Hey Everyone! Well, I haven't written fanfictions in a long time and I currently have 2 that I've started and not finished, but I've been reading a lot of JohnLock lately since a friend got me hooked on the BBC show. I've read some pretty awesome ones, so I thought I'd take a stab at writing one myself. This is the first time I've written yaoi, so excuse me if it's a little off, seeing as I am a woman after all. Hope you enjoy it.

"Just one more miracle, just for me. Don't be… dead…"

It had been 3 months since the fall of the now infamous Sherlock Holmes and, still, it played over in ex-army doctor John Watson's head like a never-ending horror film every night. The curtain of his eyes would fall, hoping for a restful sleep, and instead the theater would start to play the events of that day for his viewing displeasure. It wasn't long after that the good doctor began going with as little sleep as he could manage just to put off these private viewings. How ironic, since it was always him lecturing the consulting detective on the need for proper sleep cycles.

He had seen the changes in himself as clearly as everyone else had. They had stopped mentioning how tired he looked, how gaunt. He knew he had lost weight, he knew he had dark circles under his eyes, he knew there was much more grey in his hair than he could remember before; he knew he looked like a walking corpse. He knew all of things, but nothing made any difference. His best friend was gone and whether or not he got decent sleep, he wasn't coming back.

Sometimes his mind would give him flashes of Sherlock's form, standing idly in the corner of the room, hands folded behind his back, sad eyes tracing the doctor's thin frame. Eat something, the shadow would whisper softly, you always told me to eat. Do I have to play doctor now?

"Shut up Sherlock. You're dead. You and I both know you couldn't and wouldn't take care of me anyway. Only interested now that you're a figment of my imagination. If you cared you wouldn't've jumped. If you cared you would've explained it to me." Tears would start to form in John's eyes and he would squeeze them shut until the apparition faded. It hurt so badly to think that Sherlock hadn't cared, when John had cared so much. Too much… But no. He wouldn't think like that. Thinking like that only brought up feelings he didn't want to deal with. Feelings of betrayal, feelings of…

He started seeing his therapist again, in hopes of somehow feeling better.

"How are you feeling this week John?" The same question started each of his therapy sessions, and each week he would shrug and begin listing off what he had done since the previous one. The woman in front of him would nod and jot down a few notes, adding a, 'hmm, yes' every now and again to show she was listening.

As he recounted a story about one of the nurses at the surgery missing his important note about not sharing the pregnancy results to anyone but the patient, especially their mother, he let half of his mind wander. He had recently been wondering why he kept coming here at all. This woman, as kind and knowledgeable as she may be, was not going to solve his problems. She was not going to bring his best friend back

"Have you gone into the room yet?" His insides turned to ice at the question. He had mentioned last week that he had spoken to Mrs. Hudson on the subject of the storage of Sherlock's things. The truth was no, he hadn't gone into that room. He passed by it every day and every night and still, after all this time, he could not do it. The door was open ajar, not having been fully closed the last time the occupant had rushed out of it in a flurry. Each time John passed it, he felt that tiny gap between door and frame calling to him. He half expected Sherlock to fling it open with a flourish as he realized a piece of evidence he hadn't put together in his puzzle yet. There were some nights where John had dared to put his hand on the doorknob, but even with this slight pressure, the hinges would squeak and scare him away again. Each time he wondered if it squeaked that much back then? He didn't remember it being particularly violent on his ears, but he could never be sure. Maybe he just didn't notice because Sherlock himself made so much noise around the apartment that the door seemed to be a whisper in response.

The therapist sighed and closed her notebook with a snap, taking off her glasses and looking at John with thoughtful eyes.

"I think you need some company John."

"What? No, we've been over this, I'm not having another flatm-"

"I don't mean a flatmate John. Have you ever considered getting a dog? Just to have another presence in your apartment? I find that it has helped quite a few people who have been through dramatic losses. Gives them a reason to get up every day, something to take care of. From what you've said of how you used to take care of Mr. Holmes," at the mention of the name, John winced, "I think it could be the right move for you. Think about it. Same time next week?"

John agreed and soon he was in a cab on his way back to Baker Street. He let the trip pass in a blur, trying hard not to remember all the times he sat in a similar car with Sherlock beside him, either blathering away about a case or sitting in pensive silence. John would've given almost anything for either right at that moment. Oh, how alone he felt. Sure he had Mrs. Hudson, and she was as sweet as anything, but it wasn't the same. Neither were Lestrade, Molly or even Mycroft, all of whom checked in on him regularly. They all just weren't the same. Their personality just wasn't enough to fill the aching hole in his life that was once filled by that of Sherlock Holmes (or was it his ego? Either one…)

It wasn't until much later that evening, when John had passed the partly opened bedroom door twice, that he started considering his therapist's suggestion. Maybe he did need something to take care of. He made himself a cup of tea, opened his laptop and within minutes found the website for The London Pet Adoption Centre. He spent some time going through the pictures before he decided that making a choice this important from his couch at 11:37 PM was probably not going to make for a good adoption process. Looking at the times the website provided, he decided he'd go in tomorrow after work. Who knows, maybe he'd find what he was looking for after all.

