Hello there! Well now, I found this lurking on a scrap of paper in my desk about a week ago, it must have been written about 4 months ago so I felt it had waited so patiently it needed to be published.

Enjoy!

John was no stranger to death. He lay in anticipation of the nightmares, the dreams which housed his friends, long dead, pleading for salvation. Bleeding. Begging. John could never save them.

At the time Sherlock hadn't begged. He hadn't said a word, really – just smiled. John still wasn't sure why. The blossom of blood on his stark white shirt had been obscene, bordering on ridiculous. It would take weeks for the crimson to clear from his vision. It would take longer for the smell of hot, sour metal to be washed away.

John was used to the eyes glazing over as death approached. John was also used to Sherlock obliterating what he knew, what he was used to, turning all those comfortable little truths on their heads until he was certain he knew nothing at all.

Sherlock's eyes had remained clear and sharp until the very end. Until the very last second, his eyes had been bright, searching, and the cogs had been whirring furiously – silently.

All the while, scarlet blood seeping from that gaping hole in his chest, which they both knew ran deep enough to consume them. Flesh wound. He'd heard himself offering useless comments and statements. Stay awake. He wasn't really sure who he was meant to be comforting. Don't close your eyes. Himself? Keep fighting. Or the dying man?

Stay with me.

He knew that when he went home to Baker Street, Sherlock would be there. Waiting. In every darkened corner, in his bed, on their sofa, on the other side of every mirror. Inside his head. He would be there. Quiet, watching. John wasn't sure if that would be a comfort, or whether he would lose his mind. In the end, perhaps they were the same thing. He knew he would expect a solid, real Sherlock to come clattering up the stairs every time he heard the door to the street slam, because those habits would be hard to break.

The flat would still smell of him, under the overpowering scent of chemicals lazily splashed about in the kitchen would be that deeper one – the smell of Sherlock. A cool, yet comforting and all-encompassing thing which had permeated every fibre of their home, and had become such a part of it that John was sure it would never be home again.

How long would it take for his own smell to replace Sherlock's? Weeks? Months? How long would it take for the stab of disappointment to fade every time it wasn't Sherlock coming up the stairs? Because he never would again. He would never see him again. They would never share a meal, discuss work, discuss life. Sherlock would never –could never- talk to John again.

How long would it take for John to stop wishing he were as cold, lifeless and limp as Sherlock? How long would it take for that scorching, freezing ache of loss and heartbreak and despair to finally settle in his chest and cease its gnawing and clawing at his insides, as though struggling to find a permanent home, a comfortable position in which to torture John.

John knew it would be an eternity.

Lestrade let out a lungful of air – something between a sigh, a gasp and a cry. Twenty feet away, in the dark opening of an alley, Dr Watson lay curled up, arms draped over a white and crimson body, head tucked into the crook of its neck.

'Sherlock' He murmured, features contorted with the sudden pang of guilt and sadness. Half-heartedly he took his mobile from his pocket, and set about summoning an ambulance, all the while his eyes never left the horrific pair ahead of him.

'It's too late' John gasped, raising his face slightly. There were no tears, Lestrade noted. Just the blank, empty face of devastation. 'He's gone'

With a shuddering breath, he lowered his head again, and stayed there.

Sometime later- minutes, hours,years- John felt firm hands guiding him up, away from Sherlock. A sudden stab of fear cut through the numbness, until he realised that, really, it didn't matter. Sherlock wouldn't know if he was there or not, anymore.

Shakily, he was led away towards the too bright lights of the waiting ambulances and crew of police cars. All the while dried blood bonded his shirt to his chest and stomach, pulling at hairs and creating an extra little stab with every step. He barely noticed.

He was prepared to relive the event in his dreams, every night. He knew that after a month, it would be common place and he would think nothing of cradling the dying man in his arms night after night. What he wasn't ready for, and would never get used to, were the dreams in which Sherlock was alive. A living, breathing, complaining human being who held mundane conversations and had all of Sherlock's mannerisms. Those were the dreams which ate away at him, nibbled at his sanity. Because every morning, as the last shreds of his dream vanished, he would lose Sherlock.

Every morning, with the coming of the sun, Sherlock Holmes would die again.

And still, there was nothing John could do.

John hadn't realised. Until his heart broke, John hadn't realised that Sherlock had been right – that Sherlock had been lucky. Because caring hurt. Caring didn't help. Caring couldn't save a life.

His flatmate's lifeless body had stood testament to this fact. flatmate, friend, lover.

In the end, he was just Sherlock.

That had always been enough.

Reviews make me a very happy person - constructive criticism is loved! If you spot any spelling errors or such like, do let me know - I'm terrible at doing my own proofreading. I'm still going through a very long bout of writer's block, but I hope to have something a little better - and a bit less deathy - in the works soon. Cheers for reading!