So heres the deal. I sort of abandoned this sequel, partly because I lost interest but mostly because I didn't know where to go with it.

I think I have some ideas now.

What I'm going to do is revise all of the chapters so far, extend them and even change some of the details so it flows better.

I started with Chapter 1 (obviously).

Thanks to those who reviewed even though I was a bastard and didn't update. Hopefully that will change now.

Even if you've read this sequel I suggest you read the chapters again because they will be a little bit different and longer.

Peace&Love

Sophie

One month after John's death...

The former detective, for Sherlock hasn't taken a case since, well since John, sits in his darkened sitting room. The curtains, all dark colors and blocking out the early light of dawn. Bottles of vodka litter the flat. An interesting fact, considering that Sherlock barely remembers buying them. He hardly remembers the telltale burn as they as they trickle down his throat. The only thing that punches through to his memory is the nasty taste, sharp and bitter, as it soils his mouth from the first sip to the inevitable time where he blacks out.

Regardless, they serve their purpose.

The former detective sits upon their couch- no, no, no,-his couch. He doesn't remember the last time he's moved, but there is an unopened bottle in front of him. It must not have been too long ago then. Or, maybe its been sitting their unopened all night? He doesn't know or care to know.

Time passes funny for Sherlock these days. Sometimes, it's just one big cliché blur from one point to the next. Other days, a day like today, Sherlock Holmes is able to count every passing, agonizing second with extreme clarity.

He thinks that he's drank multiple bottles but he can't really be sure. He's only focused on one thing.

The anniversary.

Not just any anniversary. Today is one month since John's death, murder.

That's why he got this, he thinks as he rolls the object in his hand. Something to help his pain, something he hasn't craved in years. The tiny vial glistens in his hand, despite the darkness. There is a hum in the back of his mind, observations that seem dull and distant but Sherlock ignores them. Improbabilities in his head along with other useless things that can get people killed. Things that have gotten people killed.

Sherlock outwardly winces at the thought and grips the vial tightly. He turns it in his hand with familiarity and a bit of apprehension. In the background, what is left of his rational mind can hear the beginning of London awakening but the once great detective is all but focused on the vial in his hand, well the vial and the needle that is still laying on the table.

His needle, once thought to be his friend in life before but even now, Sherlock realizes the desperation and downright pathetic lie he once told himself.

Yet, the needle shins with tempting seduction. He carefully puts the vial down next to his thin, sharp friend and leans back into the settee. His hands rest on his knees, clutching at the fabric and the craving that lays thickly in the flat. He could just reach out and take it and no one would really know. Mycroft isn't meant to come around until tomorrow. He could get away with it.

But then, what does he care about Mycroft. The man is a nuisance at best. John is dead.

This may speed up time or at least let him forget for a while. Sherlock's used to his brain and the never ending thoughts and observations but they just won't stop. With the observations come the memories and the thoughts of adoration. Flashes of the blonde man assault his conscious mind constantly. They are fast and don't care what pain they cause the former detective.

He is tired of thinking, he's tired of pain. He remembers the lips and the hair. The stupid jumpers that Sherlock wordlessly finds- found -endearing. He remembers the closeness and intimacy he shared both physically and mentally to the one person who had been his other half.

Even now, he can feel the gentle tug of someone else in his brain. He no longer reacts with glee to the observation and is well aware that the mental tug he feels is a phantom feeling, a transparent longing that is tricking his brain into believing realities that are untrue.

John is dead. His mind supplies for him once again. Its been a month.

One month, Christ.

He can no longer stay strong. The younger man sighs heavily as he picks up the needle, shimmering in the dark room like a beacon of hope. Something to make him forget.

The brunette's phone chirps shrilly but he ignores it. He favors looking at the needle instead of the memories clogging up his tool, his brain. He wants the numbness to comfort him.

As he reaches for the vial in frustration something goes off in his head, a sort of alarm ringing incessantly.

"Sherlock, you are wasting almost six years of sobriety." His inner voice has his same cool tone with clinical detachment. He considers telling it to sod off. Doesn't it understand that he just wants to be numb? The man picks up a vial and rolls it in his palm again.

"John wouldn't want this." His conscience tries again and what a low blow that is. The thought freezes the young man with such a fierce sense of anger and longing that Sherlock physically shakes his head. Tears are already starting to fall.

He wouldn't want this, his own bloody conscience is right. The vial drops to the ground with a clink and the needle follows shortly after. The younger man's head is in his hands and the tears fall freely, dripping upon the carpet without shame.

"John." Sherlock pushes out mentally while he sits in his messy flat in the middle of London. For the rest of the day he curls into the couch and tries to sleep but he just ends up crying. He cries for an indefinite amount of time, writhing through every antagonizing second, his hysterics keeping him from passing into unconsciousness. All the while, wishing and calling for John and knowing that there will never be a response.

The Same Day but Across Seas...

"John."

A man bolts awake with a fevered shout. His chest heaves with short, shallow and uncontrollable breaths. Sweat glistens and slides down his naked chest.

The baritone, the voice that never leaves him, still vibrates within his mind. The grief that accompanies the voice is so heart wrenching that tears automatically spring to the man's eyes.

It's not even the first time this week.

John Watson, a man who is being forced (hidden) in a cottage somewhere in the snowy mountains of Switzerland. He's isolated from people by a physical barrier of many miles, a hundred at least considering the fact that he can hardly reach anyone mentally without straining.

He wipes furiously at his eyes, not mad at the cause but at the situation, never mad at Sherlock. He sighs, a deep breathing that echoes throughout his entire body, and gets out of the scratchy sheets that make up his temporary bed.

Oh god, how he wishes it is just temporary.

It's still early in the morning John gathers as he walks from the bedroom to the tiny kitchen and the only window in the cottage (despite the fantastic view of the Alps just out his window). Mycroft claims that the windowless cottage is for his protection.

Protection from whom? Everyone thinks that John Watson, reliable, ex-army doctor, is dead.