On his way out to work the next morning, he made a brief stop to Mrs. Hudson's door to ask her permission to obtain a new animal. She of course said yes and gave her wishes that it would help the old doctor heal. With that out of the way, he made his way to work, steeling himself for the day to come.

The Centre was a clean, inviting building, filled with the various calls of dogs and cats who were housed inside, looking for a new home, as well as potential owners waiting to meet the prospects. John hesitated as he walked up to the counter, smiling nervously at the receptionist there as she turned her attention to him.

"Hi sir, what can I do for you today?"

"Uh, hi. I'm, um, I'm looking to adopt a dog." Oh Lord, did his voice really quake that way? Was he that nervous to get a dog? The receptionist's smile grew.

"That's wonderful sir. Did you have a dog in mind or were you hoping to meet a few of our residents and decide later?" John just nodded. "Ah, that's great. I'll get one of our staff to take you around." With that, she picked up the phone to her right and paged one of her coworkers, smiling as she told him they'd be along in just a moment.

Ten minutes later, an enthusiastic young man by the name of Alan was escorting John to the room where the dogs were kept.

"Did you have a particular kind of dog in mind Dr. Watson?" he asked as they started down the row of cages. Dogs of every shape and colour were barking excitedly at the newcomer as they passed.

"Um," John started, flinching as he passed a cage with several Yorkshire terriers jumping behind the bars, "something that doesn't yap I guess." Alan chuckled.

"So a larger dog then, eh? Not a problem, our bigger ones are over here." Alan walked John through a section that housed many dogs, from medium-sized terriers to huge great danes who woofed stoically. As they walked, Alan gave a brief history of each animal, including how long they'd been there. Some of the stories made John's heart break, but he couldn't see himself being a good fit for any of the dogs he was shown. This didn't seem to deter Alan though, who lead him a little farther down the hall past some empty cages.

"Sorry I'm being difficult," John started to apologize, but the other man simply waved it off.

"It's important for you and the dog that you can be compatible. Don't feel bad. I have a feeling you'll like this one. Bentley, he's been here a while. No one seems to want him because he's not 'playful' enough, or what have you, for the families looking for bigger dogs. He's 7, which is about middle age for him, but he's trained well enough."

In the last cage there was what, at first glance, seemed to be a mop of smooth, black hair. As they approached however, the skinny dog beneath the mop raised its head. It was a dark brown afghan hound, calmly lying in the corner of its cage. It was thin and lanky and on either side of its muzzle were stunningly blue eyes. John couldn't be sure, but he thought these types of dogs usually had brown ones. It turned its icy eyes on John and tilted its head in a curious way. John gulped and crouched in front of the cage, a hand going to the bars. The dog in front of him stood up lazily, stretched, and then sauntered over to where the humans stood. It tilted its head again, making a curious sort of noise in the back of its throat, meeting John at eye-level. Behind them, Alan grinned.

"Looky, looky, who's made a friend; what do you think Bentley old chap?" The dog made his curious noise again, flicking its attention to Alan and wagging its tail once. "Beautiful eyes, eh? Don't see many like that for this breed." John only nodded.

"Can I pet him?"

"Yup, go right ahead."

With that permission, John reached a trembling hand through the bars towards Bentley, who leaned forward slowly and sniffed a few times before gently putting his nose under the outstretched limb. John responded with a gentle pat of the head, letting his hand travel down the dark, silky fur that draped from the animal's neck.

Oh Sherlock… was his only thought as he gazed at the beautiful creature. It was as if someone had just turned on a light. These eyes, so much like the dead man's, stared at him knowingly and he let a small smile flicker across his face.

"He's perfect."

The receptionist gave him the paperwork to fill out and when he was done, she told him he could pick up his new friend any time over the next couple days, giving him time to prepare the apartment. She also gave him a list of things he would need, food and the like, as well as were to buy it all. He nodded his thanks and left. Deciding it had been a while since he visited his friend, he turned his feet in the direction of the graveyard where Sherlock was buried. It took him a while to get there but he was thankful for the walk to clear his head. He was now the proud owner of a beautiful afghan hound.

He soon found himself approaching the sleek black marble of Sherlock's tombstone, smiling sadly at his reflection in the polished stone. What would Sherlock say if he could see the gaunt face that had once been so full and happy?

