"Tell me why my tears fall like rain?
Tore me to pieces, nothing else remains
Tell me why my tears fall like rain?"
-Eric Clapton

John gazed at the floor. Tears swum in his eyes like the stars. His breath rasped, audible to his own ears. Memories assaulted him like a battering ram against his mind, surrounding him. The air was biting with cold, the stillness grating against him like a rusty knife. Shivering, John rolled his shoulders and winced, his shoulder twinging. The needle in his hand felt like dead weight. Breathing hard, he wondered who would find him.

No matter.

He'd be with Sherlock soon enough.

His phone blared. Ignoring it, Sherlock paced around the confines of his room, steepling his fingers under his chin. His hands could not keep still, the tail of his dressing gown flapping around in the dusty air. Mycroft had ensured that this house was far from anyone who would deal Sherlock any kind of drug, no matter the legality. Letting loose an agonised groan, he drew every book from the oak bookcase and threw them on to the floor, eyes wild.

"Where have you hidden my cigarettes!" he exclaimed to silence, after the infernal ringing of the phone had ceased.

The cutting sound of his ringtone jarred him out of his reverie. Sighing and rolling his eyes, Sherlock perused his cramped desk for the device. His skull lay abandoned on top of a rickety pile of papers. It was no longer a good substitute for John.

Sherlock exhaled loudly as he answered the call. "Mycroft. I had imagined that even someone as pompous as you might refrain from calling me multiple times."

Not deigning a response to the churlish insult, Mycroft paused for a second. "Brother, you know as well as I do that my time is precious. This is about John."

Though no-one was around to observe it, Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction. He swallowed and licked his lips, eyes darting around the room. Standing a little straighter, he spoke at last. "What of him? Is he still with that abhorrent Mary woman? How much overtime has he been working at the clinic? When will I be able to see him?"

The words that came in reply pierced the air like a knife slipping through his ribs. "You might consider making a trip to St Bartholomew's soon."

"John? Are you in there? It's Greg. I've got that copy of the Gatsby film that you wanted!" Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes. He'd wanted to go home after the case with the postman, but bloody Mycroft Holmes had insisted that he checked up on John for god knows what reason. He banged on the wooden door of 221B, not receiving any response.

"Mrs Hudson must be out," he muttered to himself. Looking around the street edgily, he tried the door. Surprisingly, it was open. Letting himself in, Lestrade shut the door quietly and trod up the stairs briskly, wincing at the creaky step. The sight he was greeted with was not what he had been expecting.

John couldn't close his eyes. He knew he should, because he was going to sleep. He was going to sleep for a long time. He wanted so desperately to close his eyes, but everything was bright and his mind was slowing and soon he was going to see his Sher-

John's eyes lowered a fraction. A figure appeared before him, blocking the light almost like a human eclipse. Broad shoulders. Greying hair. Slack-jawed expression. A name floated somewhere in the distance, but John couldn't quite recall it. He decided that he would call the man not-Sherlock.

Groaning, John tried to close his eyes again. Die die die die die die die die die die die die, he willed himself. Sherlock soon Sherlock now Sherlock so close-

"John?!" The voice was strange, the one syllable stretched out too long. The tenor sound reverberated through John's mind. A strangled cry was ripped from John's throat before not-Sherlock picked him up into his arms roughly and firmly carried him down the stairs and out the door, grunting at the weight. John almost managed to close his eyes before the ambulance arrived.

"Drive faster damn it!" Sherlock yelled at one of Mycroft's silent chauffers. The smooth purr of the engine grew louder as the driver increased his speed. They stopped for nothing, driving through red lights as if they didn't exist. He collapsed back into the lush leather seating of the expensive Audi, tapping his foot relentlessly on the floor. The sights outside the tinted windows flew by faster than even his thoughts could keep up. His mind whirred faster than the wheels turned.

Mycroft's words echoed on in Sherlock's mind again and again, and each repetition felt like a punch thrown at his chest.

"John was seen in Soho earlier today. He returned to Baker Street an hour later and all appeared well. I asked Greg to check on him again in the afternoon on again, just in case." There was a slight pause there, his voice catching for a second. "He found John on the floor with a needle in his forearm. Unidentified substance. I'm sorry, brother."

