It had taken Sherlock a very short time to adjust to this new realm he had entered not long after he felt the thud of his skull hitting cement before the world went black. It was warm where he was –a perfect temperature that was neither too hot nor too cold. In the shade of the trees and cloud formations the temperature did not change but nobody seemed entirely bothered by it. There was a level of contentment one could only reach in this realm.

Had Sherlock been a religious man he would say this was Heaven but he doubted this was. None of the people around him ever dubbed it as such. It was only Home to all of them. Sherlock found that the name rang true in the fiber of his current state. He wasn't alive but neither did he feel dead. He was only there; existing.

Wings had sprouted from his back as effortlessly as if his hair was just growing out and with just as much notice to him. At some point they were not there but then, just like Sherlock, they existed. He never questioned them. He enjoyed discovering how to fly and the thrill of almost falling off of large cliffs. On certain occasions he overrode his remaining human survival necessity to not fall just to remember how pain felt. He was never hurt when he hit the ground. He was lucky if he got the wind knocked out of him a tiny bit.

Flying seemed to be the only activity he found relatively stimulating considering he didn't ever want to interact with humans. There were plenty of them loitering about in the daylight and frolicking with animals that down (or up?) on Earth would've mauled them viciously. Some of them wore clothes –like Sherlock himself did mostly because he was in his favourite outfit with his best coat and scarf and he never felt the urge to remove them even in the sun- while others were content to nudity. The small part of Sherlock that remembered shame almost felt embarrassed for them but the ideal quickly left his thought process as soon as it had arrived. It never showed up again. Perhaps one day he too would go around in the suit he had been brought onto Earth in but for now he preferred to know where his clothes were.

Night never fell wherever this after-life place was. The sun constantly shined very near in the sky but was neither blinding nor beating. Sherlock had tested the theory himself of if the sun could hurt him but no matter how long he stared his eyes never hurt and he never needed to adjust them even when he looked away. He considered flying to it just to see if he could. He added it to his list of things to do but he wasn't in too much of a hurry. After all, he had all of eternity as far as he knew. Sometimes he missed the night sky with its stars and the moon reflecting the sunlight. He missed the shadows where things could lurk that would terrify others and hide indecency. Vaguely he was struck with the image of dark and dirty alleyways and running through them breathlessly but exhilarated. He recalled the sting of his lungs and how it had felt to be out of breath as his body called for a break but he had pushed on anyway. He could still hear the echoing footsteps that were not just his own but his companion's.

Sherlock snapped out of his trance-like state and for a moment wondered how long he had been reliving the past in his mind. Time had no concept in this Home though so he quickly dismissed it. He floated over to the shade of an olive tree and landed in the middle of a peculiar pack of animals. He could name off a number from the top of his head –a female lion here, what looked like some sort of reptilian creature there, and a wolf or two cuddling with a kitten not even half its size- and others he could not. Probably extinct before humans had even known the creatures. He settled down lying against the chest of a giraffe and spent however long trying to remember the humanity he hadn't even realized he had forgotten during his existence in this timeless realm.

Sherlock remembers at some point in his existence that he has pockets within the clothing he was wearing on his back and he digs through them curiously. He finds a set of keys to which he remembers belongs to a set of cabinets, the door to his flat, and a number of skeleton keys to various facilities that he knew his brother Mycroft would've been angry that he had pilfered. There is a balled up paper in his pants pockets strewn with idle discoveries he had made weeks prior to his death that he knew in the back of his mind should've been destroyed in the wash when the clothing had been washed but the paper appeared untouched and only slightly wrinkled. He smiled at the discoveries and felt the familiar call to experiment rise up in him. He soothed it down much like a mother would a fussy child with promises of fulfillment as soon as he finished rediscovering his items.

In his coat pocket he found his magnifying glass as well as his pair of gloves (which he slipped on merely for the joy of the leather encasing his bare hands). A set of lock-picking tools sat innocently hidden in the depths of his clothing and next to it was a mobile. Sherlock frowned at this discovery and brought the electronic into his full view. He remembered perfectly (now that he could fully remember his life on Earth) that he had thrown the phone onto the roof at Bart's for a reason. Why was it in his pocket? He hadn't died with it on his person. How peculiar but a pleasant surprise. He began to thumb through the contacts and read off the numbers that he found he could still recite with flawless accuracy before he stopped on John Watson's number.

For the first time in what felt like a very long time Sherlock was suddenly not content. His chest contracted painfully and his hand flew to it as if expecting a hole to be absorbing his being like some kind of sinkhole. There was none of course but after so long without feeling pain it was entirely unpleasant. He felt a sound of sorrow escape his lips unbidden and the animals around him looked at him in alarm. Sherlock quickly left their presence and alighted somewhere on a faraway cliff overlooking a large valley. He gazed at John's name on his phone's contact list and rubbed his chest. So even in this realm of peace one could still feel pain. He tried to place the feeling.