"Hi," he began, his hands fidgeting. "Sorry it's been a while since my last visit. Been really busy at the surgery. I know, it's not a very good excuse, I just…" John swallowed thickly, fighting the prickle in the corners of his eyes. "It's hard for me, knowing you're somewhere I can't reach you. Life just isn't the same. But the world has to keep turning, doesn't it?" He took a deep breath to steady himself, looking up at the overcast sky. "I got a dog today, Sherlock. How d'you feel about that huh?"

A dog, John? Really? You replaced me with a dog? He could almost hear the indignant tone to the deep baritone of Sherlock's voice; could almost see the roll of his ocean eyes as he haughtily adjusted that damn jacket of his. He knew that this would be followed by a half-hidden smile and an endearing scoff as he crossed his arms behind his back. Good Lord he missed his friend.

"A dog, Dr. Watson?" At the familiar voice, John turned to see Mycroft sauntering up to him, his arms behind his back in much the same way he had just imagined with Sherlock. John couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him.

"I imagine he'd say the same thing. To what do I owe the pleasure Mycroft?" The older Holmes shrugged as he came to a stop in front of the tombstone.

"Checking up on you, and him I s'pose. I think he'd roll over in there if he knew how often I would come to see him." John gave him a confused look.

"How often are you here?" He'd never seen him there after the funeral, and for the first two months, John had been here at least once a week.

"I've been here four times since the funeral. For brothers such as us, that is quite a lot." John nodded in response and turned his attention back to the grave. "So, what kind of dog is it?" John smiled.

"An afghan. You'll be surprised if you meet him. I swear it's Sherlock in dog form." They shared a laugh.

"I look forward to it. Maybe I'll pop by for a visit to see him. Not too soon though…" They chatted for a little while longer before they both decided it was time to go. In a fit of consideration, Mycroft offered John a ride home, which he took. It had been a long day after all.

Over the next few days, John obtained the suggested items on the list he had from the adoption centre. He even bought a plain black collar that he thought Sherlock would have approved of. He hoped the dog would like it. Before he knew it, he was back in front of the dog cage, Alan there once again to fetch the dog in question. He took the collar from John and fit it around Bentley's neck. The dog tried to sniff it and get a look at the new accessory, without much luck so, with a huff, he seemed to just accept that it was there. A shiny new tag gleamed from it with his name and John's address and phone number. Attaching a leash to the new collar, Alan handed the end to John, who accepted it and gave a gentle tug to get the dog to follow. After a moment the dog did so, sauntering next to John in a very familiar way, a bounce in his step not unlike the excited trot of Sherlock on the case. John felt himself smiling and he thought that maybe this time his therapist had given him exactly the right advice.

The walk home was rather lovely. There was even a pair of attractive women who stopped and asked to pet John's companion. Flushing, he said yes and watched as they crouched to Bentley's level. The dog let the women pet him, but shot a look to John that was so like Sherlock that he had to do a double take.

"Well I guess that's one way you're different." John said, after the women had said goodbye with flashes of charmed smiles. "Sherlock usually caused me to lose dates. You might just help me get some." The dog huffed and indignantly tugged at the leash as if to say: Don't even think about using me to get a shag. John laughed again and stopped to give the dog a good pat himself. "Alright, alright. Maybe you two aren't so different after all."

Mrs. Hudson was enamored with the dog as soon as he set paw in the front hall of 221b. Bentley seemed much happier to receive her attention than that the women on the street. He sat gracefully by her legs and let her shower affection over him. As it turns out, she had been so excited for the new addition that she had gone out to get some delicious looking dog treats herself. Bentley accepted these with an enthusiastic wag of his tail, even giving her face a good lick when she bent down to his reach. Finally the new partners walked up the stairs to John's flat.

"She's gonna smother you, let me just tell you now. She will spoil you rotten you lucky dog." John told his canine companion as he unlocked his door. They both walked inside and John unclipped his leash before taking off his jacket. "Well, come on then." He led the dog into the sitting room, throwing his jacket over the arm of his chair. Bentley took careful steps around the space, his nose glancing over the floor and furniture. He paused in front of the couch where Sherlock used to sit and stared, one of his ears flicking. He looked around at John as he approached. "He sat there. Sherlock. He was a good man, and now everyone thinks he was a fake. But I know different. There are some things you can't pretend. And I will never know why he said those things or why he jumped. Maybe there was a sign I missed. Maybe I said the wrong thing once and it just stuck. I don't know." He felt something wet on his hand and he looked down to see Bentley nuzzling his had with a wet, black nose. He smiled sadly and patted the dark head, looking into those beautiful blue eyes. A soft whine escaped from the dog.

John continued with the tour around the apartment, showing Bentley where his food bowl was and pouring some of the new kibble for him to enjoy. He sniffed it and ate a couple pieces before he looked back up at John.