John tries to dispel the bitterness within him but that will always be a losing battle. He shivers slightly as he goes about making tea, the only thing he has done really in the last month while he is 'hiding'.

That still doesn't mean that it taste anything but bitter and sour every time he makes it.

"John."

The man clutches the granite countertop with white knuckles, peering out the window looking for strength. He would give anything to see that familiar London skyline or even the alleyway from his kitchen window, the one that looks down to the bins. He wishes he could hear the honking and bustling of a busy city. Instead, he is forced with a view of white blankets that mock him with their blandness and the only sounds of the wind to keep him company.

"John."

Oh yes, mustn't forget the voice. John lowers his head welcoming the torturous voice that he misses so much. And it really is torture, pure and dilated torture. To hear the man he loves so undoubtedly is like a sticking a hot poker through his heart.

Every time.

And, what makes it so much worse is the knowledge that under any circumstances, he cannot answer the wailings of his name. He can't talk back, no one is to know that he is still alive.

"John."

The man doesn't go back to sleep. He stands, looking out the window with tense shoulders and a heavy heart, forcing himself to stay awake. It's the least he can do considering he is the cause of the misery and hopelessness on the other end. The blond cries and cries, while the callings fade in and out over the course of the day, until finally, sleep grabs him fitfully.

Two Months

"Sherlock, for Christ sake." The ever greying DI yells at his former consultant and tentative friend. His eyes rove around the flat, bulging a bit at the ridiculous mess. Glasses, vials, bottles, trash, clothes and needles scattered about the floor, seeming like there is no carpet or flooring underneath.

The older man surveys the mess reproachfully, with an unspoken admiration of how one man can make such a big mess, before landing his gaze upon the former detective, who doesn't even notice his existence, or at least doesn't acknowledge it. The younger man is pale, so pale, with bruises under his eyes such a deep purple they look almost black. The air is stale around him and the DI doubts that there hasn't been any fresh air circulated throughout the flat in weeks. After standing still for minutes, waiting for an answer, a reaction really anything from Sherlock, the DI finally decides to do something.

"Sherlock." He says gently walking through the mess towards the small bundle of man curled into the settee like he is hiding. Lestrade gets closer and with each step tries to stifle gasps that want to escape his lips. The younger man looks far worse closer up. He is gaunt and if Greg hadn't stopped to talk to Mrs. Hudson before coming up here he would have assumed that Sherlock hadn't been eating.

The dear old mother hen had informed the DI that she has forced Sherlock to eat and thank god for that. Greg can't imagine what Sherlock would look like if he wasn't practically being force-fed.

Probably dead.

The thought slips into his mind so fast and without preamble that Greg winces violently. Death is what got Sherlock into this situation to begin with and is the reasoning behind Sherlock's appearance.

As he gets closer to the former detective, Greg plops down on the far side of the couch away from Sherlock, who flinches slightly but enough for the older man to notice.

"I thought we were over this." The DI says softly, angling his body slightly away from Sherlock to be non-threatening.

Sherlock turns his head with a glower aimed at Lestrade with a weak intensity. The older man worries, has been ever since he got the call on that fateful day.

"Sherlock, you've got to move on." Lestrade says and realizes at once that those words came out rather wrong.

Sherlock's glower turns into an intense glare and swiftly, far more swiftly than Lestrade would have imagined, the thin man is off the sofa and leaning against the far window.

"Sherlock, that's not. I didn't mean..I don't.." Lestrade stutters trying to explain himself or at least apologize for implying that Sherlock's grief would just go away by moving on.

"Look, you can't keep living like this. The flats a mess and-" Lestrade says gesturing around the room, eyes scanning before looking down at his feet. His eyes catch something that makes him stop mid-sentence. A glass vial has tipped over on the floor, its contents leaking out on the carpet.

It doesn't take a genius to know what Sherlock has been up to and rage implode within the DI.

"Just what the hell are you playing at?!" Greg yells, startling the younger man into looking his way. Greg picks up the nearly empty bottle and hold it up for Sherlock to see.

"This is unacceptable." Greg screams while standing up, intending to march over to the man standing by the window and smacking him upside the head. But Greg stops half way there, partly because of Sherlock's eyes. They look hollow but Greg can see a shimmer of unbearable grief that is so consuming that Greg needs to look away.

Lestrade changes his tactics. He sighs softly and runs a nervous hand through his hair.

"This can't keep going on." Lestrade starts looking around the room for a place to start while heading to the kitchen.

Sherlock doesn't move other than to turn his face back towards the window. Lestrade knows the grief of losing a loved one, he understands that Sherlock is just coping, however self-destructive it is. The only thing the DI can do is help and try to stray him away from some of the more dangerous coping methods.

"John wouldn't want this." Lestrade calls from the kitchen, having found a trash bag and starting his clean up. He puts endless bottles of vodka and other liquors into the bag with clanking and clinking noises. He finds more needles just laying haphazardly on the countertops and throws them into the black bag more violently than the liquor.

Meanwhile, Sherlock stills stands against the window. "You would know nothing of what John would want." Sherlock says quietly and without venom. His heart aches.

"John."

The former detective can hear Lestrade messing around in the kitchen and he can't even make himself care. The thumping and clattering of his month-long mess doesn't even register in Sherlock's awareness.

"John."

It is unhealthy and illogical and yet, it's his worse vice of all. He can feel the phantom tugging in his brain constantly and he insist on calling for his doctors, all hours of the day. He hopes with every wailing or soft mutter through the connection that something will change. Once, long ago before Sherlock knew better, he could feel flickers of emotions pass through the phantom connection and he would jump up and down with glee before the reality would crash all around him. Now, when he feels things through the hallucinated connection he knows it's not real. The doctor is dead and Sherlock Holmes is hallucinating. In these occasions, Sherlock doesn't leave their, no, his bedroom for days. His thoughts and memories torturing him as much as the vials of his vices that stare at him temptingly.