Sadness was his first answer followed by worry and then soon after loneliness. For the first time in a long time Sherlock felt lonely. How ironic considering everything that had ever lived on Earth was now present around him.

"John." He spoke into the air and was partially startled by his own voice. He realized that he had not used it since he had died. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

The first time Sherlock wrote a text to John from his Home was before Sherlock discovered he could actually check on John.

I'm not sure where I am John, but I think you would find it pleasant here. –SH

The message sent.

With the revival of his loneliness came the overwhelming urge to not get swept away in his loneliness. It was a habit no doubt left over from his humanity to not let his emotions overcome his sanity. He needed to keep his mind busy so as to not remember what he left behind with his death. He decided with determination that he didn't want to wait all eternity to satisfy his curiosity and set to work exploring anything that he wished to explore.

The first item on his list was to see how long he could travel towards the sun. He counted seconds in his head as his wings flapped at a furious pace trying to travel as fast as he possibly could. No matter how long he flew he never tired and the sun never hurt his eyes. At the same time it never drew closer even after 184,355,091 seconds. He concluded that the experiment was inconclusive and flew back to the ground counting the same number of seconds back.

Considering that flying up seemed to be an infinite void he tried going horizontally. It was a mild surprise to him when he realized that he had put off exploring this realm that he had arrived in. He struggled against the contentment that naturally relaxed his mind and body. He didn't want to feel content right now. He wanted nothing more than to fulfill his every desire and discover all that he could. So the contentment fell away as if he had shed a coat and for the first time in a long time he felt human again. The discontentment spurred him on and he flew faster to go and explore all that he could.

The list of things Sherlock wanted to do was long and he was going through them far too fast for his liking. Apparently when one didn't feel bogged down by all of life's living components one could get a great deal done. He never needed to use the lavatory and he only drank and ate if he wanted to. He will never admit that the food and drinks he had in this realm were the most delicious things he had ever tried and gorged himself until he realized that he had spent an innumerous amount of time doing so. Food held less appeal to him in this realm than it had on Earth.

He discovered that his Home extended into oblivion and wherever he went there were humans and animals and the occasional dinosaur. He flew high above them not particularly feeling the need to interact with anybody who felt the need to chat with him. Even in this heavenly place he didn't care for humans. Sometimes the terrain changed and mirrored places he had been on Earth. He recognized China and parts of Western Russia. He found the mountains that bordered Italy and even made it all the way to America.

In this realm, he discovered, all of the greatest archeological constructions survived. He saw the Coliseum when it was brand new and the Sistine Chapel in all of its fresh glory. In Canada he visited beautiful waterfalls and bathed in them without fear of chill or legal repercussions. There was snow in the northern parts of the world but it was never too chilly. It never melted either. He built a snowman as large a tree purely because he could and made a mental note to bring John here whenever the man decided to come Home.

He kept John in mind as he journeyed to the places he knew that John would've wanted to visit. He talked to famous doctors of the past just so that he had medical information he could hold over John's head and found little nooks and crannies he wanted to take the other man to explore as if they were children. Those times were happy for him as he kept his mind occupied and John held in a cheerful light. However in his quiet moments (which were happening far too increasingly as his To-Do list became shorter and shorter) he ached for John's presence.

For one who had a mind such as Sherlock's exploring only held so much value and entertainment. Now that he had explored this entire realm he wanted to do more important things. He missed solving crimes. This world didn't have crime or corruption in it (from what he has managed to sniff out) and so it was not perfect to Sherlock. His human qualities were frustrated with perfection. He didn't want perfection. He missed being around idiots –which was more frustrating than he cared to admit.

Very boring up here.

No crimes in Heaven, apparently. –SH

The first time Sherlock met an actual angel was rather by accident. He knew for a fact that it was an angel because when he first stumbled across the creature it wasn't anything like a human soul. It towered over him the size of skyscrapers and beautiful wings. It was as if it was made of the sun with the light it gave off and the music that seemed to radiate from its soul. Sherlock was momentarily mesmerized before he took to the sky to see the head and face of this creature. Before he could, however, its form changed into something more human although its wings were blackened.

"What happened to your wings?" He blurted out to the brunette angel before he could stop himself. As far as he could see humans all had white wings –even a tainted being such as himself.

The angel appeared startled and regarded him with blue eyes for a moment before it found its voice. It didn't speak English, per se, but Sherlock found he understood the creature nonetheless. "I went to Hell." Its voice was deep and certainly very male. Sherlock felt comfortable enough to consider it as such.

"Why?" He asked excitedly. He hadn't even considered a Hell before. He had just assumed that all humans arrived in this realm. He wondered if Hell was exciting.

