(Sherlock has been staying in Molly Hooper's house for the last year that he has been "dead", mostly staying indoors and occasionally helping out Scotland Yard. The only people who know he is alive are Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade and Stupid Anderson.)
CHAPTER 1
Sherlock woke abruptly, sweat streaming down his face. It was still dark outside. He groaned as he rolled over to face Molly's little blue alarm clock. 3:53 it read. Sherlock sighed. He hadn't had a proper night's sleep since the nightmares started. They were dreams of John, tears pouring down his cute little face as he stood in front of the gravestone. Dreams of him back at his therapist, unable to cope with his loss. Dreams of him unable to move on from losing his best friend. He had been trying to see John whenever he could, Walking around Baker Street on the weekend just trying to see if he was there. Once he caught John's eye and he paused and stopped and in that moment Sherlock felt that nothing changed at all. A glint of recognition passed over John's eyes. Then he blinked and the moment was over. John walked away slowly and shook his head as if trying to convince himself that nothing had happened. The moment stayed prevalent in Sherlock's mind and he felt a tidal wave of guilt sweep over his body. Guilt that he could not spend more time with his beloved John.
Sherlock closed his eyes and pushed the thoughts from his mind but they managed to slip back in again through his dreams, tormenting him. There was Moriary's face now, laughing manically and smiling an evil smile, surrounded by fog and great swirling mists. 'I don't have to be alive to cause you pain.' Moriarty cackled and then there was John crying and crying with Moriarty torturing him and an alarm was ringing, piercing through the air, cutting through Sherlock's mind and ripping his soul in two.
Sherlock awoke to find the warm, golden sunlight tingling across his body. He could hear clanging noises from downstairs. 'That's funny,' he thought 'Molly's normally left the house for work by now.' Intrigued, Sherlock slipped on his fluffy rabbit slippers (they had been a present from John a while ago. Sherlock had never really known what to make of them. He thinks John had intended for them to be a joke present, but they were all he had from John now and so he treasured them over everything else (except, of course, the world famous deerstalker.) and put on his favourite silk dressing gown, the purple one. He yawned and stretched out his arms and thought what John was doing right now, as he always did. Sherlock sighed, he felt like the weight of the world was heaped on his shoulders. As he passed the hall mirror he stared in disbelief at the person he had become. His hair was messy and unruly and he hadn't shaved for a week. His lifeless eyes stared at him, at the bones all too visible and the deep, dark bags under his eyes. The only thing he was holding on to was the thought of possibly seeing John again.
He walked in to Molly's kitchen. Everything was as normal. The clean surfaces were gleaming in the morning light and there was breakfast on the table for him. Molly didn't trust him in the kitchen, there had been an incident involving some important medical papers and a frying pan which had resulted in a smouldering mess.
And then Sherlock noticed a note on the table. It was in Molly's handwriting and it was about John.