I started writing this before season 3 aired and I just got to finish it.
I kind of found out that I really like to write about John, so this was born.
I don't want to say too much, I just hope you like it!
(p.s.: it's kind of sad)

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's and Sir ACD's characters.
A/N: English is not my first language and this story was not beta'd. Forgive my grammatical horr-erm, errors.

John breathed softly, a rough cough escaping from his mouth. Dust was filling the air around him and he laughed as he heard a voice in his head, sweet and sharp.

"Why are you laughing?" Sherlock asked. John opened his eyes and looked at his friend sitting in his chair in front of him.

"I was thinking of Mrs. Hudson" John said. "I miss her".

"Who?" Sherlock asked, croaking. John smiled, with sadness.

"Mrs. Hudson, the woman who used to live downstairs" John replied. Sherlock frowned and John could see how his eyes were trying to access his mind palace.

"I don't remember" Sherlock said, sinking in the soft chair. "Was she in love with me?".

"No, that was Molly" John answered with tears escaping from his eyes.

"Oh, Molly. I remember her" Sherlock said, pointing at John, smiling and laughing. "She should come here sometimes. I love her voice".

John didn't answer. If there was a day he would never forget, was the day where Molly was murdered. In that moment he was glad Sherlock had dementia. When they found her body he had completely broken down.

"I'm thirsty" Sherlock said and John pushed himself up, leaning in towards him. His hands reached the IV and he opened it.

"There you are" he replied and Sherlock smirked.

"Thank you nurse" he said and laughed. John laughed too and leaned back into his comfy chair.

"Where's Ismae?" Sherlock asked, looking around. "A nurse should always be here".

"My daughter is not your nurse, Sherlock" John said.

"Oh no, Mary is. Where is she?" Sherlock asked and John frowned, hiding his face behind a newspaper.

He lost his Mary shortly after Ismae was born. Birth didn't spare her and she died in John's arms.

He found himself with a child to raise on his own and felt hopeless for a while, until Molly and Sherlock came to help him. Then, when Molly was gone, Sherlock and John locked themselves in

Baker Street and raised the little girl together. Ismae had gone through a confusing period where she knew she had a mother but thought she had two fathers, so when she called Sherlock "mum", John had a little talk with her. She understood but sometimes she would still call him mum.

"Do you want a sandwich?" John asked, slowly getting up.

"What?" Sherlock asked. His confused eyes tried to scan his friend.

"I asked if you want a sandwich" John replied when he finally managed to get a hold of his walking stick.

"That doesn't sound like an answer I was hoping for. What did I ask you?" Sherlock croaked, coughing in and there.

"I don't remember. Do you want a sandwich?" John asked.

"Aren't I the one with dementia?" Sherlock asked and John let out a soft laugh.

"Oh so you remember that. Do you want this sandwich or not?" John asked, sighing heavily.

"I'm not hungry. So that would be a no" he said and sinked even deeper into his chair.

John came back with his sandwich just a few minutes later and as he took the first bite, he realised he wasn't hungry at all. He left it on the table and looked at his friend. He was staring into the air, and he looked like he was analysing things but the only thing he could possibly be analysing was dust.

For a moment, he let his mind walk away from that room. He went far away, in the long forgotten past, where happiness was still there.

Mary had always been beautiful. She was the most beautiful human being he had ever seen and he surely knew better that to let her go. When she kissed him and became his wife, he felt like the luckiest man in the world. And when, on his wedding day, he took a look around and saw all his friends, he felt even luckier. His eyes met with Sherlock's and his best friend smiled at him. His best man speech had been something quite phenomenal and after all they went through that night, he still managed to end up married to Mary and he was happy. He only wished their happiness had lasted longer.

A smile escaped from his lips when he thought of Molly. She had always been so caring and strong, he knew he wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her. She managed to find a place in Sherlock's heart, and God bless her for that, she somehow got him to tell her he loved her in the middle of a fight.

"I know, clever boy" she had answered. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're still the most stupid man I've ever known".

John knew she didn't deserve what she got. Ismae was only three years old when Molly was murdered. He really hated that memory but still, his mind could not let go of it.

Lestrade tried to warned them but Sherlock didn't listen. He walked past some policemen and there she was, lying on the cold streets of December. Her eyes were open and her pink coat was all but pink. Red was the prevailing colour and you could see some green and brown from the park nearby on her coat. You could see all but pink.

He would never forget how Sherlock got down on his knees and practically stared into the void for the next four weeks. John was left alone with a crying baby and a dying friend. He felt like his entire world had ended there. If it wasn't for Ismae, he probably would've died, too.

"What are you thinking of?" Sherlock asked and John blinked a few times. He went back to reality and tried to smile, removing the image of his sad friend from his mind.

"I was thinking of Molly" he admitted. He would rather talk about her than Mary, because sometimes Sherlock would remember Mary's death, but somehow he never fully registered Molly's death. And when dementia came, he never even thought she could be dead. So John would rather talk about someone he still thought was alive rather than his dead wife.

"My Molly?" Sherlock asked.

"Your Molly. I just remembered the first time you said 'I love you' to her" John said.