A sudden sound behind the genius breaks him out of his reverie.

"Are you even listening to me?" Lestrade voice is angry and loud but Sherlock doesn't turn or even flinch away.

Sherlock is tired, so exhausted. He doesn't care anymore and he has literally lost all will to live.

"I didn't use them." Sherlock whispers but the DI heard it.

"What are you going on about?" Greg says, not unkindly.

"I wouldn't- John, wouldn't- I-" Sherlock stumbles just as Lestrade had before.

The DI shifts and the clinking of glass makes him realize that Sherlock is talking about the drugs.

"Why?" Greg asks helplessly. Why didn't you use them? Why are they here? Why can't we help you? Sherlock hears these questions being asked from that one little word.

But, he just shakes his head with a disheartened dismissal that doesn't even cause Greg to blink.

"Sherlock!" The DI calls with annoyance and the genius lowers his head before turning to the face the man.

"Why are they here?" Lestrade's voice is quieter, softer even. Sherlock shrugs defensively and turns back to the window.

The former detective is punishing himself. For what? That remains to be seen.

Sherlock notices the rustling of a garbage bag and clinking of glass containers indicating that Lestrade is shifting nervously.

"Go away, Detective Inspector." Sherlock's voice is resigned and defeated. Lestrade is too worried, far more worried now than the years when Sherlock actually was a drug addict.

"Sherlock-" The DI starts moving his body towards the lanky man.

Sherlock suddenly explodes. "GO AWAY!" He shouts while turning to face the DI. His face is red and twisted in angry. "I don't want you here!"

Lestrade backs up slightly. He can rely on his instincts and even anger when dealing with an aggravated Sherlock but this Sherlock is so wrapped in guilt that it makes the DI's mind go blank with helplessness. He is surprised at the sudden outburst and doesn't know what to do. Lestrade ships again, this time hesitantly, the former detective is so distant and unstable and really shouldn't be alone.

Sherlock, who is now facing the graying man, lowers his head again. "Just go, Lestrade." The younger man pleads and Lestrade sighs in compliance.

"All right, Sherlock." Greg acquiesces softly before turning towards the landing. "He's worried about you."

Sherlock doesn't move and knows exactly who Lestrade is talking about. He keeps his back slouched and his head down.

"If Mycroft is so worried, he can come himself." Sherlock snaps and rushes past Lestrade with a gust of air, stomping to the bathroom and slamming the door. He seethes in the bathroom as he clambers into the shower, not even bothering to take his clothes off. The front door shuts and the flat is left in silence.

The genius spends the rest of the afternoon in the bathroom. At first the water is scalding, burning against the genius with intensity. He doesn't even notice when the temperature changes at first. Minutes later, the back of his mind registers the cold that is seeping through his bones, bit by bit. The young man shivers as the water goes from luke warm to cold in the hour that he sits on the floor of the tub with his knees drawn to his chest and his whole body rocking with despair.

"John. I miss you." The genius calls pathetically as he grips his clothed, soaked knees to his body.

Three Months After John's Death...

There are many regrets that John has in his life and he can safely say that most of the major ones have occured in the last three months of his life. The biggest regret being the most self-explainatory. Leaving Sherlock, lying to Sherlock, making Sherlock believe him dead.

However, at this moment, there is a regret that John just can't stop thinking about. He regrets not testing the distance of their connection before now.

The headache could possibly be killing him, not that John would mind some peace right about now. Between Mycroft ridiculous relocations so that John can remain a secret and having a second person in his head 24/7, John hasn't slept a night through in all these months.

The headache seems to ache more intensely as John rises from his (temporary) bed in Italy, sighing with exhaustion. He was half asleep when Mycroft came storming into his Indian safe house, (why India, John will never know) and dragged the doctor across the continent to somewhere along the outskirts of Rome.

"John."

There are constant declarations of love and voices throughout the day, multiple times a day and Sherlock's thoughts have become more than routine for John. He doesn't (can't) sleep anymore. With every thought of Sherlock's being pushed, it's hard to close one's eyes.

Not to mention that the white noise, it's consistent and makes John want to tear his bloody hair out.

And Mycroft stole his (temporary) MP3 player so there is no chance of blocking it out.

The doctor trudges through the safe house with tired steps. He's never been more tired in his life before now, he's also hasn't cried more or made this much tea before.

"John."

The blonde man sighs heavily and goes about making tea.

The worst part about the whole thing, is that he doesn't blame the genius. He could never fault the man for his grieving.

But it's all becoming to much. John is so close to snapping and opening the link between them, telling the detective that he is alive.

He can't do it. It would destroy everything that has happened in the past three months. Now that Mycroft has finally decided to share some of his plans with John, they've gotten stuff done. Telling Sherlock now, would dismantled everything Mycroft and John have prepared, everything John has sacrificed. Especially now that they are so close.

It would be counterproductive and selfish and all because he can't bare the torture and the agony of the baritone's communications and speakings of love.

"Get a hold of yourself, Watson." He chastises himself, shaking his head a bit to clear the gloom. He is close, so bloody close. Revealing himself to Sherlock and in turn the world would only hinder all the work he has done. He has finally found Moriarty's hiding spot and he will be able to infiltrate and destroy the man. He can't give that up now. He's got the advantage this time.

He is the only person in the world the telepathic criminal mastermind will never hear coming.

"John."

The doctor grips the counter with one hand as he sets down his tea in the other.

Sherlock's thoughts are becoming more forlorn and agonizing. John thinks something has changed. The genius's thoughts are just as strong but they are weaker, defeated almost.

He's talked to Mycroft more than once about it but the older Holmes insists that Sherlock is fine and John is worry unnecessarily.

Unnecessarily.

John wants to punch that man some time. Nevertheless, the doctor has to take his word as truth. Oh god, he hopes it's true. He hopes that Sherlock is okay because if he isn't this would be for naught.