"I gotta practically force feed you too huh? Well you better be ready boy, lemme tell you, if I can get Sherlock Holmes to eat, I can get you to too." The dog huffed and John led them out of the kitchen. He was on his way to the stairs when the perceptive pooch stopped in front of Sherlock's door. He nudged his nose in the gap and flinched when John shouted, "No!" maybe a little louder than he wanted. He apologized with a pat on the back and crouched down to the dog's level. "Sorry pup. Not in there ok? That's his room." The dog huffed again and they made their way to John's room. There was a new cushion at the root of the bed that Bentley took his time to sniff over. "I wasn't sure if you're a pillow dog or a bed dog. I guess we'll see later eh?"

The rest of the night went by without a whole lot of incident. The new pair went for another walk around sundown, Bentley eager to mark new territory and pulling John around by the leash, quite like how Sherlock dragged him all around London on their cases. After an hour of Bentley's fun, they returned and got settled for the evening. Bentley soon got comfy by John's feet as the human sat in his usual chair, laptop open and typing away. They had been sitting in comfortable silence for a while when Bentley's head snapped up, looking off in the direction of the stairs. His small growl caught John's attention and he looked over his shoulder.

"What is it?" he asked aloud, half expecting the dog to answer. Bentley sniffed the air a few times before making a disgruntled noise and returning his head to its resting place on his paws, still keeping his eyes trained in that direction. John shrugged and went back to his typing, brushing it off to first day nerves. They sat the same way late into the night until John could barely keep his eyes open. After closing up his laptop, man and dog walked tiredly up the stairs. Bentley sat on the cushion on the floor while John prepared for bed and John thought that was showing his preference. When he crawled under the covers, Bentley took the hint and made himself confortable, kneading the pillow beneath him until it suited his fancy and he plopped down in a puff of silky fur. John chuckled and got comfortable himself, soon slipping into sleep's pulling embrace.

'No… Sherlock! No!' John was stuck in a body that wouldn't move and could only watch helplessly as his best friend's body fell, flailing, to the solid pavement below. His ears were full of the ringing of voices and ambulances as he found he was able to finally run, ever faster towards the bloodied corpse, still somehow so far away despite his frantic pace. 'No, please no, no, no, no, no…' The voices were all pushing in, too loud, too frantic; none of them in the soothing baritone that would've meant everything was all right. Darkness was starting to consume him when he started to register a strange feeling on his cheek. It felt… wet. He knew he had tears streaming from his eyes, but this was different. This wet feeling continued, drawing him out of the dark place in his dreams.

John brought his hands up to touch his face, to find the reason behind the unknown sensation, but he found his path blocked by a moving wall of fur. Slowly, he opened his eyes to the strange sight that greeted him. Bentley had hopped up onto the bed sometime in the night and was now lying in front of his new human, covering his face with wet licks that seemed to be focused along the tracks his tears had made against his skin. As the dog noticed that John had woken up, he retracted, staring into his eyes with sorrowful, understanding ones of his own.

"Did I wake you up?" John asked, sniffing loudly and not really expecting a response. Bentley made a small huff and placed his head on John's extra pillow, curling up beside him while keeping his watchful blue eyes trained on John's face. The look he gave clearly said one thing: Go back to sleep. Get some rest; I'll watch over you.

John forced a small smile and put a hand on the dog's back, lacing his fingers through the fur there with a loose grip. Bentley lifted his head to give John's wrist a single lick before settling down again. John chuckled softly and closed his eyes again. Before he knew it, sleep had embraced him once more.

After that event, Bentley always leapt up on the bed when John was settling down for the night. John would settle under the covers and whisper a soft goodnight, stretching his hand out to feel the dog's presence beside him. He found that this seemed to make his nightmares a little more bearable; they didn't always fade completely, but when they got too hard to handle, Bentley would feel his tension and lick John's wrist or his cheeks until his grip relaxed again. When he mentioned this to his therapist over the coming weeks, she smiled knowingly, refraining from saying "I told you so".

It had been three weeks since the new addition to the apartment and John thought that it was about time he introduced dog-Sherlock to some of the old crowd. As if on cue, Mycroft chose that morning to appear at his door, clean cut as always in his pinstripe suit and just finishing a text as John answered the door.

"So, let me see my brother's canine doppelganger," he had said, to which John laughed. "Maybe we'll get along better than Sherlock and I did."

This was wishful thinking it turned out, because as soon as Mycroft entered the sitting room where Bentley was snoozing peacefully, the dog leapt to its feet, leaning back and down in a defensive stance as he issued a small growl. John found this immensely funny, trying and failing to hold back his giggles as Mycroft made an indignant noise and stomped his foot a little.

"You too? I'm not that bad you silly thing. Seriously, what is it with…"

Eventually they coerced Bentley into sniffing Mycroft's hand, with much encouragement from John. Mycroft gently patted his head while the dog glared at John as if to say: There. He's petting me. Happy now?

