Warning: It will likely be confusing. It's supposed to read that way.

"...It's been eighteen months, John..."

My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.

"...I know it's been hard, John. Tell me how you've been feeling...I asked you to keep a diary, how has that been going?"

But he's not really dead. I thought he was, but he's not. He let me think so, because he needed to trick Moriarty's men. Moriarty. He's the reason for all of this. Moriarty.

When John hears that name, he sees red. He will kill Moriarty, kill him in cold blood. He will wrap his fingers around the spider's throat and choke him and then destroy the web of lies he has weaved. When John is done with him, there will be no more Moriarty.

"He's been doing...well. He's still having trouble adjusting, doesn't speak much, but he's started writing about it...fragments, really...no, no, they're not disturbing, not in context. It makes plenty of sense for him to still be caught up in the destruction of it all. Don't worry, Ms. Watson. It may take time, but I'm sure he'll make a recovery."

The text was simple. From a number he didn't recognize. I've bought milk. -SH

John stared at his phone for a long time in shock after first receiving the text. He'd never received anything of the sort before, it was a terrible prank. He wondered how someone could have gotten his number, before he remembered Sherlock had posted his number on his own website months before. Because people know by now when they can't get in contact with me, they should try to reach you. I'll be where you are.

He clenches his fist, fingers stretching and tightening over the phone, anger simmering beneath the surface. His best friend deserves better. He deserves better than to be vilified. He deserves the graffiti he's seen across the town, scrawled, on park benches and bathroom stalls. I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, Dr. Brook is good. He's put John on some new medication—we're not sure how he'll react to it, yet, but we're hopeful."

Brook. Richard Brook. Rich Brook. He knows that name. Because Rich Brook is Jim Moriarty. He is, he is, he is. Moriarty was real.

Richard Brook is the one in his head.

"We need to sedate him! Now, Ms. Meyer!"

"...The medicine...it didn't work as well as we'd hoped. John seemed to grow more aggressive, particularly around Dr. Brook. We were forced to take him off it."

When John sleeps, he dreams. More often than not, it's about Sherlock.

Sherlock falling, Sherlock flying. Sherlock's lying on the ground and he's not getting up and he's staring up at John with those bright blue eyes but there's nothing in them anymore.

But sometimes, he dreams of voices instead. When he wakes up everything is a blur and for a moment he's not sure what's real and not-real.

"We want to try to get him to interact with others. Right now he sits on his own for the most part."

When Sherlock steps into the building, John is convinced he is going crazy. There's no other explanation. Because Sherlock is dead. Dead, dead, dead. He's stood at the grave, this isn't possible.

But Sherlock is there, and Sherlock is holding the milk, and John doesn't know what to do. It's a paradigm shift, a simple equation that was no longer adding up.

Sherlock is dead. Now he is not-dead.

John doesn't know whether he should faint or punch him. He settles on both.

His fist collides with Sherlock's jaw before he stumbles back and braces himself against his chair, fingers digging into the comforting fabric. He sinks to his knees, and then Sherlock is at his side. He is murmuring the other man's name.

"Do you...know anyone by the name of...what was it, nurse, Holmes? Oh, here it is, Sherlock. Do you know anyone by the name Sherlock Holmes. It's the one thing he says. Nothing else, just that one name. Maybe they were in the same unit together?"

"John didn't tell me much when he came home...he was so quiet...I really don't know..."

Sherlock had to go. He had to do it, had to fake his death, had to lie to John, to protect him. But John never wanted his protection, John just wanted to be with Sherlock. He wanted his best friend. He wanted the danger. He didn't care about protection.

"We're starting to worry...nothing will help. It's been two years, Ms. Watson. Of course we'll keep trying, but...he hardly does more than sit there, these days."

"May I talk to him?"

"You can try."

When John comes to, again, Sherlock is hovering over him, concern across his features. He immediately tries to force the words out. Needs them to come out. He needs them to sit in the room, hover over them, make this real, make this concrete, before it can all come crashing around his ears and shatter into pieces and he'll have to pick himself up again, because John is a soldier. John is a fighter.

