But now it was woke up, covered in sweat. The sheets were askew, where he had been active in his sleep. He had the nightmare again. His nightmares always seemed so real. He'd had it almost every night since the light in his world had gone out. The damn fall. The Reichenbach Fall. John shuddered at the name. Reichenbach. Richard Brooks. Jim Moriarty. Moriarty. His best mates archnemisis. He had died that day on the rooftop. That was the only saving grace of that day. The worlds most dangerous criminal. Dead. But the worlds only consulting detective, also dead. John wished it could have been him. The world would always need Sherlock Holmes, but the only reason they needed John Watson was to update the blog. John did his best to help Lestrade and Scotland Yard, but it depressed him being on cases without Sherlock.
John had considered suicide. It wasn't the first time. He thought back to the day he met Sherlock Holmes. Just Two days earlier, he had tried to end it. He had put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. Luckily, the gun had been out of bullets at the time. John thanked God every day for that turn of events. If he had gone through with it then, he never would have met Sherlock.
If I hadn't met Sherlock, I would have been dead long ago... Watson realized. Watson had so much he wanted to tell Sherlock, so much he wanted to thank him for. But now he couldn't. John knew he would never get back to sleep. He didn't sleep much these days anyways. He just sat a read the papers, although they did nothing but depress him, and had also started working out. John found that this physical activity helped him work out his frustrations. John had developed some muscle in the year that Sherlock had been gone. Before, he had been strong, but now he had the muscle to show off. It was John's funny little way of saying to life that he was strong enough to survive that day.
When John did get out of the house, his new muscle didn't go unnoticed. Several different ladies had hit on John, but after the first few, John gave up. They were all missing something, and John knew he wouldn't find it in any of these women. So he gave up. That seemed to be all John was doing these days. Giving up on sleep, giving up on regularly eating, giving up on normal human life. John decided that some tea was in order. Earl Grey sounded nice. So John put the pot on, and sauntered around the flat, wearing just a sheet, much like Sherlock used to. John sighed as he thought about Sherlock.
Suddenly, there was a tentative knock on the inner door.
Who could it be at bloody 2 in the morning?
John wentover and peeked out the door. All he could see was a tall, slim figure.
"My dear Watson."