It was at that moment that John realized that whenever he imagined what the dog would say along with his looks, he always imagined it in Sherlock's voice. That piece of information made his heart ache in a way that he wished it didn't. He missed that voice. He missed that man.

Bentley seemed to notice his master's change of demeanor because he padded over softly and nudged his hand, trying to encourage him to scratch behind his ear. John smiled and did as his animal friend wanted, swearing as he did so that he could almost see a prideful look in the dog's eyes, as if he was happy to be the reason for John's smile.

Mycroft excused himself shortly after and John grabbed Bentley's leash from the doorknob.

"We're going to meet some old friends Bentley," he told the dog as he attached the leash to his collar. "You'll like them, er- most of them at least. After your reaction to Mycroft I'm not so sure Anderson or Donovan will get a happy greeting…" In response to this, the dog simply stretched and gave his body a little shake before leading John though the door and down the stairs. After a quick goodbye to Mrs. Hudson who had stepped out to give the afghan his daily dose of coddling, they were on their way to the police offices where Lestrade and the old team were ready to meet John's new companion.

"John! Good to see you old chap. You're looking better." Lestrade shook John's hand with both of his, smiling at the more rested visage of his friend.

"Thanks, I'm feeling a little better." They shared another smile before Lestrade released John's hand and took a step back, glancing around behind the other man. "Is this our new friend?"

"Yes, of course, sorry. Greg, this is Bentley." John stepped out of the way and encouraged the dog that had been standing patiently behind him to step forward. Lestrade held his hand out and Bentley padded closer, taking a sniff and giving his fingers a friendly lick before sitting between the two men, tilting his head back to glance at John while getting his neck scratched by the inspector. John nodded encouragingly and the dog made a small noise of content in the back of his throat. With Lestrade's permission, John unhooked the leash and they followed as the curious companion sniffed his way through the halls.

"You're right, he's just like him."

"I know, it's scary sometimes. I swear I can imagine Sherlock's voice with some of the looks I get from this dog."

At this admission, Lestrade cast a slightly worried glance in John's direction. He was concerned how much of a toll Sherlock's fall would have on John's sanity, especially in the case of effects that had not yet been shown. John caught the look and swallowed thickly.

"I'm not mad Greg. Not any more so than before. It's just the resemblances. And don't say I just want to see them because you just admitted it yourself!"

Lestrade put his hands up in defense, and in apology, and the pair continued following Bentley's lead.

"Oi! Is this the dog that's replacing the Freak?" Bentley's ears flattened against his skull at the sound of Anderson's voice and he let loose a warning growl. At the harsh words, John felt the heat of anger well up in the pit of his stomach. Anderson stood, coffee mug in hand, in front of the growling animal. "Wow, you weren't kidding, he does look just like him. Guess the tides have turned, eh Watson? You used to be the lapdog."

"Anderson! Be a little more tactful, eh? Really." Lestrade shook his head and sent an apologizing look at John, who was concentrating very hard on a smudge of dirt that marred the clean floor.

"Bentley," he barked out, turning on his heel and heading in the direction of the morgue. The dog gave another growl, baring his teeth at the one who dared cause the incredible amount of tension now residing in John's rigid figure, before turning and jogging after him. As he caught up, he slowed to a trot and brushed against John's legs. The tension eased, but only slightly, his steps hard and stiff as he made his way through the doors that would take him to Molly's area.

Molly greeted him with a smile until she saw the tense look on his face; she reached a hand out to touch his shoulder comfortingly and opened her mouth to speak, but John raised a hand to stop her. He folded all his fingers but one, telling her he needed a moment. She closed her mouth and nodded, taking a step back. He turned and walked to the next room. She bent down to the dog who stared mournfully after the forlorn doctor.

"You worry about him too eh?" Molly said to the dog in front of her, reaching up to rub his back. The dog whined softly and looked to Molly with sad eyes. "I know. It's hard for him these days, without Sherlock. I think they meant more to each other than anyone will ever know." At this, she looked off in the direction that John had disappeared to. "That's why the ones who care about them have to take care of him, y'know?" She looked back at the icy eyes that met hers. "You have to help him too. He needs you more than he knows. You're the closest thing John has to him…"

In the next room, John was leaning against the wall, head tilted back and eyes closed as he tried to steady his breathing. Tears were trying to make their presence known, but he forced them back, forced down the wail of sadness that threatened to engulf him in that moment.

The Freak. That's what Anderson had always called him, but it hurt so much that no more respect was given to the dead. The Freak and the Lapdog. He ran a hand through his sandy hair.

It's just a stupid name John. Don't worry about it. His mind's image of Sherlock had returned, leaning against the counter across the room.

