Fuck, SHERLOCK!

Let me through, I'm his friend. I'm his friend...

"John, I meant what I said. I don't have friends... I have one friend"

I'm his friend.

"Bloody hell!"

Covered in sweaty bedclothes and tangled in sheets, John flopped sideways to the middle of the bed. These bloody nightmares hadn't plagued him in months. Why now? Probably because you convinced yourself that man on the street was Sherlock. Yes, he was certain that was why the nightmares about St. Bart's had returned with a vengeance. Well, he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep now anyway, nothing better to do than get up and make tea. John wasn't even sure what time it was; he had forgone keeping a clock in the bedroom. He didn't want to change anything about the flat, including Sherlock's room. He kept telling himself he would stop sleeping in Sherlock's room downstairs once his limp eased, but he knew he was only kidding himself. He'd only return to his own bedroom upstairs once Sherlock came home and kicked him out. Let's hope he doesn't kick you out though, right?

John limped to the kitchen, still wrapped in Sherlock's sheet, to put water on to boil. He checked his mobile for any missed calls or texts overnight, and found one from Molly. Odd, I haven't heard from Molly in ages.

John, don't mean to bother you. Thought I saw Sherlock yesterday at the market. Rly freaked me out, hoped you could help me – Molly x

John checked the time stamp on the text only to realize it had come right around the time he had seen the man in the bookshop. He quickly replied.

Molly, sry I missed your txt. I thought I saw him too, on the st. He went into a bookshop. - JH

Weird. - Molly x

Ta. Come for tea? - JH

Sure. 221B? - Molly x

Yes. Don't bother with the bell. - JH

John had no idea why he had just invited Molly Hooper over for tea at such an early hour. 5:30am, according to his mobile screen. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he added water to the kettle and put it on. Placing both mugs on the kitchen table, John decided he might want to return Sherlock's sheet to the bedroom. He grabbed a few pieces of Sherlock's personal belongings as well, the skull, the violin, the music stand, the package of cigarettes. The load was unceremoniously tossed onto Sherlock's bed, and John shut the door tightly. Not too soon either, as he heard the creaking of the stairs that signaled Molly's arrival. Throwing the hall door wide, he welcomed Molly with a surprisingly enthusiastic embrace. Since Sherlock's departure, John had stopped leaving the hall door wide open. His sense of security had been drastically reduced after the fall, resulting in a very cautious Dr. Watson.

"Molly, bloody good to see you"

"Oh you too John. You're looking, erm, well..."

John had to chuckle. "Molly, don't lie, it isn't becoming. I look old and sad."

"Oh, um, John, no, I... You just look like John to me..."

"It's alright Molly, come sit, I've made tea."

Sitting across from Molly Hooper, in 221b Baker Street, was something of a novel idea for John. Sherlock would have shooed poor Molly out almost as quickly as she entered. He had no patience for her flattery, and John was fairly certain her girlish affections toward Sherlock had only increased his disdain. But looking at her now, John recognized that if she didn't try so hard, Molly Hooper might have been a catch. For someone else, obviously. But still, she was a smart girl with a good job.

Startled that he was gawking at Molly, John cleared his throat and offered Molly her cuppa. She graciously accepted without making any comments, however her cheeks had become flushed and a small nervous smile pressed her lips in a hard line. John awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, working away some of the tension he hadn't realized was there. He hadn't thought about Molly since a few weeks after Sherlock's funeral, which was simply because he had completely shut himself off from just about the entire world, the exception always being Mrs. Hudson.

The one time he had thought about Molly Hooper was when he finally checked his mobile, which not surprisingly had a full memory of texts and voice messages sending condolences. He had diligently returned the calls and texts, thanking everyone for their concern, assuring them he did not need casseroles or takeaway or company. Molly's handful of texts and voice messages actually worried John, prompting him to walk down to the morgue. That feat itself was exceptionally difficult, as it ended in a semi-psychotic episode for John. He shuddered at the memory. Molly had been alright, simply forlorn at the never-ending death she was surrounded by daily. John encouraged her to take some time off, go on holiday to clear her head. She had taken two weeks off from St. Bart's to holiday in southern France with her family, and returned fresh-faced, tan, and effervescent as usual.

