John sat, gun still up, and stared at the apparition in front of him. An apparition, it had to be. It was the only logical explanation. He let his hand fall to his lap, gun slamming into his thigh. He saw Sherlock's smile disappear.

"Sherlock? Am I dead? Why aren't you smiling? I like your smile," he stammered. Sherlock rushed over to him, taking the gun and tossing it aside.

"John! John, stop it!" Sherlock started slapping John's face, trying to snap him out of his temporary insanity. "John, I'm real! This is real! Please, listen to me!"

John suddenly sat up straight, reaching out to Sherlock. Sherlock stilled, letting John's hands roam over his face, poking and prodding. His hand started to retract back to his body when his hand shot forward, clipping Sherlock in the jaw.

Sherlock fell back, landing with a thump on the floor. John stood, the shorter man towering over him. "Sherlock Holmes, what in the hell is this?" Sherlock looked up at him, shock and surprise on his face. His hands cradled his jaw. "You think you can just waltz in here and expect a surprise party?! You are supposed to be DEAD! Why aren't you DEAD?!"

Sherlock scrambled back, afraid of the look in John's eyes. "I didn't- I thought- I thought you would be happy," he whispered, looking down at the threadbare carpet.

John could feel his heart breaking as he uttered these words. "Get out, Sherlock. Get out. I don't want to see you now. Go." Sherlock looked back up to him, sadness etched in the new lines on his face.

"You can't be serious."

Jon nodded. "Please go, Sherlock, before I kill someone." Sherlock's eyes widened, and he glanced toward the gun. He stood, stooping to get the gun on his way to the door.

"Text me if- if you want to talk. Goodbye, John." He shuffled out the door, stuffing the gun into his pocket.

As the door snapped shut, John crumpled, falling to the floor with a thump. Tears instantly started to fall, and he curled up, wrapping his hands around his head and rocking. Unable to stop himself, the sobs escaped one after the other, getting louder as they progressed. He stayed there the rest of the night.

"John."

Sherlock was standing on the edge of the roof, long coat and scarf fluttering in the heavy wind. His hair was a mess, the wind toying with the curls.

"John, why are you here? You aren't supposed to be here."

John looked at Sherlock, meeting his bright blue-green eyes with his own gray-blue. "Sherlock, don't do this. Please, no. You can't do this to me."

"John, this is the only way you'll survive. You'll go on with your life, get married, have kids, and live to a ripe old age and die in your sleep. If you stay with me, you'll be dead in a week."

Sherlock stepped to the edge of the building, turning his back to John. A cry tore from his lips, and he tried as hard as he could to run to him, to get to Sherlock, but his feet were stuck. He couldn't move.

Sherlock jumped.

Suddenly, John was transported to the ground, standing where he had stood as he saw the love of his life, his madman detective hit the concrete. He didn't want to see this again, but he couldn't move. It was as if the ground had become quick sand.

"Sherlock!"

John shot up, breathing hard. He was still in a ball on the floor, his face wet. Glancing at the clock, he saw that he had only slept for an hour. He struggled to get up, and when he finally succeeded, he flopped into a chair. He didn't even have the energy to go to his bed.

Looking around, trying to get his bearing, his eyes landed on the pile of note he had written only an hour before. Pressing his lips together, he picked them up and threw them toward the trashcan, only one making it in. With a grimace, John noted that it was Sherlock's.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson burst in, her eyes wide. "Sherlock's not dead! I've just seen him come out of here! Did you see him?!" Her tone was colored with a mixture of both excitement and anger, and love and grief. When she saw the state John was in, she backtracked. "John? John, what's the matter?" She walked toward him slowly, as if he were a time bomb.

"I've seen Sherlock. He was here," he told her, a few more tears escaping. "He's supposed to be dead. Why isn't he dead?"

"Well, surely you don't want him to be dead?"

"NO!" he cried. "Of course, I don't want him dead! I love him!" Mrs. Hudson took a step back, surprise in her eyes. She didn't say anything, just waited for him to go on. "I love him."

Sherlock couldn't find anywhere to sleep. None of the hotels had rooms available. Finally, he decided to go back on his promise to himself and ask someone for help. Sure, Lestrade probably wouldn't be happy, seeing as he was supposed to be dead, but he could give it a try.

When he reached Lestrade's place, the first thing he noticed was a new car, in addition to Lestrade's own car. He knocked on the door tentatively, and was surprised when a woman answered.

"Molly?"

"Sherlock?"

They stared at each other, one in shock, the other in surprise.

"What are you doing here? You agreed to leave Greg out of this!"

"Me, leave Greg out of this? What are you doing here?" Molly held up her left hand, showcasing his new ring.

"We're married… A year after you left."

"Molly?" called a voice from inside the house. "Who is it?"

"It's no one, dear," she called back. "Now, go, Sherlock."

"Molly, wha-" Lestrade had decided to investigate their visitor, and was surprised at who he found. "Sherlock?!"

"Hi, Greg."