A/N: Thank you thank you thank you for all the alerts, favorites, and reviews! Really, I don't see how some people write without them. You all are beautiful people and I think this fandom is lovely(though somewhat brilliantly insane). I'm just happy to somehow contribute in any way possible.

Anyways, I decided I might as well make this a series. I love the idea so much I told myself: "shoot, why not?" ("because it might suck, that's why not!") So I'll try my best to update often.

I also want to mention that I am not particularly religious and I'm trying to stay away from too much of that aspect of this story. If I in any way insult anyone through this, I am so sorry. You can throw books at me if you want.

Disclaimer: I don't own. Duh.

Also un-beta'ed and not brit-picked. Any mistakes or historical inaccuracies, just message me. I don't mind.

This chapter was inspired by Breakeven by The Script

Chapter Two: The perks of having a best friend

Sometimes my imagination is a lot more creative then I would ever give it credit for, or ever care to admit for that matter. I've long ago accepted the peculiarities of the brain, and mastered the art of detaching the fact from the fiction. The hologram from the ghost. The code within the numbers.

I never fully appreciated John Watson's life until it had been completely eradicated from all of him but his eyes. Those striking, trusting, calm midnight-blue eyes. They were so clear, if I looked long enough the soldier inside would drag me from the chaotic war-zone where there is only pain and grief. Then the doctor would stitch me up and get me safely home, where my flat-mate, and my one and only friend, would brew me a perfect cup of tea.

Just by those eyes alone, I knew this entity, this man, was my John Watson.

Yet he was not the John Watson I remembered. He was a younger version, before life claimed the innocence. As if he has never seen a man blow to pieces before his eyes and the nightmares were simply shadows in the dark. His laugh-lines were gone and the heavy skin around his mouth and nose were faded away. His blond hair no longer held flecks of gray and somehow gleamed gold even in the dull light of the morning. He was wearing that striped jumper he only wore on the days he was in a particularly good mood, along with those a pair of dark jeans he secretly loved but was always complaining were much too fitted. Now they were perfect.

"John." The voice I heard hardly sounded like my own.

We stared at each other, the light in his eyes so very alive and his unlined face the extreme expression of befuddlement reserved for those moments when I was being considerably brilliant… or ridiculous…

I reached out my hand, the one not holding the corpse of my best friend; careful but steady as I always am. This was one of those very few moments of my life when I wanted to touch someone for my own comfort; I finally needed to touch to really prove something to myself.

To my dismay, he shook his head and leaned away. I frowned and with a start, noticed something else that was really… not a part of John. At least not that I remembered, though in an afterthought, this new addition was rather fitting.

At his back, broad, and flexing, was a pair of massive wings with a plumage of pure white speckled with various puddles of silvery-grey. They were twitching, almost as agitated and surprised as its owner who was still staring at me still with that look of wonder on his face.

"John," I said again. An expression I didn't understand immediately came over him. I frantically tried to read it, but it was hard to read something that did not make any sense at all. I needed more data, "John… have I done something wrong?"

The laugh looked painful on him, as if he wanted to hold it in but it forced its way out anyways. Tears trailed down his cheek. I reached out on impulse to wipe them away but he moved backwards again. Those wings fluttered and lifted him backwards, as if he was simply weightless. Like music in the breeze.

"No Sherlock… well, yes, but no. This time was my fault."

I nodded, starting to understand where this conversation was going, "You were murdered John. That was hardly your fault."

"No, but getting pissed and higher than Mycroft's ego didn't exactly play fate into my favor," he chuckled softly, "I really am an idiot aren't I? I couldn't even tell that you were alive. What kind of friend wouldn't know that?"

I frowned, "I made sure you didn't know."

"Yeah, and a good job you did. Fooled me and the world, though obviously not your bloody brother and Greg."

"I couldn't tell you, John."

"Couldn't you?" He closed his eyes and sighed, "You have no idea how odd this feels. This is the first time we've spoke in years. It's like I'm speaking to the dead, and then I realize I'm the one who's dead. Bit not good that."