Sitting before John Watson was a Molly Hooper that had fear and hope in her eyes. She toyed with the tea cup, opening her mouth in goldfish fashion. John decided to break the silence.

"So.. you thought you saw, uh..."

Molly could only nod.

"Odd, don't you think? We both see people who look like, ehem, him only days apart?"

"Well, yes. Odd. But surely he can't..." Molly's brief pause was her tell.

John scoffed "Molly, no. I … Dammit Molly I saw it happen. Shit. How? How would he even begin to pull that off?!" Well you did ask him for a miracle. He's Sherlock, you don't think the man knows how to fake his own death properly? C'mon Johnny-boy.

Molly shrugged, replacing her words with slow sips of hot tea. John could almost see the wheels in her mind cranking out some reason as to how Sherlock Holmes could possibly still be alive.

"Molly, I begged him for a miracle. I prayed to whatever gods I could think of. I offered my soul to Lucifer, for God sakes! The man hasn't been around for a year and a half! I'm still living in this godforsaken flat, surrounded by all his leftover belongings, wishing he'd walk through that door at any moment. I think if Sherlock Holmes was alive, I would know by now."

At least I hope I would be the one he'd tell.. John realized he'd stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. Molly looked shaken at his passionate statement, obviously concerned about his mental health based on their last encounter. He gave her a puppy-dog look and she politely gave him her best I understand your pain glance.

"Sorry. Damn Molly, I just, it feels hopeless. I don't even know what way is up anymore. I just..."

"You loved him, didn't you?"

Molly interjected, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as if the recognition had hit her like a wrecking ball. Sheepishly, John snatched his cup off the table and took a long gulp to process her accusation. He couldn't even deny his affection for Sherlock had gone beyond the initial ruse of a randomly placed flatmate. He set his shoulders and looked Molly right in her doe eyes.

"Yes, Molly. I did. I loved Sherlock Holmes. He was my flatmate, my best friend, my anchor in a sea of confusion, my... my..." John's voice hitched on the growing lump in his throat. I was so alone and I owe you so much. "I was so alone, and I owe him so much". He didn't attempt to stem the tears that fell from his crinkled eyes.

"John, I... I had no idea. Well I mean we all had an idea but it wasn't that. We, well now is not the time. Obvious. But honestly John, if I had known."

"Don't fret Molly Hooper. I … What exactly was this idea you claim everyone had then? Don't be a clam Molly!"

"Well you knew Sherlock better than anyone, John. He didn't have friends. Like, none. He had no interest in them. No interest in any of it... Obvious." John cringed remembering that horrible Christmas where Sherlock had picked apart poor Molly, only to find that he was in fact the object of her affection. "Until you, John. Sherlock took to you like a fish in the ocean. I'd never seen anything like it. He'd talk to you, even if you had gone out! He'd call everyone John out of pure habit, as if your name was the only one he could be bothered to remember. So, we all just assumed you were more than flatmates. You'd understand if you could see the two of you. You're like planets that got stuck in some gravitational pull; you moved as if you were two halves of a whole John... Everyone saw it but the two of you."

Molly finished in a huff, purposefully draining the remaining tea in her cup to quiet herself. Her stress was exposed by the shaking hand that rattled her teacup on her saucer. John stood amidst his thoughts, sure that Molly must be able to read all of them, that she could see his hard exterior cracking and crumbling all around. The entire flat vibrated with tension. Molly stood, her chair scraping abrasively along the floor. Gathering her things, she briskly approached John. Looking him square in the eye, she began speaking with the kind sternness of a mother.

"John Watson, you were the best thing to happen to Sherlock Holmes. Don't ever doubt that. The greatest consulting detective loved you more than he's ever loved anything in this entire world. If he's alive, he'll find you. Don't stop looking, okay John?"

John could only nod dumbly, the rest of his body numb. Molly kissed his tear-stained cheek, and swept out of the flat with uncommon grace.

Untold minutes passed. John was frozen. He was trying to process Molly's profession of love. A profession of Sherlock's love. Sherlock, who in his last moments, thought of nothing except seeing John, hearing John's voice.

In that moment, John Watson fell to his knees and prayed that the dreams he so desperately wished away would return, to hear Sherlock's voice once again speak his name.

Goodbye, John.