"To retrieve a soul that wasn't meant to be there and return him to Earth." The angel replied and studied Sherlock with a curious expression. Sherlock momentarily wondered if the angel could read his thoughts and then dismissed it as an idle concern that didn't need to be considered.

"Tell me about it." Sherlock demanded. His mind needed sustenance. He wanted to know what was occurring on Earth and it seemed this angel was the perfect opportunity.

The angel appeared conflicted for a few short moments (if they were short or moments Sherlock could not confirm considering the lack of time) before he nodded hesitantly. "I have some time." He admitted but Sherlock could see that he was lying. He could still read people very well even when they were angels, apparently. The angel was just as curious about him as Sherlock was of it. "My name is Castiel."

"Sherlock Holmes."

Met an angel called Castiel.

Was looking for a human host. –SH

Have I told you about the Winchesters? –SH

Castiel eventually left Sherlock to continue his pursuit of a human host. Sherlock didn't bother to wish him good luck considering the circumstances of the brothers Winchester and the state of the Earth. He feared for John in the coming Apocalypse. He had never read up on the subject but Castiel had given him a briefing on what was apparently to come. Sherlock hoped that John would be alright even though a small part of him knew if John died he would see the man faster. Then Sherlock decided he didn't want John to come Home too soon. He wanted him to live a full life unlike Sherlock himself.

Sherlock became depressed after that and wallowed by himself for a while wishing John was here to yell at him for sulking.

I miss you and your complaining horribly. –SH

Castiel inspired in Sherlock the need for human interaction again and so he decided to hunt down his favourite people of the past. He made a list of all he wanted to talk to and wondered if they would be willing to discuss theorems and music with him. Surely they had nothing better to do with their time. They had been here much longer than Sherlock himself had so they must have run out of things to do as well. Proper geniuses needed stimulation, after all.

He missed his violin dreadfully. Sherlock decided to ask if there were also instruments he could play here. He needed to create his own music rather than listen to nature now.

Met Einstein, John! He was appalled by how little I knew of space. –SH

Apparently there was a way of acquiring instruments as Sherlock soon found out. He didn't know how the deliverers knew exactly what he wanted but soon a beautiful violin came his way made of the perfect wood to give him just the tone he wanted. His dream instrument came to him carried in a case by two other humans. It didn't take long to realize who they were as smiles broke out on their overly-content faces. They had similar features, after all, so it was unmistakable how they knew him.

John, your mother and father say "Hello". –SH

The violin wasn't tuned correctly but that just made Sherlock happier to do so himself. Whoever had sent him the violin certainly knew him.

John's parents were just as idiotic as John himself was but being in their presence and talking to them was the closest Sherlock felt to John in an endless amount of time. They told him their stories and he told him his own. The hugs he received startled him but the stern talking to he got was even more so surprising. He was told that John didn't handle his death too well and fell back into a depression he was still busy crawling out of. John's parents scolded him on doing that to their son but then thanked him for doing so. After all, Sherlock didn't commit suicide for selfish reasons. If he hadn't died, John –as well as Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade- would've been here rather than Sherlock.

Idly it occurred to Sherlock that if the three of them had arrived Home before him, Sherlock would've been following not too long after.

For once Sherlock preferred not to text. He wanted to hear John's voice.

I wish I could talk to you. –SH

His messages always sent but he never received replies. He wondered where the texts disappeared off to.

He remembered later that he forgot to ask John's parents how they knew what had happened down on Earth.

During one of Sherlock's flying travels he discovered his grandfather. He quickly left that area.

Sherlock stumbled across Castiel again on a certain time. The angel was actually in a human vessel this time –Sherlock could tell- and it looked somewhat similar to how the angel made itself appear to him. Maybe Castiel had known what his vessel would look like. He didn't bother asking. He knew the angel himself wouldn't have known.

Castiel was clearly busy with his duties but Sherlock didn't mind traveling with him so that they could talk. Castiel was his only link to the Earth and what was going on down there, after all, so he wanted all of the information he could pull from the angel. Luckily for him that Castiel didn't seem overly bothered by Sherlock's prying as long as Sherlock didn't ask too many questions about the other angels and their father.

It had only been a little less than a year since he had died, according to the angel. It was a startling revelation that confused Sherlock for a period of time. He couldn't tell if his time here in this realm felt shorter or longer than the time span Castiel informed him about. He didn't like not knowing. His sense of perception was thrown off. He didn't know if that information bothered him more or less than the fact that he had already run out of things he wanted to do and it had only been less than a year and now he was bored.

He settled on less and pestered Castiel about letting him visit Hell considering the angel had been there and knew how to get there. It was either Castiel bring him to Hell to visit, tell him how to get there, or Sherlock would search for a way himself.