"I can't," he whispered to the ghost his mind conjured, "I can't not worry about it. They can't even let up when you're gone. What kind of sick pleasure do they get out of mocking you even now?" The apparition didn't answer and John had to fight more tears. After a few minutes, he felt more in control and so returned to the other room where Molly was whispering to Bentley. The dog whipped his head around and jogged out of Molly's comforting hands to meet John halfway. Hands automatically grasped fur, the way they did each night when the nightmares returned and for a moment, John simply looked into Bentley's reassuring eyes. The apparition was just John's imagination, just the manifestation of his grief, but Bentley was real, and he connected with him as much as a human could connect to a dog.

"Are you all right?" Molly knew he was never 'all right' these days, but John simply nodded slowly.

"Just Anderson being a twat. It's ok now. How are you?"

The two spent a long time chatting in the morgue. Man and dog followed as Molly went about her duties, talking all the time. She complimented John on his choice of pet and he agreed with her praise of the intelligent animal who seemed so like their lost friend. They talked until it started getting late and John excused himself politely, putting the leash back on Bentley's collar and leading him out of the offices, with a brief wave to Lestrade on the way.

The walk home was silent. Not a lot of people were on the streets. John silently cursed to himself, realizing he should've left earlier to make time to visit the gravesite. He resolved to make a quick visit tomorrow and fumbled for the keys as he reached the entrance of 221b. He shuffled up the stairs and released Bentley when they got inside, walking to the kitchen to make some tea. He groaned when he realized he was out. He really did want a cup before bed, to calm his nerves. Resolutely, he grabbed his keys again and headed to the door.

"I'll be right back, boy," he called to the dog in the sitting room, and closed the door behind him.

A chill had picked up by the time he was returning to the flat, John suppressing a shiver as he made his way up the stairs again. After he locked the door behind him, he set about prepping the kettle for tea. As he did so, he stopped he thought he'd give Bentley a pat first and apologize to him for how dreadfully the day had gone, even if the dog couldn't understand. He called the dog's name as he walked into the sitting room but upon seeing no flurry of silky hair rising to meet him, he turned and looked around the apartment from the kitchen entrance. He was just wondering where he could've disappeared to when he noticed something; the door to Sherlock's room had moved, the gap now big enough to permit the entrance of the slim dog.

"No…" he almost shouted, running into the dark room with a crash of the door. Bentley stood by the rumpled bed, sniffing lightly at the wrinkled fabric, though he jumped at John's entrance. He backed up slightly, ears and tail down in acknowledgment of his wrongdoing, preparing for the tirade that John was just about to let loose. The shouts died in his throat however when his eyes started traveling the room. It was dusty but just as Sherlock had left it. It almost looked as though the bed had just been slept in too, with its scattered blankets. Before he realized it, the smell of the room hit him; again there was dust, but there was the scent that was nothing other than purely Sherlock Holmes. John breathed it in greedily, closing his eyes and savoring it as he realized how much he missed this too. A tear fell from his eyes, then another, and soon he was sobbing in the middle of the room. He dropped to his knees, a slight pain registering as he hit the hardwood and cried into his hands.

After a moment he felt a familiar wet sensation on his hands and he looked up to meet Bentley's sorrow-filled eyes. With a sob he pulled the thin canine into his embrace, burying his face into the fur and crying even harder. He cried for his friend, who still haunted his waking mind and his dreams; he cried for the detective who would be forever thought of as a freak and a fake; but most of all, he cried for all the things he would never get a chance to say to him, and desperately wished he could.

He didn't know how long he spent in Sherlock's room, but his sobs finally silenced to dull sniffles and he stiffly let go of Bentley's comforting warmth. The dog stayed right beside him, offering support as they slowly left the room and made their way up to their room, the tea forgotten. He drifted off thankfully quickly that night, and for once only black greeted him. There were no dreams or nightmares or haunting faces; there was only a remembered scent and a soft whisper…

"I miss you so much…"

The next day, John found himself in the room again, his eyes training around the mess and seeing it all in the light of day. Even if he left everything in here, he thought that maybe it would be good to tidy it up, make it a nice room for memories of good days. Bentley stayed close to John the whole day as he cleaned the room of dust and clutter, organizing the books that were splayed across the floor. He made the bed, though he didn't wash the sheets; he didn't want the scent to be lost. After a few hours it became a room that John could say with confidence that Sherlock would be happy to come home to. He would walk in, throw his scarf and jacket on the bed and glance at John with a smile of appreciation before going off to God knows where.

After his cleaning, John took Bentley to Sherlock's grave. He was happy to see that Bentley avoided urinating on that particular spot of soil, though the tree next to it didn't share the same fate unfortunately. They stayed there for an hour, John recounting the goings-on of the past few weeks and petting Bentley's head as he sat loyally by his feet. As the sun started to set, they said their goodbyes and left, heading back to the apartment to get ready for the coming week.