The desperate pleadings and musings of Sherlock that get sent across the connection don't quell John's apprehension, more so they make him more concerned.

That's why John knows the politician is lying but the blogger sort of revels in the falsified truth, the only reprieve he gets from his guilt these days. He just has to hope that Sherlock will be able to hold together until John gets back.

"It won't be long now, Sherlock." The doctor thinks to himself before placing the mug into the tiny sink.

The doctor moves to his tiny cottage window (what's with the universal safe house one window minimum anyways) looking out into this foreign country.

"John. I miss you."

"John. How can you do this to me?"

"John. Why did you leave me?"

John sighs moving back to his suitcase and grabs the clothes that he needs for the day.

Today is the day, they have finally found where Moriarty and Mycroft's men are going to ambush his lair.

All John has to do is follow the blood.

An hour and a half later, John sits in a unmarked black car that screams Mycroft all over. The blonde man shifts restlessly on the black leather seat as he watches a small jet land on the tarmac.

He didn't even know that Mycroft was going to be here personally for this endeavor. In fact, John wasn't scheduled to leave the safe house until another hour. However, a rough knock on his door and a phone call from the man himself, John now finds himself waiting for the elder Holmes.

John knows the politician despises leg work. If it wasn't the main source of complaint that Sherlock would talk about regarding his brother, the blogger would have seen the disgust in the man's own head. In fact, the rare times that John has read Mycroft there had been one or two thoughts about leg work and the delegation of duties to his employees. The man really hates leg work.

So, the fact that he is here at all has sent John into small panic for the entirety of the forty-five minute care ride.

Paranoia and general worry are starting to set John's teeth on edge.

The jet lands a little ways away from the car and the doctor is watching with a bland eagerness to see Mycroft. He sends out a tendril of his gift, trying to find out exactly why the older man is here. Unfortunately, Mycroft has learned a few tricks since John has 'died' because all John gets from the man is endless jibberish, in german.

Which just frustrates John more.

John scans the driver again, even though he's been doing it routinely since they left the cottage. Mostly to make sure that he isn't being kidnapped but a small part of him wants to know if the driver knows anything.

He doesn't.

John watches with annoyance as the familiar politician walks briskly over to the car, his trusty umbrella pulled tight against his body and a briefcase swaying at his side.

The door opens and the older man climbs gracefully in and motions to the driver to take off, while John sighs with irritation. They aren't really on the best of terms in general and Mycroft being here is bound to complicate things. Either bureaucratically or emotionally, at least in John's case.

A flare of white noise descends upon John with a sharp vehemence causing the blogger to pinch the bridge of his nose in pain and exasperation. The white noise of Italy has caused more problems for John than any of the multiple locations he has been in the last three months.

He can't help but wonder if its a connection to Moriarty being close or if its purely coincidence.

John isn't sure if he wants to know.

John tries to push back the white noise to a dull ache in the back of his mind as he turns his head slightly to gaze Mycroft.

The politician, while being instrumental in keeping the doctor hidden and safe, hasn't been in John's physical presence since that day at the hospital. The man hasn't changed even though its felt like he is the first familiar face John has seen in years. The cheekbones remind John achingly of the younger Holmes.

John shuts down that thought before it could get free and interfere with what it about to happen.

On the other side of the car Mycroft is looking at John and assessing the doctor with a silent gaze. Whereas Mycroft hasn't changed, John sure has, emotionally and physically. The months of practically no sleep have taken their strenuous toll on the blonde man. He looks haggard and scruffy despite his almost clean shaven skin. His frame has thinned out emphasizing cheeks that have hallowed and gained a disturbing gauntness to them that makes him look unhealthy. He wears sunglasses, possibly to keep the white noise out, but Mycroft can see the deep purple bruises under his eyes regardless of the frames covering them.

Mycroft concludes that the doctor doesn't look well.

Somehow this stray though floats over the connection and John is rapt with sudden attention. However, because of the content he scowls nastily.

"No shit." He mumbles in reply and tenses, pulling his limbs closer to himself, all the while making himself appear even smaller and weak.

Mycroft lets out a reproachful stare and John waves a hand dismissively and sends feelings of anger, smugness and disapproval. "Don't even start."

For a second, John regrets that he just reverted to the emotional code. He immediately pulls out of the politician and turns away. It has been so long since the doctor has communicated mentally with anyone and it causes more emotional and upheavals than John has time to deal with right now. He needs to focus on Moriarty. He can think about home and London and Sherlock after. Right now, the game is on.

The politician ignores John's crisis and raises his eyes in determined caution as if saying, "Okay, I'll leave it alone. Just this once."

John sighs and looks away from the man, just realising that he hasn't seen him in months and they haven't even exchange an expression of formalities.

Right on cue, as if sensing John's thoughts, Mycroft speaks conversationally. "Hello, John."

John turns his head slowly towards the voice and it brings up emotions that John has been feeling for the past months. Bitterness is at the forefront and anger. John was forced into this lie and succeeded in a deep betrayal to his best friend, his lover. For what?

"For Moriarty." John reminds himself with a violent mental shake to himself. The doctor sighs and stares at the older man.

"I didn't know you were coming down here." The doctor remarks questionably, acid in his tone, while at the same time opening up the connection to see if things are okay at home. He is too tired to care about his rules and really, Mycroft's feelings.

Before he can gather information about why Mycroft decided to come himself, the blogger is interrupted.

"John."

"Fantastic." John thinks bitterly, perfect timing, really. John can't help but wince at his own mental tone as he guiltiy chastises himself for lashing out at Sherlock. It is not fair of the doctor. He closes his eyes briefly as he tries to reign in his emotions that are getting out of whack.

This exchange doesn't go unnoticed by Mycroft whose lips curl up in a grimace. His face slightly guilt and shameful.

"Good." John thinks, shooting a quick glance over to the politician. "It's his fault that I'm here."

"He's still communicating with you." Mycroft raises an eyebrow with surprise, as if he didn't know.