Castiel won't let me visit Hell even though I'm bored.

There are bound to be murders and murderers there! –SH

Castiel never told him how to get to Hell but instead gave him other information that Sherlock was more than pleased with. He was told what places he could visit so as to see what was happening on Earth. They were pond-like but they looked like glass. Upon reaching it he found numerous people crowding around it but it always seemed big enough for more to join. Sherlock didn't find a problem finding a spot but couldn't quite figure out how the mirror ponds worked.

John's parents once again found him although this time Sherlock deduced that it was rather by accident than design by some omnipresent being. They showed him how to gaze into the pond and search for the person he wanted. Naturally his first inclination was to check in on John and he found that he could see with perfect clarity what was happening there.

John no longer seemed to live at 221B but he currently was entering it. Mrs. Hudson met him and embraced him before holding his face in his hands. Both of them were wearing muted colours as if all the joy in their life was currently missing. Sherlock couldn't focus hard enough on the glass mirrors (his mind was too busy being pulled in several directions of deductions to focus that much on this first try) so he couldn't hear what was being said but even so he somehow knew.

It was the anniversary of his death. John and Mrs. Hudson were going to visit his grave. The two of them stood in front of the black but clean headstone along with Mycroft and a late-arriving Lestrade. None of the men cried even as Mrs. Hudson openly continued to wipe her eyes and sniffle. Mycroft's face was held impassive but Sherlock could read the sorrow and stress in the way the man held himself. He was far too stiff even for Mycroft. He had lost weight. Lestrade ran his hands over his face in a sign of clear strain and Sherlock thought he may have saw a sniffle in the DI as well before the man turned and led Mrs. Hudson back to the car with a singular clap on John's shoulder. Mycroft left in his own vehicle without anything being said.

John had stood at attention in front of the headstone without actually looking at it during the time his friends were there. He hadn't said anything to any of them after the initial greeting and he had ignored Mycroft's presence entirely. Sherlock understood that his brother was being blamed for his death. He wondered if any of them knew the true reason for his sacrifice.

It was only after the other three had walked away did John's eyes fall onto the headstone and they raked over the name carved onto it. He didn't touch the stone but his eyes looked as if he was caressing it. He opened his mouth to say something but his words seemed to choke off and he had to cover his eyes. Sherlock's chest clenched much as it had when he first remembered John. He tried to reach out and touch him –let him know that he was here and happy- but his hand only met the mirror. Sherlock questioned how certain others were able to actually reach through the mirror to brush their loved ones. He would need to try to learn eventually.

John returned to his new flat soon after and sat on his bed in complete silence. He gazed at his desk drawer where Sherlock knew that his gun was hidden. Fear made his chest clench again but eventually John fell asleep without going to the desk drawer. Sherlock moved away from the mirror then to contemplate everything that he had seen.

If you end up here anytime soon, I may have to kill you. –SH

Sherlock lingered near the pond and often checked in on John. The man never went for the gun in his drawer and lived his life tediously in a way that drove Sherlock insane just to watch. He didn't understand how John could stand it. His life was too quiet. How did he not long for the chases through the dark alleys or the fights with madmen? How did he not miss sneaking onto a boat only to get stuck on it and they'd have to find a way back? How did he not actively seek out a way to solve crimes and dress like ninjas just to prove points?

It came to him rather later that John obviously did miss all of that if his limp and his shaking hand were anything to go by. But none of it was worth the hassle without Sherlock's genius by his side. John missed him more than he missed the chases.

Sherlock became morose again.

Still missing you horribly. –SH

Sherlock no longer visited the mirror ponds due to growing frustration over his lack of concentration. Usually he was very good at concentrating solely on one task but here in this realm he had to constantly fight the instinct written within his being to just accept everything as it was and to fall into contentment like everyone else. This was "Heaven" after all and he was home finally after years of turmoil and strife of the corrupted earthen plane. Never did Sherlock give in ever again to the contentment. If he did, he would no longer really be himself or the man John cared about.

A contented Sherlock was not Sherlock at all and so Sherlock never really allowed himself to relax.

It wasn't as much trouble as it really sounded, though. Contentment was just like a jacket and could be put on or taken off at any moment. The only real issue with it was that the contentment jacket was like a piece of clothing you can't really put down because you're not at home or in the car so you need to carry it with you no matter how obnoxious.

Sherlock knew he was driving himself mad when he was coming up for metaphors for how he felt.

Flying was too fast for Sherlock when he needed stimulation so he took to walking now. He never was tried from walking and though he lost his shoes and socks a long time ago –he believes he left them somewhere in southeast America when he went swimming with sharks- his feet never hurt him. Looking around at the few architectural buildings he could tell he was in Spain and so he set out for England. He hadn't been back to England since he had stopped looking into the mirrored ponds which had been quite some time ago (he was beginning to judge time based on when he met up with Castiel and he told him of the date).