John will not shatter. He refuses to. He will do what he needs to.

"Sh-Sherlo—"

"John. I know. It's okay." But Sherlock needs to do more than understand, he needs to hear the words.

"No, Sherlock, no, I need to say this. Don't stop me, I have to. I-I just have to."

"John, please—"

"I love you."

"John, who is Sherlock? Was he an old friend?"

Sherlock doesn't move. He doesn't answer John. But of course he doesn't answer. Because Sherlock would not answer such a statement. John has set all the pieces of the game, but he is the one who has lost. Sentiment, such a terrible old thing.

"Nurse! Nurse, I—I thought he looked up at me. I guess I was just...hoping for a sign. Hah, a miracle of sorts, I guess."

"It's understandable, dear. We all hope for them, sometimes."

"Sherlock. Sherlock, you don't...have to answer, just...I needed you to know. It needed to be said."

"We would like to try taking him off his old medication. We'll wean him off. We're going to put him on something different, instead. Better. It should help shake him from this state."

The problem is, John realises, he can't live in this world anymore. Doctors can do what they like with him, but he's reached a point where it's this or that, and he doesn't know real and not-real anymore. But Sherlock can't answer, of course Sherlock can't answer, it wouldn't make sense for him to answer.

"He's responding to outside stimulus more than he was previously. We have high hopes for him. One of our unlikely success stories, you know?"

It's harder to focus on this, here now. Sometimes, Sherlock is there. Sometimes he isn't. The equation is no longer quite so simple.

"John? It's Harry. I...I really miss your voice. And I could really do with some of your advise right now. I told you Clara and I split up a while back, do you remember? Well, probably not. Still, she... I don't want to let her go, y'know? I'm off the drink. I want to tell her...I can keep off it, this time, I swear."

No, you can't, Harry. I remember Christmas with Sherlock. He knew you hadn't stopped drinking. Sherlock always knows everything.

"This doesn't usually happen with PTSD, does it?"

"No, no, this is an extreme case. But he shows signs of improvement. I guess the real world was just too much for him. Still, the hallucinations don't seem to be of the war. If anything...I think he's created a world for himself where he doesn't have to deal with the symptoms."

Created a world. Those words are easy to remember. But they aren't real. They can't be. Because if those words are real, that means Sherlock is not-real. I know Sherlock is real. He has to be. Has to be, has to be, has to be.

"...Sherlock..."

"John? Oh, my god, John! Dr. Brook!"

"...Lie...fake...fraud...Moriarty...real...Sherlock...real...?"

Sherlock...Sherlock. Real? Not-real? In my head means not-real. Not-real means they were right. They were always right.

"So you're saying he was, quite literally, living in a world he created in his own head?"

Doctor Brook nodded. "To combat with the PTSD. In his mind, he made himself the hero. He came home from the war, and he met someone. This Sherlock. He helped him solve crimes, I suppose would be the word for it. Apparently the man killed himself, though. Or rather, he faked his death. But the parameters of the hallucination wouldn't allow it. It was a stresser, of sorts. Who knows what caused it, but without it he might have stayed up in his head for the rest of his life. If he continues with this medication, we may even be able to release him in as little time as a few months."

Every dream ends. You can't play the hero, forever. It was easier to let himself believe he missed the battlefield. It was harder to be unable to connect with the real world. When every turn around a corner left him stranded in Afghanistan, retreating into a safety net was the only option left. No room to break down when he had to look after someone else. But Sherlock is gone now, gone and vanished inside his head, and damn it John should have known better. Should have known people don't have friends like that in real life.

Because now he's not suffering from the war. He's suffering from the dream, and everything he's ever lost and everything he's never had.

This is my first foray into Sherlock fanfiction. This was a result of a post over on tumblr, but I don't recall who it was that was looking for something like this. Anyway, hope you like it. Reviews are always wonderful~

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Disclaimer: No, Sherlock is not, nor will he/it, ever be.