Was that it? Is he dead now? There was nothing. No John, no nothing. He always knew that the heaven concept was wrong but now he couldn't prove that, what a waste.

"What the hell is going on here?" Moriarty's strident scream penetrated even through the veils of death and so Sherlock, somehow, woke up. "Give him some water you idiots!", he yelled at them "I said alive!" Sherlock didn't know if he should be happy that Moriarty has found him but now John will stay alive and that was enough for him to be thrilled. He was given water and slowly started to feel a lot better and so he fell asleep.

Suddenly, out of the blackness of sleeping, he opened his eyes and was lying on the sofa in his home, at 221B Baker Street. "Good morning sleepy" John put the newspaper back on the coffee table next to which he was sitting. "Did you sleep well?" Sherlock didn't know what to think. He knew it wasn't real but it looked so real and smelled real, felt real and the tea John gave him even tasted real and was also so hot that it had really, and quite painfully, burnt his tongue. "Are you alright?" John asked because Sherlock was now rubbing it while staring at the wall. He looked warm and loving and his smile warm though a bit cynical just like Sherlock remembered it.

"I was dead" he said and then felt really dumb. "You were dreaming Sherlock! And it's all fine now. I promise." Sherlock looked at him. "But you can't promise that. It's a dream." he said "I'm dreaming now." John looked very alarmed by that answer. "What do you mean dreaming?" he asked "you're awake now how can you be dreaming?" Sherlock looked at him. For a slight moment he wanted to believe John and say that this was the real world but he knew better than that. "I'm not here now." he said. "I might never be in Baker Street again. Might never see you again." John's face became more serious. "Sherlock are you alright? What are you talking about?"

"But it's the truth" he said firmly. "In the real world you're sure that I've killed myself and that I'm dead." John smiled at him and Sherlock couldn't understand why. "We've already been through that." "What?" he was not expecting that. What does he mean by that? Could all what he has been through in the last two years be a dream? And if it was, how come he can't remember any of what happened in the real world?
But no. That was a proof that this was the dream. How can one forget two years of his life?

"Sherlock!" John's voice brought him back to the present. "Sherlock, you came back last year." Sherlock looked at him vacantly. "You're creeping me out" John said. "What's wrong?" But he couldn't be. "It's a dream John. It is. Your life is now at stake and if I won't do what I'm told you'll be dead without even knowing why!" John now looked scared more than Sherlock has ever made him be. His wondering eyes fixed on Sherlock's, trying to understand what's going on in this weird head.
"John. John! Listen to me!" he was now scared himself. Not knowing was his greatest fear. "This is a dream! I was there and I was dying. You were there too." John now was as scared as him. "But you said I didn't know you were alive." "Well, not really there, you were an illusion and I wanted you to help me but you didn't. You just stood there and looked at me." John was now more sad then scared. "And then I died. But I didn't I was still alive, though just a little bit and Moriarty found me on time, and" "Moriarty?" John voice was now firm. "But he killed himself. On the roof of St. Barts. He died Sherlock! It can't be." Sherlock was now laughing. It was definitely the dream. Moriarty is very much alive. Or is he? He didn't know what was real anymore. But if he could choose, this reality was better. It was with John. But no. It was too real there, in that cell, for a dream. Far too real.

"Sherlock, come here." John stood up and so did Sherlock and then, without a warning, he hugged him. Well that one was definitely the dream now. John has never hugged him. Actually no one did. But this hug was so real, loving and warm and Sherlock just wanted it to last forever even if that meant staying asleep for all eternity.

It was silent. John just hugged him and didn't say a word. Sherlock liked that. He hugged John so hard so he wouldn't suddenly fade away. As he thought of that possibility the room around them started crumbling and slowly the walls disappeared.
Then a violent, strong wind started pulling the furniture. The sofa was the first to go, then the table and the skull and slowly the whole room was gone. Sherlock was now holding John as hard as he could. The wind blew his hair and its cold violent touch burnt his skin but he didn't let go of John. Whose head was now stuffed deep in Sherlock's chest. The floor was then gone too and now it was just them and the wind. It pushed his legs backwards and John's too. It was too strong and torn John from him. He was now flying in front of him. Scared. Holding his hand. Another strong burst of wind and John was gone. "John!" Sherlock was flying backwards, fast, as if something was pulling him. "John! JOHN! John..." there wasn't a sound. John couldn't hear him. He never did. It was all a dream.

But why didn't he wake up?

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