Walking allowed him to gaze at the foliage that had existed and became extinct along the way. He sometimes picked samples and wondered if it was possible to get a chemistry set or at least a microscope. It seemed occasionally technology existed here considering he had his mobile that worked perfectly and he saw people eating ice cream so there must be some machinery. If not then it must just appear in existence much like Sherlock's dream violin (which he carried with him wherever he travelled so that when he wanted to settle down and play he could).

He entered into a curious version of London that he could easily recognize upon first glance but there were plenty of buildings he didn't recognize. He was pleased to see Shakespeare's theatre as it was when it was first built and noticed Bart's was still standing. He gazed up at the hospital that had no real use now than a decorative museum had but he entered it anyway. It still smelled of antiseptic and his mind supplied to him the sound of people running through it as well as kids screaming and machines beeping. It all reminded him of finding himself here with John as the two of them were bandaged up and grinning at each other as Lestrade sighed at them like they were children.

The morgue held no bodies but there were people in their late teens playing on it. They looked up at him from their giggling and Sherlock could tell from the innocence in their eyes that these teens had actually passed from Earth to this plane as children and they had been put into forms where they would've been the liveliest. Sherlock didn't pity them because it wouldn't have been understood or wanted either way so he disregarded them after they had greeted him. He instead moved into the laboratory area and was eternally pleased to find brand new lab equipment there. They even worked. A smile split across his face and he eagerly took to experimenting again and writing his findings in a notebook that was placed perfectly next to the microscope.

I'm starting to consider that perhaps there is a God, John.

Or at least there are very tactful coincidences. -SH

He wasn't sure how long he stayed down there in the basement of St. Bart's mirror building but he snapped out of it so suddenly he felt as if he was coming back to reality after being in his mind palace for hours. (He had forgotten all about his mind palace.) He stretched his limbs (not even cramping or uncomfortable even after sitting leaning over in a stool for god-knows-how-long) out of habit and chose to go for a walk around a London he both lived in and also didn't live in.

He stopped along the way to watch a play being performed with numerous other people (and some animals) just for the fun of it and found that even though their accents were thick and that some of the actors didn't even know any kind of English, Sherlock could understand them with perfect clarity. He wondered to himself if they were all speaking the same language (a universal language?) or if he could just automatically understand what everyone was saying. He spent five different plays contemplating it as he scanned through all of the information he had on the subject and decided on the latter because he could still grasp the fact that they were speaking a completely foreign language but he didn't have any issue understanding them.

As he continued his journey around London he was rather stunned to come across the mirror version (or the original version?) of 221B. He stared at the black door and ran soft fingers over bright gold numbers in reverence. He had never thought he would ever see this building again in person. His hand turned the knob and it opened without a whine and without hesitance. It felt as if the building was welcoming its occupant home after so long. The stairs didn't creak under step as he ascended and opened the door to his old flat. He half expected it to be full of the items he had left behind in his life. He expected to find John typing away near the fireplace on his laptop. He expected to hear Mrs. Hudson complaining about body parts in the fridge.

He received none of that. Instead he found the flat completely empty of all but his skull friend Billy resting atop the mantle. Sherlock hesitated before he entered and walked over to Billy to hold him. It looked as old as when he had last seen the skull. He wondered if Billy had "died" on Earth and now it was here. He wondered whose skull it actually was and wondered if they were here in this realm with him or down in Hell. He dismissed the thoughts as he turned to gaze at the empty flat. He hadn't seen it this clean since before he had moved his stuff in –and even then the paneling had been aged.

The spray-painted smiley face still grinned at him from the wall. Sherlock sat down on the floor and gazed at it as he ran his fingers over Billy to let the memories of 221B wash over him. It still smelled of books, dust, tea, and his and John's mixed scents.

I was told by your parents that you got married.

"Mary Morstan": A woman even I might admire.

Good job. –SH

Sherlock decided to restock 221B and set about finding the appropriate furniture. It wasn't as if he was really stealing when everything in this realm belonged to everyone. It wasn't as if most of the other humans in this world were really using furniture anyway. They were for the most part taken in by their contentment coats and used nature as they pleased. They were never uncomfortable so why sit on cushions? One never got tired but they could nap freely but why restrain yourself to a bed when the sunlight and the ground and clouds were comfortable enough? Besides, an animal may offer itself to you if you return the favour. What chance on Earth would one have to sleep on a wild elephant? Not much of a chance. Even knowing this Sherlock made it his goal to set up 221B like how it was when he and John had occupied it.

He didn't bother restocking John's room for various reasons.

In his hunting people of London kept approaching him and thanking him. They shook his hand and hugged him and asked him about his life. Sherlock had been uncomfortable through the majority of the companionship and touches but he answered some of their questions.