A dark car rolled out in front of the A&E entrance of the University College Hospital. Lestrade stood outside, glancing worriedly at a cloudy evening sky. His face was gaunt and tired, having been up late on the case before finding John. He closed his eyes, praying that John would be alright. The car's door opened, and a certain lanky, dark haired man practically leapt out and almost ran directly towards the entrance.

"Sherlock Holmes?! Is that you?!" Lestrade shouted, grabbing him by the wrist. He squinted at Sherlock, trying to see past the dark curls all over his face.

There was no trace of a smile in Sherlock's eyes. "Lestrade," he said evenly.

"But-but-but I thought you were dead! The funeral and the fall-" Lestrade shook his head and released his wrist, speaking in a lower voice. "You damn near killed John."

Sherlock stepped away and walked towards the entrance of the hospital, leaving the man to stand alone. "Poor choice of words, Detective Inspector."

"I'm here to see John Watson." The words left in a tumble out of Sherlock's mouth. The lady at the reception desk raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's manic appearance, fingers tapping away on the desk and eyes wild.

"I'm sorry, sir. Visiting hours finished forty minutes ago. Please make an appointment for tomorrow."

"You don't understand." His voice grew low, adopting an anxious undertone. His forehead crinkled with worry. "I am not sure he'll be here tomorrow."

The woman's face was sympathetic. "I see. Let me see what I can do. What exactly is your connection to John Watson?"

Friend flatmate colleague workmate Afghanistan detective partner-in-crime boyfriend.

Sherlock's face reddened slightly. He had never expected to admit his emotions for John to a receptionist in circumstances such as these. Strictly speaking, boyfriend wasn't exactly accurate, but it would do for now. He and John could work out the details later on. "He's my..boyfriend," he said, stumbling over the word slightly.

The receptionist glanced upwards and scrutinised him for a second, before tearing off a slip of paper and giving him directions.

He tore off without a word of thanks.

The room was dark, the small light to his left comforting. The machines still beeped and whirred beside John, an IV drip on his hand. His eyes were barely open. The world was a blur, like someone had spilt water all across his vision.

Sherlock.

The door opened and Sherlock was there. John knew that he should close his eyes now because this must be the end Sherlock is here now Sherlock is-

"John." His voice was broken.

Almost there so close Sherlock here friend here closer please close eyes John.

Sherlock stumbled over to the side of the bed. John's eyes followed his movements, drinking in the sight of him. He sat down, staring at his friend, his boyfriend.

"You have to get up, John." Sherlock's voice was like velvet, like the sun and the moon had melted together and existed in perfect harmony. But his eyes, were filled with anguish.

But Sherlock eyes closing why confused help exhausted now.

His hand found John's. It was still warm.

"I'm back now, John. Here to stay." His fingers intertwined with John's, and he smiled a tiny smile. "But now it's your turn to come back."

Where come back confused Sherlock white light tired eyes closing help.

John's eyes were clouded. Sherlock squeezed his hand.

"I'm sorry I lied to you, John. I heard what you said, afterwards. At the grave."

Grave remember sad angry tired eyes closing Sherlock here.

"You make me better. You are the hero. I was so alone and I am the one who owes you."

Sherlock looked away for a second to stare at the ceiling. His eyes were wet, but he blinked back any tears.

Tears sad help Sherlock no alive eyes very tired.

John turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock's face. He looked older, far older than he had before. The sides of his mouth turned upwards in a wan smile as he squeezed Sherlock's hand ever so slightly.

"Sherlock," he whispered weakly. The man in question leaned in towards John, hope glowing in his eyes.

Love Sherlock alone alive so tired help eyes closing.

"Will you miss me?" John's words were laboured, short breaths in the middle of his words.

"John," Sherlock spoke urgently, feeling his chest freeze and fear wash over him. "Don't say that. Never say that. You're not going! You're staying, with me, and alive. What will I do without my blogger?"

A weak laugh rasped into the sterile air. "Have to get…a new one, maybe," John said quietly.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock felt the lump in his throat. He shook his head, unable to speak.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes." The warm smile on John's face was his old, familiar one, and for a second Sherlock could pretend that this wasn't happening, that John was alright and John was home and Sherlock and John were-

Goodbye Sherlock eyes closing finished end finally.

John's chest fell, and did not rise again.

The rain began to fall, and Sherlock's tears fell with it.