Before John knew it, more months had gone by. He had been seeing his therapist less and less because, in all honesty, he was feeling better. Some colour had returned to his reflection in the mirror and he found that Bentley's company, while not replacing Sherlock, definitely took the edge off the pain he felt. He still saw his apparition from time to time, but he seemed happier in John's mind.

Maybe not such a terrible idea after all… his ghost had said once. John smiled and nodded, no further words required for the figment today. Every now and then Bentley would sit up and stare off in a random corner again, as if he too saw his own apparition, but these instances were always brushed off. There was nothing there, after all.

The one-year anniversary came and went, as did the anniversary of Bentley's arrival into John's life. John and Mrs. Hudson had a nice little lunch that day in celebration of the creature that helped some sense of normalcy return to their lives. Even Mycroft came by for a quick hello and a pat on the still-reluctant dog's head.

John still had his bad days of course, and Bentley was there through all of them. He spoke to his companion like he was a human, admitting things he had barely been able to admit to himself. Once, a friend had asked him why he didn't get back into the dating scene. The truth was he had considered it, with what a babe-magnet Bentley proved to be much to his own chagrin, but the idea of being with one of those women just didn't give him the feeling it used to. He had shrugged it off at the time but later that night, in the comfort of his room, he ran a hand through Bentley's fur and whispered in his ear, "I think I loved him. More than I ever thought possible. And I wish he could be here for me to say it to his face. I miss him so much." Bentley only whined softly and licked his cheek, looking at him with his sad, understanding eyes.

Over the next few days, John noticed that Bentley seemed more restless than normal, his icy gaze darting around the apartment at the speed of light.

"What's going on with you pup?" John asked affectionately, scratching behind his ears. "Are you going to be ok while I'm at work?" The dog huffed and John took that as a yes. He left with another glance back to see the dog staring off into the distance again and shrugged. If this kept up, maybe he'd take him to the vet and see if something was wrong.

The day went by slowly, many patients coming in with complaints of this ache or that problem, and John found himself very much looking forward to a relaxing night of telly with Bentley. Not nearly soon enough, he was saying goodbye to his secretary, smiling to himself as he made his way home.

"Bentley, c'mon pup, walk time!" he called as he threw his file bag down by the door. Surprised at the lack of excited clattering caused by the afghan for his usual evening walk, he called out again. "Bentley?" Still hearing no responding paw steps, he walked into the sitting room. There the dog was, his back to John and his attention caught ahead of him. "C'mon boy, it's time to… go… out…" His voice died in his throat as his eyes rose to find a familiar but not possible figure standing by the window. Normally his apparitions were a little faded, obvious figments of his imagination, but this one looked so… solid.

Eyes he had not seen for what felt like an eternity turned to meet his, crinkled at the sides from the small smile playing across thin lips.

"Hi John."

No.

No. No. This couldn't be real. He had finally cracked. Here he was thinking he had gotten better!

"Sher-… Sherlock…" He felt tears and heard Bentley whine. With a nod from Sherlock, the dog finally moved to John's side, licking his hand as if to ask forgiveness for not having come to him sooner. "How? Y-you fell, you were g-gone, I v-visited your g-grave…" The tears fell harder and Sherlock's face twisted into one of sorrow and grief.

"Please John, sit down. Let me explain."

The explanation itself took almost two hours. Sherlock paused halfway through to get a cup of tea and some biscuits for John, who looked like he was going to faint. He accepted them in silence, another whine issuing from Bentley, who's head was resting on John's knee. His silence remained throughout Sherlock's entire story, his stare guarded and masked as he kept his eyes trained on the dead man.

"So, it's done now. You're safe, my name is cleared. I'm back… If you'll have me, that is." For once Sherlock's eyes held fear. He didn't know what John's reaction would be to this whole situation. He had been gone a long time, and forgiveness would not come easily. They sat for a moment before John carefully, almost lovingly moved Bentley's head off his lap. He stood and Sherlock stood as well, swallowing loudly as he reached a hand out.

He should have expected the punch to the jaw. Really, he should've known John well enough to know the first thing he'd need was to vent. He felt his neck crack painfully as his head whipped to the side, throwing him off balance and making him fall back into the couch. He wanted to whimper at the pain that blossomed from his mouth, but he held it back, knowing this pain was nothing to what John went through. When he looked up, John was walking towards him with a damp cloth, his face blank. Sherlock hated that he flinched away when John's hand reached forward but John didn't react, simply leaning down towards his sitting friend and gently gripping his chin, turning the attached head to face up toward him. The detective was a little shocked at how gentle John was as he cleaned the split lip that he caused not five minutes before.