"Congratulations on understanding what I had been trying to write." Jennifer Wilson said to him with a smile playing on her lips. She was holding hands with a girl Sherlock had a strong suspicion was Rachel Wilson.

"It wasn't difficult. I applaud you for even thinking to plant your phone. Well played." Sherlock said to her.

"What are you doing now?" She asked him.

"I'm going to find furniture to remake my flat." He admitted.

Rachel Wilson smiled next to her mother. "Let us help you with that."

People keep finding me here. Say I solved the crimes surrounding their deaths.

Keep thanking me.

Somewhat annoying. –SH

As it turned out certain people that Sherlock had solved the deaths of knew particular trades that helped Sherlock out greatly. They were more than willing to help him in whatever he needed considering that he had given their family peace or because they simply wanted to return the favour. Sherlock didn't really care about repayment for solving their deaths (he had done it for selfish reasons anyhow) but he welcomed the help and even wished to join them. He learned how to weave clothing and create furniture. Geese and ducks and sheep offered him their feathers and wool when he asked for them. They didn't seem to mind. They grew back soon after anyhow.

Dying the cloth was the most fun of the activities in Sherlock's opinion even if the stain on his hands and clothing always washed out as if it was nothing. He knew down on Earth he would've never had the patience to do any of this (and grudgingly admired those that did this for a living back when they were, well, living) but in this realm when he had all of the time he could possibly need (and certainly didn't want) he was able to pull on his contentment coat and push through these activities.

Occasionally some of the people helping him asked about John and if he was here in Heaven. Sherlock always told them that John had better things to do than to laze about here in this realm with him. They didn't ask anymore after that and only on occasion asked him if they could meet and thank him when John came Home. Sherlock never responded to that but their questions made him think of John and before he knew it he fell headfirst into the thoughts he had been trying to avoid.

He almost drowned in those thoughts before a woman gently touched his shoulder and smiled at him. He didn't know her but from her smile he knew she knew him. She informed him that she was the elderly lady from Moriarty's Game and Sherlock's jaw clenched a bit. She was young now –perhaps in her late twenties- and her hands gently cupped his face. He didn't brush her off as she said to him, "Perhaps you should check up on him on occasion rather than be sad."

Really, John? You named your son "Sherlock"?

Someone is getting too sentimental.

I'm touched. –SH

Sherlock's reunion with Mycroft came at a certain time when Sherlock had been compelled to go to a certain part of the realm he existed in (abandoning his half-completed flat in the process). His brother was younger than Sherlock certainly remembered and as his eyes skated over his brother's form he found he could not see any signs of the heart attack he died of nor the arthritis that had developed in both of his hands over the years. They had disappeared as Mycroft arrived in this realm looking no older than thirty when he had been at his thinnest and most healthy.

Mycroft was much more surprised to see him and Sherlock was more startled to see it openly on his elder brother's face than anything. Mycroft, noticing Sherlock's shock, quickly reigned in his emotions with a frown of confusion. Sherlock couldn't help the smirk that threatened to turn into a grin as Mycroft fought off the contentment of this realm. He offered him the time to do so. How long it took, however, he could never say. He could say that he enjoyed every nonexistent second though.

"Sherlock. You look young." Mycroft finally found his voice. Sherlock wondered exactly how young he looked.

"Mycroft." Sherlock greeted back and set down his violin case. His fingers lingered on the clasp wondering how much obnoxious music it would take for Mycroft to fully throw off his contentment coat and try to attack him with the umbrella he still held within his hands. It was rather amusing knowing that his brother had managed to bring his umbrella (his absolute favourite one, from the looks of it) with him to their Home.

Mycroft eyed the violin case with distaste before his eyes softened in light of his brother. "I've missed you, little brother." He said softly. Sherlock didn't know whether or not to feel unnerved by the sudden proclamation.

"…Occasionally I missed your overwhelmingly large presence as well." Sherlock admitted back somewhat uncomfortably. It was Mycroft's turn to look unnerved and cleared his throat before looking around them.

"Heaven?" He asked.

"Home." Sherlock clarified. Mycroft nodded and Sherlock decided to show off his knowledge to his elder brother just so that he could be smug about it.

It was rather hilarious watching Mycroft trying to fly as well.

Met Mycroft. I'm not surprised he's here a bit early.

Still as annoying as ever.

I miss when you used to punch him for me. –SH

Mycroft informed Sherlock of the fact that John had started writing books before Mycroft had passed on.

"What about?" Sherlock asked as they floated on a cloud over what was the Arctic Sea.

"You, of course. Who else?" Mycroft sniffed as if it was obvious. Sherlock blinked at him. "I don't see why you're so surprised, dear brother."