"Bit obvious of a question for you Mycroft." John retorts angrily, putting more blame on Mycroft than on the detective. It's not Sherlock's fault, it never has been. The younger man doesn't know that John is alive or even aware of how much distance the range covers.

The elder Holmes doesn't respond and John turns to look out the window. The midmorning sun's rays are coating the sky as the sedan travels down deserted roads.

"How is he?" John asks after a few minutes barely able to hold his curiosity.

"He is fine." Mycroft answers and John snorts with disbelief. John has been the one hearing the detective for the past three months and he is everything but fine.

"He misses you." The elder Holmes adds after a second of contemplation, as if John didn't know that either.

John scowls. "I got that much." He spits. John doesn't know all the details but he can feel that Mycroft is holding something back, something he doesn't want John to know. In that moment, John considers the elder Holmes. What would he be lying about? How bad is his detective getting on? Is that why he came himself?

John opens his mouth to inquire more but it is Mycroft who waves a hand dismissively.

"It's almost over, John. You will be seeing him in less than forty-eight hours." Mycroft assures and John backs off. The doctor is too tired to ask more and relishes in the fact that he will be able to hold Sherlock in the next day or two. It is enough to placate the doctor, so he stills and continues the ride in silence.

"John."

The doctor sighs.

"Mycroft, this can never happen again." John says firmly, looking at the politician.

"No. No, I don't believe it can." The politician answers and the car continues down the road.

Three Days Later...

This time of year, London is muggy and rainy. The water that falls from the sky is usually hotter than normal and even more uncomfortable. Not that Sherlock would know the temperature at this moment. He can only hear the pitter-patter of droplets hitting the window. He doesn't even bother to look towards the windows, he knows he'll just see streaks of water flowing down the window.

Not that the quiet occupant of 221B Baker Street notices the weather today anyway, he barely registers the month. Days have blurred into long weeks that in turn, blur into months. Nothing measure time, not sleep or other trivial matters. Occasionally the young man will notice a shift in time if he manages to drift off but that is such a rarity that it hardly ever happens.

The former detective stares to the opposite wall. His eyes roam lazily over his mantle. The skull is sitting prominently off to the left. Its gaze had been mocking and in an angry fit the genius had turn the skull's eyes away.

Sherlock never thought he would grow to hate his skull or even worse, hate Baker Street.

That's what death does, it makes even the strongest succumb to intense hatred.

The genius's mind fills with emotions to such a depth that he can't escape either any of them. Their forms and tendrils capture the former detective with a fierce grip and Sherlock has to bite marks on his tongue as evidences of his resistance to screaming out.

The man sits on his, not theirs, settee with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, tears streaking down his face. The sitting room's windows are actually open thanks to Mrs. Hudson who insisted that Sherlock get away from the dark. The former detective doesn't even register. To him, the room is still dark and gray the colors invisible. The man hasn't had color for the past three months.

"Jesus, John." The man says miserably, trembling slightly. "Why did you have to leave me?"

A sudden noise erupts from below and it startles the former detective slightly. He hasn't heard sounds on the steps for a week now. Mrs. Hudson is gone visiting someone Sherlock now, Sherlock remembers her telling him as she scolded him about the windows. She had left food in the fridge (that Sherlock hasn't touched because he would rather starve to death).

The genius doesn't stir from his gloomy musings when recognises the footsteps belong to Lestrade.

At least he is with it enough to notice that someone is coming. A month before he wouldn't have known Lestrade was there until the man would wave a hand in front of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock doesn't feel in the mood for another drug bust, even though the flat is completely clean. On his way to get more drugs one night he stumbled across an alleyway that they had used in one of the many cases and Sherlock had fled home and retched on the sidewalk besides the steps. He hasn't been out since.

Besides, J-his telepath wouldn't want drugs in the flat anyway, even though that fact has gotten harder and harder everyday to obey.

Lestrade's footsteps are hesitant but cheerful and Sherlock is instantly hateful and bitter. The wet noises of rain slicked shoes bounce up the flat stairs to Sherlocks ears and the younger man turns away from the door in preparation.

If it were a different day, Sherlock may have called out to the DI.

If it were a different week, the genius might have texted Lestrade on the way up the stairs.

If it were a different month, the younger man may have bolted to the door and locked it out of childish spite.

If it was a different life, the former detective may have been glad to see Greg.

Not this day, not this week, and definitely not this life. Sherlock stills and waits. He senses when the DI enters the room, his feet shuffling nervously as he comes to stand right in front of him. The genius doesn't even bothering to look up at the Inspector.

"Sherlock," His voice is timid but excited. A frightful combination. Sherlock might have taken the time to deduce the reasoning but the impulse is long gone. It died in that warehouse along with the only person who mattered.

So, the younger man doesn't answer. Instead, he stays sitting on the settee in his own bubble of misery.

"You need to come with me." Lestrade says forcefully but his tone is soft as he sits opposite Sherlock on the coffee table.

The former detective doesn't answer and he doesn't move. Nothing matters to him anymore.

The DI slowly bends his head to catch Sherlock's eyes. When this proves impossible, Lestrade grabs the younger man's chin and makes him look up.

"This is not a request." Lestrade commands and, still, Sherlock doesn't move. His eyes are red and his face is hollow and skinny, much to Lestrade's chagrin.

Sherlock feels a familiar poke in his brain but the genius ignores it. He has been hallucinating that poking for months. It's a phantom poking, regardless of how strong it just felt.

"Its not real." The detective tells himself as he yanks his face away from the DI, standing up to walk away. u

"Sherlock." Lestrade calls following him as the former detective moves towards the kitchen and away from his memories. Lestrade follows him and stands next to the genius.

The poking doesn't stop and Sherlock grips his temples in irritation. He starts to pace around the room quietly.

Emotions fill his brain and sudden waves of alert optimism and surprise acceptance in which Sherlock translates, "You should listen to him."