"How do you know?" Sherlock answered. "Were you spying on us?".

"I was not. We were all awake because of Ismae crying and you started to fight and I was there" John reminded him. Sherlock's face, though, showed him that he didn't remember at all.

"I don't remember" Sherlock repeated. John tried not to show how much those words hit him. Sherlock Holmes did not forget. Sherlock Holmes remembered it all. And yet, those three words were the most common words said by Sherlock Holmes.

"It's okay. It's been a long time" John answered.

"I remember Molly with a baby" Sherlock started and his eyes showed something between panic and excitement. "Did we have babies?".

"No, she helped me with Ismae. You're probably remembering her when she took care of her" John replied and once again he took the newspaper.

"Oh, right. She was a good mother, though" Sherlock said and smiled. John shut his eyes and for a brief moment, he though of Molly playing with Ismae, and how he thought he had wished Mary was there with them. He quickly opened his eyes and let those painful memories go. He had dwelled on them for far too long, he felt like he needed a break.

"You know, Sherlock" John started, wanting to change the subject. "You never told me how you actually survived, when you faked your death".

They exchanged a long look, one where Sherlock was smirking and John smiling.

"You know, 47 years ago, when you faked your own death. How did you do it?".

Sherlock let out a soft laugh and John thought he was just slow at catching.

"How did you survive?".

Something strange caught John's eye. When his best friend turned around to face him, he was young again. His grey hair went back to dark brown and his wrinkles were gone. The old suit was replaced by his usual black coat and his lost eyes were lost no more.

"I never did".

John burst into a loud laugh, his hand holding his head. Sherlock joined him and their laughs echoed in the apartment, but when John was done, Sherlock kept on laughing. His eyes were trying to tell him something, and this time it was John's turn to be slow at catching.

John felt paralysed. He couldn't feel his legs and his arms wouldn't hold him up.

Sherlock was laughing and John's mouth was wide open, and he couldn't let a single sound come out of it.

A hand rested on his shoulder and his head exploded.

"Dad? Are you alright?".

John turned around, for real this time. Ismae was smiling at him and with one hand she was caressing his face.

"It's me, dad. It's Ismae" she said, sitting in front of him. She put a cover over his legs and John instinctively looked down. He was sitting on a wheelchair and it looked like he had been on that chair for years.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked, looking around. This wasn't Baker Street. It was a strange white hall, filled with strangers. It was all too white and too bright, and yet all he could breathe was dust.

Ismae took his hand and answered with a sad smile on her face. "He's gone, dad. He's been gone for years".

"Years?" John asked. It couldn't be years, he had talked to him just a few minutes before.

"Yes. 47 years. He jumped off a roof, remember?".

John shook his head no but his heart was screaming yes.

Yes. Oh, yes, now he remembered.

Sherlock jumped off St. Barts' roof that day. He lied on the ground, his brain all over the street, his dead eyes staring into the nothing. Sherlock Holmes jumped off St. Barts' roof that day. And he died, that day.

Now, now he remembered.

Sherlock was gone. He felt his presence at his wedding, and he even saw him there, but he was gone.

His mind did something that felt like a backward jump and he suddenly relived it all.

Mary still died of childbirth. She left him, too. For real. But Sherlock wasn't there to help him with his daughter. He felt a tiny bit of hope raise inside of him.

"Molly! Molly, where is she now?" John asked. Ismae sighed, heavily, and it felt like this wasn't the first time they were having this conversation.

"She's gone, too, dad. She died" Ismae replied. The hope died in such a short time that John thought it was never there.

"Molly" he said. "Molly was murdered".

"Yes".

Molly was there, for a while. He remembered. He fell on his knees, crying, when they found her on the street. Sherlock was there, too. With a hand on John's shoulder, he said nothing and like the ghost he was, he stayed in the shadow, silently.

"Dad, did you take your medicine today?" Ismae asked. John shrugged, because how was he supposed to know? His friends were gone and he probably was the only one still alive. All he had left was Ismae, but she looked so grown up. She probably didn't need him.

"I'll be right back" she said and kissed him on the forehead.

He heard her walk past him but her steps stopped after a few meters. John heard her voice talk with another one, a male one.

Did he take his medicine? He did. He doesn't remember. He has dementia. It doesn't get better.

The doctor's voice got mixed up with his daughter's and soon their voices melted with all the voices in the room.

John looked at his right side and smiled when he saw Sherlock sitting in his old, comfy chair.

"Why are you smiling?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't remember" John answered.

"Too bad, I wanted to laugh" Sherlock said and closed his eyes.

John looked around and frowned for a minute. He was in Baker Street and he felt like he wasn't supposed to be there.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked. "You look troubled".

"I was thinking of something" John answered. "But I don't remember what".

"It was probably nothing" Sherlock answered.

John shrugged and went back to read the newspaper. He suddenly raised his head and looked at Sherlock.

"Do you want a sandwich?".

Sad, I know. I'm not good at writing happy things.
I guess this is a kind of "what if Sherlock really died" au story. Saaaad!

Thank you for reading! :)