"He still thinks of me, then?"

Mycroft eyed him up and down. "You don't visit the mirrored ponds?" Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't need to. Mycroft returned to looking below them at the clear ocean where billions of animals of all sizes swam. A dog was down there chasing after penguins but never trying to hurt them. "Sherlock, I don't believe there is ever a day John doesn't think of you if I'm to be completely honest." From his coat he removed a book and held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and read the title.

"The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes". Sherlock decided to start reading then and there.

You've become so good at writing.

I miss you. –SH

Sherlock spent little time in Mycroft's presence after he found all of the books John had written about him. The books had appeared in every library in this realm but Sherlock chose to spend his time in the library of Alexandria. It had taken him some time to find them and throughout his search he doubted there would be more but nonetheless he found them. All of them were cases he knew of, of course, but they were written from John's point of view. Sherlock was rather stunned that John remembered so much after so many years. He even wrote down the deductions just as Sherlock had told him to do for that blog of his.

The books never lasted long enough and Sherlock found himself wallowing in his sorrow again. His thoughts were completely on John in these coming days of existence. He wasn't sure how long he sat there in the library as content people came and went to read books. Some even asked if they could borrow the stories Sherlock held. Sherlock never stopped them. He missed John more than he ever had before as he continued his introspection. He might as well get it done and over with considering how long he had delayed it.

There are so many things I should have said.

Down there, I mean. –SH

I'm sorry. –SH

I miss you. –SH

Sherlock hesitated. It didn't feel like enough. John wouldn't understand him like this; not through text. He wouldn't be able to hear the tone in which he desperately wished to express the words in. John wouldn't be receiving the text anyway.

I love you. –SH

Won't you hurry up? –SH

Sherlock placed his phone down and watched the message send away somewhere into the void. He imagined John reading his texts and smiling at them. He imagined his eyes lighting up just to see ghostly message of his deceased best friend. What did the lines on his aged face look like? Sherlock wanted to discover every line on that face with his fingers and he wanted to deduce what they were caused by: laughter, sorrow, stress? He imagined the frown that would come across that face after reading the latest text. Sherlock quickly grabbed the phone and sent out a new text.

Don't come too quickly, though. –SH

Sherlock only left the library and his prevalent thoughts of John behind as he was once again called to go meet someone. Had he still had a heartbeat he was sure that it would be pounding in nervousness. Clearly it was someone that he knew. Would it be John? John didn't actually decide to come Home too soon, did he? Sherlock didn't know how to feel about the thought.

Mycroft found him as he was walking and joined him without any hesitation. Sherlock's paradox feelings died down at the sight of him as he thought that it must be someone that both of them know. Mycroft wasn't close enough to John to feel the need to go meet him upon his death, would he? Doubtful. A small handful of people both of them knew and cared about ran through his mind. Perhaps Lestrade? Mycroft had mentioned their "acquaintance". They both came to a stop somewhere in northern Germany and waited. Sherlock noticed their grandfather and made a face as Mycroft went to go meet and greet him. It was rather obvious now who would be appearing to them.

Mummy was gorgeous in her prime. She was how Sherlock remembered from many years ago when he had been a boy. Her presence and the scent of her perfume brought back Christmases at the Holmes family home and for just a short time he allowed contentment and nostalgia to wash over him.

Mummy saw him and her hand came to her mouth as she gazed at her two sons –both of her children who had died before her. Tears sprang like crystals to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she hugged them both to her chest. They had to bow to be comfortably in her arms and Sherlock hugged her back not realizing exactly how much he had missed his family.

Met with Mummy.

She cried. I don't understand it. –SH

Mrs. Hudson arrived today. I'm amazed how long she lasted.

Must be the herbal soothers.–SH

Even in this realm she fusses over the state of the flat. –SH

Did I mention that I finally refurbished it? -SH

It wasn't very long after reuniting with his mother and leaving her did Sherlock decide to visit one of the mirrored ponds again. He realized how stupid it had been to avoid checking up on Earth. It seems the apocalypse never occurred but he never had the opportunity to talk to Castiel about it. He hadn't seen the angel in a long time. He wondered how it looked now. Mycroft, mummy, and Mrs. Hudson never mentioned any real trouble besides the normal. Something about a worldwide meteor shower a number of years back, though.

John was elderly now. Sherlock was stunned to see him that way. He didn't realize that many years had passed on Earth. John moved still with his cane around a small house in what appeared to be Sussex. Sherlock felt a small smile on his face as he approved of John's choice and brushed his fingers over the pond as if he could touch his love. Sitting on the loveseat appeared to be an aged Mary Watson who smiled and touched John's hand as he sat. John smiled back softly at her as they turned on what could only be classified as a television set. There was some technology around them Sherlock didn't recognize. There were a few pictures of children and what were possibly grandchildren. Sherlock smiled gently happy for John's successful life. Contentment fell over him as he watched the two of them over the course of two days in their realm.