He stops moving directly in front of Greg. Against the former detective's will, one of his arms shoot out and grab one of Lestrade's shoulder for support. His knees buckle slightly and the DI smiles.

Sherlock's eyes shoot to the older man. This isn't happening.

"I knew he couldn't wait." Lestrade smirks nodding with happiness.

"No." Sherlock's head lowers. "I'm going crazy."

He has finally cracked.

"You are not crazy." Lestrade soothes as he grips Sherlock's good shoulder.

Sherlock's head shoots up and looks into Lestrade's face. What is going on? John is dead. This is a hallucination.

"I don't understand." The genius frowns and lets go of the DI continuing to move out of the kitchen, away from Lestrade and hopefully away from the hallucination.

"I think you know." Lestrade remarks by grabbing one of Sherlock's elbows pulling the younger man towards the stairs.

"No!" Sherlock freaks out suddenly. "This isn't real."

Sherlock's breathing picks up and he yanks his elbow away from Greg. He backs away from the graying man with a look of pain and grief on his face.

John is . Sherlock shakes his head and his hands fly to his hair, griping the curls. John is dead.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade starts calmly, putting his hands up in surrender, moving towards the former detective.

"Jo-He is dead. I watched him die. Moriarty killed him." Sherlock screams as he starts to hyperventilate. Lestrade moves closer and Sherlock snaps. He pushes past the DI and down the hallway into their, histheirhis room. He slams the door behind him and locks it.

"No." Sherlock screams and tries to pull his hair out.

"This isn't real. John is dead." Sherlock yells out in a mantra.

He can hear Lestrade's calls from outside his door but the former detective isn't listening. He can't listen. He is too busy pacing furiously.

John is dead. John is dead. Johnisdead. Sherlock repeats the mantra over and over.

He can't breath. His lungs won't expand the way he needs it. His vision is blurring and going fuzzy. No. No. Johnisdead.

The genius spent months trying to accept it and now he is told that all of his pain and suffering was for nothing.

Maybe, maybe he isn't. Sherlock feels that small tether of hope.

No. John is dead. He crushes the thought before it can blossom.

Sherlock screams in frustration, fear, longing, renewed grief. His knees buckle and he falls to the floor. Damn Lestrade for making him hope. Sherlock wraps his long arms around his knees, tucking his head against his legs rocking back and forth.

Lestrade's voice ceases and the detective doesn't move. He keeps repeating 'John is dead' over and over, hoping against hope that he isn't going mad.

John is tapping his fingers against his knees nervously as he awaits in the car down the road from his flat, their flat.

He gets to see Sherlock again.

For a while in Italy, John didn't think that it would happen.

The resident politician sits opposite him in the stupidly luxurious backseat of the handy sedan, trying very hard not to snap at John for his nerves. At least that what the gist of Mycroft's mind is saying. John is a little rusty at French.

John is just shy of a stupid smile regardless. He gets to see Sherlock.

He wouldn't have to wait this long if Mycroft hadn't won the argument about meeting on neutral grounds. John still doesn't understand why but he is just too focused on seeing Sherlock again that he agreed tentatively. It still seems a little suspicious but when has anything Mycroft ever done not be suspicious at one point or another. But, the doctor still feels a bit of anxiety about the plan but decides not to linger on his doubts too long.

John thought they were going to go right to Baker Street, so imagine the doctor's surprise when the roll up to NSY.

John remembers looking at the elder Holmes in confusion but Mycroft had just waved a hand and said that Sherlock wouldn't leave the flat for him, which John actually agreed with.

But that meant one thing, they needed a neutral party.

They had to tell Lestrade.

That situation, in itself could have gone much worse. John didn't know what to expect from the DI but a sigh of relief and a hug was a surprise.

"John, I'm so glad you are back." Lestrade had said with raw emotion that implied so much more. The doctor tuned into the tone and was about to question it before Mycroft had stepped in with the plan.

And now here John sits, waiting. The plan, originally was to make John wait at the warehouse they were going to drive too but John squashed that adamantly. He couldn't be away from his detective any longer.

It's sheer force of will, (even when he arrived in London and the white noise had immediately ceased so suddenly that John staggered), that he didn't contact Sherlock.

It has been the hardest thing John has ever had to do and he was soldier who toured in Afghanistan and was forced away from his soul mate, lover, best friend, for three months.

John sighs internally, tired with jet leg, yet his knees can't stop from bouncing with emotion. Fear, guilt, shame, anticipation, anxiety.

How will Sherlock react?

What if Sherlock can't forgive him?

The doctor tries to physically shake himself away from bad thoughts and questions and hisses as little dull throbs of pain shoot through his body.

Oh yes, that. He almost forgot his battled with Moriarty not two days ago.

"Your ribs and the knife wound that is barely stitched up are not going to favor you, John, if you continue to be careless." Mycroft deadpans as he raises his eyebrows at the doctor. "Not to mention your concussion that you shouldn't have flown with."

John scoffs at Mycroft condescending mother hen words before leaning back into the car carefully.

"You know those doctors practically cleared my concussion. I stayed overnight and everything. My ribs are wrapped and the stitches are fine, Mycroft." John states. His injuries, truthfully, are not very forgiving at this moment but the end result was definitely worth it.

James Moriarty is dead.

But the ex soldier didn't escape his clutches without damage.

John pushes those thoughts away, too. He can't worry about that right now. Sherlock is the only thing he has room for in his head right now.

In moments, he will be able to embrace and kiss and touch the detective and that's all John can think about. He can't afford to let his doubts get in the way.

It's been a whole seven minutes since Lestrade had entered the flat and John is humming with anticipation.

Sod it.

John opens the connection tenderly and is immediately hit with such paralyzing grief that John's face droops into a frown.

"No..." The thoughts are panicked and full of despair. John sees the kitchen through Sherlock's eyes and can't help but feel a bit of longing despite the serious situation. His tea kettle is just right there.

