome for me to kiss him. But I wanted to, so badly. I had to know the feeling of his lips on mine before I died.

I fell on the steps to our door, my cracked ribs breaking fully as I collided with the pavement. I knocked on the door with all of the strength I could muster.

Within a minute, the door opened to the two faces in the world I needed most.

Mrs Hudson and Dr. John Watson.

"John... I just..." Each breath I drew in made me want to scream. "I'm sorry." I coughed, as he quickly dialed the hospital, and ordered an ambulance.

"Sherlock, it's alright, you're going to be okay. " He knelt down next to me on the ground. Taking my hand in his, he lifted my head into his lap. "You're not dying on me okay? I won't let you."

He appeared to have tears pouring from his eyes at the sight of my mangled body. I wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could feel the same. If he could find me attractive.

I clutched his hand as we waited for the ambulance, never taking my eyes from him. God how I missed my blogger.

"Thank you, Sherlock. For hearing me. For not being dead." John whispered softly, as the wail of the siren grew louder. They were almost here. "I felt like you could."

"I was there John. I heard. But Moran, Moriarty's second in command wouldn't have stopped. I..." I coughed again, a dark globule of blood coming up. "He would have killed you. All of you."

The paramedics came tearing into Baker Street, and stopped where we were. A tall man, and a slightly older woman leaped from the bus, pulling out a stretcher.

"It's alright. You're going to be okay. I'm not leaving, " was the last thing I remembered as I was transferred to the stretcher.

A/N: Do I know it's dramatic, but there's a purpose...

I think.

Reviews much appreciated. :)