The contentment coat only dislodged itself from Sherlock's shoulders as deductions began to ring within his mind. He frowned, recognizing signs that he really should've processed two days ago. John was nearing his end. He seemed to be battling some kind of illness. Various possible afflictions ran through Sherlock's mind as anxiety made itself present in his chest.

Being an old man doesn't suit you.

You're done fighting, John.

Come home. –SH

Days continued into weeks with Sherlock not moving from his spot. He kept waiting for the day John's life ended and the pull to go meet him compelled Sherlock from his spot over the mirrored pond. Despite his waiting and John's laborious life, John never gave into the war he was fighting in his own body. Pride for John's sake made Sherlock want to smile and cry at the same time. He didn't want his friend to suffer.

Stubborn to the last, my John. –SH

I still love you anyway. –SH

Sherlock wasn't in the least surprised as he found his feet leading him towards London where he stood in the grass outside of 221B. Mrs. Hudson had joined him and held his hand. Sherlock looked down at her and she smiled with watery eyes. Both of them knew why they were here. John's parents and sister stood across from them in the large circle that had formed. They were clenching each other's hands in anticipation. Sherlock felt his own nervousness bubbling in him. He didn't feel sad at John's passing and instead felt joy at the thought he would finally get to see and touch him again. He would be arriving before Mary did. Sherlock wanted to meet her as well. Anybody worthy of John's life would be good enough for Sherlock too, surely.

John was dazed as he appeared in front of them. He was younger than when Sherlock first met him but he was just as he remembered at the same time. He held himself in that strong manner despite his confusion and turned to see his family first. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock could wait their turn. John's wings hadn't yet grown in. They would appear soon, he was sure.

When John's hugs and greetings were finished being exchanged with his family he noticed his parents all gazing behind him. Sherlock was trembling with excitement as finally –finally- those blue eyes met his own. The first time their eyes met since Sherlock's sacrifice for him. John stared at him as various emotions flitted over his face. The contentment coat was fighting against John's no-doubt negative emotions at Sherlock's sight again. The emotions dropped away and a smile broke onto John's face. Sherlock rushed forward to meet and pull him into his arms. The two of them collapsed into each other and Sherlock grunted as John landed on him. Neither of them broke their hug for another innumerous amount of minutes before they both pulled away and sat up.

Sherlock's hands found John's face and he held it as his eyes roamed over its features. "John." He whispered.

John's face twisted oddly in a way as he fought to smile and not cry at the same time. "Sherlock." His own hands gently brushed Sherlock's face before he pressed their foreheads together. Sherlock didn't even bother to resist the urge and kissed him. John leaned into it with a sigh that sounded as if he was breathing for the first time after being underwater for far too long. Sherlock allowed himself to indulge for a few more moments just letting their mouths move against each other without hunger or hurry before they pulled back.

"I've missed you." John whispered.

"I love you." Sherlock responded instead and the smile that lit up John's face was worth the wait. "Welcome home, John."

Hands smoothed out snow as Sherlock flew to the top of the gigantic snowman where John was patting more snow. Their eyes met and John smiled at him as he accepted the snow Sherlock dumped on top of their creation. "Where are we going to find a carrot large enough for this monster?" John asked him in amusement as he glanced down. His wings moved in accordance to his body movement so as to not let him fall down the thirty meters below.

"I'm sure we could find one somewhere." Sherlock assured him. "After all, we found that large watermelon."

John laughed. "Imagine how many people we'd need to pull out that carrot, though! It'll be like that kid's story!"

"Kid's story?" Sherlock asked.

"I read it to my children one time. It was about-" He cut himself off as a beeping noise startled the two of them. John immediately looked to Sherlock but Sherlock shook his head. That wasn't his phone going off. He hadn't even known that his phone could go off. John frowned and patted himself down before he pulled from his pants a mobile. John stared at it. "It's my old mobile. I haven't seen this design in a long time." He clicked through it with some difficulty having forgotten how to use it before he found his way. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John gaped at what was being read.

"John?" He questioned somewhat impatiently. Who could possibly be texting him?

John's eyes sparkled as he looked back at Sherlock. "They're from you. Text messages." He offered the phone and Sherlock looked over them with shock. They were the text messages he had sent before John had ever arrived in this realm. He smiled a bit at them.

"I guess they went somewhere after all." Sherlock said nonchalantly as he handed the phone back. "I missed you." He said a way of an explanation. John kissed him.

"I love you too."

A/N: Based off of this post dunamypatronusisatardis. tumblr post/65551077307/very-boring-up-here-no-crimes-in- heaven
(I'll change the link if the original post is found)