"Gregory just told him." John says out loud to no one in particular but Mycroft answers of course.

"I assume he isn't taking it very well." Mycroft remarks.

"John. This isn't real. You are dead." John winces at the pure agony and hurt that Sherlock is pushing through the connection.

Grief and despair. Despairandgrief. Its so deep and crippling that John has to try and turn it down on his end. The emotions, never ending emotions, float through to the doctor and John almost can't take it. After three months of not being able to soothe and communicate and he's had enough.

The connection is practically vibrating with familiarity and John doesn't hesitate.

The doctor sends a wave of optimism, surprise, and acceptance. "You should listen to him."

Another flash of grief and panic float through the bond and John resist the urge to cry out due to the vibrancy of the emotions.

"John is dead."

John thinks idly for a second. Is this what he expected? Was the doctor expecting this much hurt?

"He's panicking." John comments before closing his eyes. He watches, spellbound, as Sherlock paces furiously and then freaks out. He sees the door to their bedroom slam shut and John's mobile rings.

Surprised and filled with dread, John answers the call.

"He locked himself in the bedroom." The doctor forgoes formalities and already has his hand on the door handle. Mycroft leans forward and places a restraining hand on the doctor's.

"Yeah. He freaked out." Lestrade responds with a underlying tone of worry. "I'm going to pick the lock."

"He doesn't believe you." John says with defeat but glaring at the elder Holmes.

"John is dead. Johnisdead."

John winces as the stream of thought comes from Sherlock. He barely hears what Lestrade says next.

"I'd say that's an understatement." The DI remarks and John can hear clattering on the other end of the mobile.

"Mycroft, let me go." John hisses with vehemence and rips his hand away from the politician's grip.

"This is not a good idea." Mycroft responds simply but with determination in his eyes.

"He doesn't believe Greg." John says tersely his gaze blinding with barely restrained fury. Why is Mycroft acting this way?

"John is dead. This isn't real."

"We need to stick to the plan." The politician says firmly and the doctor scowls.

"The plan has been changed." John is tense and Greg has gone silent on the other side of the phone.

"He is fine." The elder Holmes reassures.

"John is dead. This isn't real."

"Mycroft! He is anything but fine and you know it. You have known it." John shouts as it clicks together and Mycroft has the decency to flinch faintly.

In a weird way Mycroft was trying to protect John. He knew that Sherlock would react badly and he was trying to make John feels as least amount of guilty as possible.

Either that, or Mycroft was trying to save his own ass when he knew John would find out what type of shape Sherlock was actually in.

It could go either way.

"The hell with it." John says acidly. "Your brother needs me." John puts his hand back on the door handle and this time Mycroft doesn't move.

"John." Greg asks on the other side of the phone, trying not to ease drop on the tense conversation. John gets out of the car stiffly, his ribs screaming in protest but he continues anyway, determination blocking everything else out. He is immediately attacked by the demanding drizzle of rain.

"All right, I'm coming in." John says when he's half way down the street and then hangs up. He pockets the phone just as he hears the scuttle of Mycroft's Italian leather shoes.

Prat.

The connection is still open between John and his detective. The mantra of, "John is dead" repeated over and over again. He thinks about sending calming thoughts but John hesitates. Sherlock might react even worse when confronted mentally. John just hopes that his physical presence can get Sherlock out of his panic.

The genius is uncharacteristically fragile and John feels an immense wave of guilt crash through him. He shoots a glare toward Mycroft for good measure as he reaches the front door. The rain makes the wood appear darker then normal, he notices as he pushes it open.

What on earth happened? Sherlock is always logical, always brilliant, always detached. The doctor expected him to be skeptical but this is so much more.

"Johnisdead. Johnisdead."

These are the ramblings of a broken man.

He confirms one thing as he hurries up the stairs of 221B Baker Street.

Mycroft was lying with he said that Sherlock was fine.

And John is responsible for breaking him.

The former detective doesn't move, it feels like hours but he knows it could just as well be minutes passing.

"John is dead."

His hearing is only tuned into his breathing, his very shallow breathing. His legs throb slightly but his back twinges with discomfort.

Still, Sherlock stays where he is. Rocking back and forth like the mental patient he is, shivering with grief.

He is hallucinating. It's the only explanation.

"John is dead. This isn't real."

These are phantom feelings and they happen all the time. This is nothing new. Sherlock can feel the poking at his mind and the detective shakes violently as the tears cascade down his face.

"John is dead. This isn't real."

A voice suddenly calls out to Sherlock but the former detective doesn't move. He's heard the voice so many times in his dreams and auditory hallucinations.

"John is dead. This isn't real."

"Sherlock, open the door." The hallucination calls softly and Sherlock closes his eyes. The genius watched his blogger, his lover die. John is dead. This isn't real. It can't be real.

"No." Sherlock whispers to himself while bringing his hands to his temples trying to block out his madness.

He is going mad. The younger man can feel it. Maybe he should make his brother lock him up, put him away to be a medicated zombie for the rest of his life. Anything would be better than this torture.

"No." Sherlock thinks to himself. He just needs drugs. They will help, they will definitely help.

Sherlock eyes his floorboard suddenly. Lestrade doesn't look under there and he knows it's still hidden. He has stayed away from it this long but he can't afford to anymore.

The genius's resolve is breaking.

A sudden rush of calm and warmth spread through the former detective and he realises that his barriers have gone down. He isn't use to putting them up and his distracting thoughts have weakened his hold.

"I'm imagining this." Sherlock whispers to himself repeatedly as the feeling of calm relaxes him.

Suddenly, his bedroom door bursts open showing a kneeling Lestrade eye level with the lock.

Sherlock grips himself tighter despite the calm and rocks with more violent movements.

"No." The detective shouts trying to scramble away from the door and failing. His eyes are squeezed shut and he loses purchase on his flooring and falls onto his back. Sherlock doesn't bother sitting up and instead, curls into himself while shaking with violent tremors.