I grit my teeth, "It was to protect you-"

"I know, Sherlock, and I forgive you for that. Thank you, for that. I just wish… I don't know what I wish for…" He turned his face away from me, but not before I caught the wistfulness. The regret.

"You wish you were alive." I looked away too, not really seeing anything anymore but that face, now burned into my memory, "You wish you hadn't died this way."

He still said nothing, but I knew I was right. We sat that way together silently for a while, sharing the space and watching the sunrise. Its warmth chased away the chill of the alley; not like I much cared that I was cold in the first place. Only transport after all.

"I should go."

I snapped my attention back to him, noticing the sun glinting off his hair and the way his wings were outlined by a soft glow of sun-dipped gold.

He smiled met my scrutiny effortlessly in a way only John Watson could. How many days has it been since he looked at me this way?

John…

"I'm dead, Sherlock."

Confused, I tried to puzzle out his expression again, "Obvious, John."

"I should go."

"Go where?"

"You know," he pointed skywards. I followed his gesture and looked up at the blue and clouds. "Heaven. I should 'move on' as we humans say."

"Heaven?" At one point in my studies I became interested in the accounts of after-death experiences. Apparently for many, Heaven is made up of light, loved-ones, and "happiness".

Paradise Cielo Niebiosa Himmel Taevas …

"Yes, Sherlock. Heaven. Don't tell me you've deleted that too."

I glared at him, "Of course not. Religion is one of the greatest acts of passion!"

"Well that's… good…"

I felt like I said something wrong again. Usually this wouldn't be much of a problem, but John cared. "Caring is not an advantage". Mycroft's mantra. But I've long ago realized that "caring" is what made my John… John. I can't imagine him without it.

"Will you come back?"

He blinked, "Come back from where?"

"Heaven!" The body in my arms kept me from throwing my hands in the air, "Focus, John! You said you were leaving. Why?!"

"What do you mean 'why'?" Ah, there's the old fighting spirit. "I'm dead, Sherlock. Dead. I can't just stay here!"

"I don't see why not. You're here now aren't you?" I grimaced inwardly. If I was being truthful to myself, there really was no point to this conversation. I was being selfish. John was d-…gone, and I couldn't do anything about it. If anything, he deserves to move on. He shouldn't have to stay here.

I shouldn't be forcing him to stay here with me.

Suddenly, a hand was at my shoulder and the voice behind me caught me unawares, "Sherlock, who are you talking to?"

I rounded on the Detective Inspector. There it was; that careful look of pity.

His hand was shaken off, "Really Inspector, you must be older than I thought. Has your sight already failed you?"

Lestrade backpedaled uncertainly and looked at Mycroft for help who was also annoyingly present. Mycroft switched his umbrella to hang on his wrist and reach out comfortingly to the Inspector.

About time they gotten together, they've been dancing around for ages,

"Sherlock," Mycroft spoke carefully, as if speaking to an injured animal. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to help us out on this one."

Now this was new. An apology? Should I also be expecting someone to break out in song like one of those horrid (but oddly touching) Disney movies?

I motioned carelessly towards the silent man next to me, "I don't know what's come over you two! Can't you see it's John?"

They both slowly followed my hand then back at me. Lestrade shuffled nervously and swallowed, "No one's there mate."

Fierce anger rose in my chest, "I never took you for being particularly rude, Lestrade. Of all the-"

"Sherlock," Mycroft hissed sharply, "No. one's. there."

I glanced between the Inspector, Mycroft, and then John who was looking back at me calmly. When it finally clicked, I promised myself to shoot the walls of my mind palace later for not realizing the obvious sooner.

"Ah, they can't see you."

"Nope."

"So it seems like I'm talking to myself."

"Pretty much, yeah."

There was another long silence where Mycroft and Lestrade were staring at me as if I've lost my mind (which should be nothing new really) and John was watching me calmly as if having a conversation between the living and the dead was so very normal.

I caught his eyes and sighed dramatically the way I do when the world was being unexpectedly tiresome that day.

And right then and there, we burst out laughing, and it was the best feeling in the world.

The perks of having a best friend.

Yeah. Mystrade. That's right. I went there.

Coming soon: An actual plot...