"John…?" he began, but he was silenced by the look that he was given. He remained silent as he was inspected by the doctor, even going so far as to look to the dog for some hint as to what was happening. He was just looking back when he noticed how close John had gotten. In the next moment, he felt a pair of warm lips against his. Letting out a sigh, he leaned up to press against those lips, responding to the movement and moaning softly when a hot tongue ran across the fresh cut.

"Don't ever do that to me again, do you understand?" John's breath ghosted over Sherlock's skin, his eyes lidded and cloudy as he raised them to meet Sherlock's. He swallowed thickly and nodded slowly, leaning up to meet John's lips again and daring to lift his hand to entangle it in his companion's light hair, earning a breathy moan and a smile in the kiss.

Clothes were scattered on their way to John's room, Bentley subtly sneaking after them and making himself comfy on the seldom-used cushion at the end of the bed. Sherlock let himself be pushed down onto the mattress, bouncing slightly and looking up at John through lidded eyes.

"Please, John… I need…" he was silenced again by John's lips.

"Let me take care of you Sherlock. Just relax…" Sherlock did as John requested, whimpering softly under John's hands as they skimmed over his pale skin. Lips soon followed the hands' trail and the detective seemed to soak up the attention, encouraging each movement with breathy moans and whispers of John's name. He nearly screamed when the hot tongue that lapped at his cut lip repeated the action over his swollen cock, his back arching up off the bed as he thrashed.

John continued his attention to Sherlock's groin for a few minutes more before drawing away, much to Sherlock's disappointment. Without another word, John reached into his bedside drawer for his handy bottle of lube. Sherlock sat up, his eyes caught on the bottle and a flash of trepidation crossing his features.

"We can stop, if this isn't what you want." John looked deep into Sherlock's eyes as he said this. Sherlock shook his head, his hands flying to either side of his partner's face, as if scared he would leave.

"No, I need this. I need you. Please John. Please…" The smaller man nodded and prepped his fingers. Sherlock spread his legs for his lover, laying back and wincing as he felt a timid finger push into him.

"Tell me if it hurts."

"It's ok. I know it will get better. Please don't stop."

The process of stretching him out seemed slow and arduous. A second finger was added after a while and then a third. With a brush over his prostate, Sherlock threw his head back and let out a guttural moan, cursing wildly and bucking into John's hand. What he didn't know was that when John pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his straining hard on, he would feel even better. John slowly retracted his hips and shuddered as he pushed back in right to the hilt. He kept his pace slow and steady, groaning against the skin of Sherlock's collarbone and whispering praises.

"John… John." The doctor looked up, searching his partner's face for any sign of discomfort.

"I'm sorry, am I hurting you?" His voice showed how was it was to restrain himself from moving within the warmth of Sherlock's body.

"Not at all. I'm not made of glass John…" He leaned up to place a lasting kiss on swollen lips. "I know slow isn't your style, or what you need right now. Please do what you need. I'll be fine. Please John…" The blond groaned out loud and pulled out, snapping his hips to shove right back into the willing body. They both moaned at the friction and John took off like a racehorse. Soon they were sweaty and falling apart at the seams, all of their guards and pain and remorse falling away. Sherlock's nails dragged burning trails into John's back and he loved each one, thrusting even harder.

"Tell me you're mine." John ground out, staring down at the beautiful form beneath him.

"I'm… I'm yours John. All yours. No one will ever have me. There is only you." He chanted such phrases like a mantra, pulling at John's body to make him go faster, harder. Without warning, Sherlock's orgasm hit him like a ton of bricks, hot cum splashing across their chests in spurts. His body shook with the aftershocks as John continued thrusting. A few minutes later it was John's turn to cuss as his own orgasm hit, his eyes rolling back at the intense pleasure in his body. He collapsed on top of Sherlock, breathing harshly against the soaked skin of his neck.

When some energy finally returned, John lifted himself off of the thin body under him, moving around to pull the detective into his embrace.

"I've missed you so much," he whispered into Sherlock's skin. Sherlock pulled John's arms tighter around his middle.

"I missed you too. I visited, every now and then, just to make sure you were still here. The dog almost gave me away. He knew every time. I wanted to show myself but I couldn't until I knew you were safe. I'm so sorry John. I'm so sorry for everything." Tears fell from glassy eyes and he felt a kiss pressed against his neck.

"Shush now. We'll deal with it in the morning. For now, just be here with me. Please. I need this."

Sherlock quieted after that, for a while at least. Just before John was pulled into sleep, he heard a soft whisper.

"I love you…"

It was hard to get back into a normal life, but eventually they got back into a steady rhythm. They moved into Sherlock's room, putting Bentley's cushion at the end of that bed instead. It turned out that Sherlock and Bentley got along famously, something that made John's heart swell. Life was finally good again and these dog days were, hopefully, long from over.

Well there you go. I hope you all liked this piece, I enjoyed writing it. Cheers.