"Mycroft." The hallucination hisses and Sherlock wishes for death. He can't take it anymore.

"This is your definition of fine?" The apparition continues, his voice scary and angry.

"Stop. Please." The genius whimpers. This isn't worth the torment, life isn't worth the constant tears and hallucinations.

"John is dead. This isn't real."

"This is not fine." The voice is exhausted and irate. No one answers the voice, but Sherlock can feels the vibrations of footsteps coming closer.

"Sherlock?" The taunting voice grips Sherlock and forces him into madness.

"No. No. No." The younger man cries but doesn't move. He is too tired and the familiar sensations of calm are tugging at his consciousness.

Another sudden wave of calm hits the detective and Sherlock goes suddenly limp. There are hands on him and the former detective doesn't move. He lets the rough hands maneuver Sherlock into a position that causes the younger man to whimper from familiarity.

His blogger used to like this pose. Sherlock's head is cradled into the apparition's lap and a hand is running through the genius's hair.

"Shush." The voice soothes and Sherlock realises that he is whimpering but he doesn't open his eyes. They remain squeezed shut against the obtrusive hallucination. Why can't he just be left alone?

What does it want?

"Sherlock. I'm here." Sherlock struggles against the grip but the calm is stilling him, trapping him.

"John is dead. This isn't real."

"Open your eyes, love." A hand cups the genius's cheek but Sherlock doesn't move, his eyelids remain shut. He can feel the calloused hand stroking his chin slightly but the former detective is frozen in dread, grief, disbelief.

"You aren't real." Sherlock whispers to the hallucination as the tears fall down his face. "You-Jo-He is dead."

"How are you going to prove it unless you open your eyes?" The voice challenges. Sherlock flinches slightly. Logic. Hallucinations aren't meant to be logical. They've never challenged him before, either.

A burst of calm enters his mind again and languidly caresses his entire body and with it, the courage to assess the situation. Feeling a long lost spark curiosity and willingness to solve a puzzle, Sherlock opens his eyes.

The most gorgeous sapphire hue stares down at him and the genius buckles under the gaze of the beautiful and familiar orbs, almost shutting his eyes against the realness' of the gaze.

But he doesn't, Sherlock meets the man's eyes with his emotions all over his face.

"John." Sherlock cries and all self-preservation falls out of the window. This is the most realistic hallucination the former detective has ever had and he is not one to waste materials.

He may be crazy and this may be his breaking point, but what better way to descend into madness.

Sherlock scrambles to find his footing on the floor and clambers into the hallucination that could be the real John's lap.

There are so many things wrong with encouraging this hallucination but for now all Sherlock can think about is how warm his imagination is and how he could never regret this, not ever.

The former detective huddles into John and grips at his jumper, taking deep breaths and inhaling John's scent.

Arms wrap tightly around Sherlock and the genius shudders. "You aren't real." He whimpers but his grasp grows tighter trying to anchor the hallucination to himself.

"I am." John responds as one of his hands runs a hand through the young man's hair.

"No. No." Sherlock whimpers and sobs. John shushes him and reassures him.

"You are not real." Sherlock shouts and his breathing picks up. "I watched John die. I watched you die." Sherlock is coming to his senses. He knows that John is dead. This is a vivid illusion. He can't afford to be in the comfort of a traumatic situation. He scrambles away but the ghost grips him tighter preventing the thin man from leaving.

Sherlock can't breath. His face is growing pale. He has to get away. He was wrong, Sherlock is going to regret this in the morning with the hallucination is gone and a hole is all that is left. His chest is tightening and his lungs are refusing to work properly.

"Sherlock." The illusion is worried. "You have to breath."

"I-Can't." Sherlock responds as he chokes on the lack of air flow. More waves of calm enter his mind and in that moment, Sherlock starts to realise his hallucinations never had this effect.

Sherlock's dreams were always of the two of them together. Solving cases or spending days in bed, never once did a dream involve John's telepathy. In fact, none of his daytime hallucinations ever used to telepathy. It's pure logic and it totally escaped Sherlock's mind.

"You're real." Sherlock says quietly as his calming brain instils his lungs to work again.

"I am." John repeats pushing his hand onto the detective's cheek. The connection is warm and instant and both of the men have missed it.

John digs for memories that are happy. He notices the dark thoughts that surround the genius's head and John resists the urge to cry. Right now, he has to focus on the happy. He digs deep and finds the one memory that they both love. The memory of their first kiss. It was awkward and John thought it was an experiment but it was perfect.

Sherlock smiles sleepily as the calming effect pulls him towards sleep.

"When was the last time you sleep?" The voice-no, not the voice, John-John asks.

"Thursday." Sherlock comments curling himself into the security of the man he thought was dead. Sherlock is angry at least he thinks he is. The calming effect is tampering with his emotions. He will be angry, once he wakes up.

"It is Thursday." John remarks with disbelief. "You haven't slept for a week? Up you go. It's time for bed."

John voice is soft and mellow and Sherlock melts into it. He feels the doctor start to shuffling away but Sherlock grips tighter. No, no don't go. He has lived three months without the doctor, he refuses to go another minute without him.

"We are just moving to the bed." John soothes grabbing the younger man. He pulls Sherlock to his feet and the tall man crashes himself into John's arms.

"You left me." Sherlock says quietly as John leads them both to the mattress. He guides the lanky man onto the bed and lays him down straight.

"I'm sorry." John states and can see the detective getting worked up again. He pushes more calm thoughts into the man hoping it will put him into a slumber.

Sherlock tenses underneath John's hands.

"Don't leave." Sherlock cries and pulls himself closer. "I'm sorry. I'm not mad, I promise. Don't leave."

John's eyes leak as he hears the pleading voice, telling him what he wants to hear. The doctor shakes his head with anguish.

"I'm not leaving ever again. I promise." The doctor says before sending the final wave of calm that finally pulls the detective into a slumber.