"Why won't you leave me alone? Please, one night Sherlock. I just need one night of peace." John shouted at the thin air in front of him that held the image of his, long dead, best friend. The first few times this had happened, about a week after his death, Mrs. Hudson had come up to comfort John. Letting him cry on her shoulder as she listened to him to talk to his friend who would never be there. But after about a month, it was decided that this would be a nightly occurrence for John.

It was just under three years now that his friend had 'committed suicide', and the hallucinations never failed. "I'm so sorry John. I never wanted to do this to you. It was never supposed to affect you this much. I'm so sorry." It was always something similar, and then his image would fade away, like morning fog burning off. As much as John would complain about it he would beg for his return as soon as he was gone. "Don't. Don't leave me again Sherlock, please. Don't do this!" he would shout, shaking his head, trying to keep the tears that were pricking in his eyes from spilling over.

The only relief John had had in the past three years was his wife Mary. But that was short lived. Mary had loved John more than anything. But the screaming, and the nightmares. She tried to help. She took him to multiple psychiatrists, but no one could help him. He was a lost cause. They divorced a year after they married.

John curled up in his chair. Sipping his tea slowly, while flipping through that day's newspaper. Nothing nearly interesting enough to tear his thoughts away from the events of that day that seemed to be forever stuck in the back of his mind. Every now and then creeping to the front and making his eyes burn with the threat of tears. He sniffled, and rubbed his eyes relieving them of the burning. He shook his head and forced his thoughts back. He heard his phone buzz on the table. It was a text from Harry.

'Just wanted to see how you were doing. I'll be in London tomorrow, do you want to go out grab a bite to eat? Let me know. -HW'

John didn't feel like lying to Harry right now. He locked his phone and put it back on the coffee table without answering.

John stifled a yawn. Exhaustion was quickly coming over him. He dumped his tea cup in the sink, turned on the hot water and just stood there staring blankly as the water filled the cup, spilling over. He turned off the faucet, turned off the lights and made his way, slowly up the stairs to his bed. He leaned his cane against the wall behind the door, undressed and then slipped on his pajamas, then slid under the thick duvet that still didn't keep John warm enough.

It may have been mid April but the London weather still chilled John to the bone. Or maybe it was the fact that, without Sherlock, there was nothing that made 221b warm to John. Nothing that made it home.

A scream ripped through the flat. John bolted upright in his bed. Sweat dripped down his face, and back. He hadn't had the nightmare for a few months and had thought it was finally gone for good. He swiped the hair that hung in his face back. He'd let himself go a bit over the years, no longer keeping up his army facade.

John took deep breaths to try to slow down his heart rate, which had climbed unnaturally high, but every time he closed his eyes he would see it.

Flash. He groped for his phone that seemed to be stuck in his pocket. He couldn't get to it fast enough. And when he finally answered it.

Flash. And he was standing on the sidewalk facing St. Bart's. Looking up at Sherlock as he stood on the roof, "Goodbye John."

Flash. Sherlock throws His phone takes a deep breath, and…

John's sobs rack his whole body. He thought he was getting better. Getting over it. John had kid himself, he would never get over watching his best friend, the only person on this planet who really understood him, and the man he had grown to love, die.

The clock read 8:27am. He pushed the covers off and made his way, clumsily, down the stairs with out his cane. John didn't have any plan when he noticed Sherlock's pack of nicotine patches still on the side table by the couch, but it didn't take him long to think one up.

He opened the box with shaky fingers, counting out 6 patches. That should do the trick. Somewhere on the way down the stairs he had realized that this would never be ok. He would never understand any of it completely, the missing pieces of the puzzle would never be found. They had fallen on the floor and had been vacuumed up, never to be seen again.

Rip. He placed the first patch over his heart.

Rip. The second to the right of the first.

Rip. The third below the first.

Rip. The fourth he placed below the second.

Rip. He continued with the first column.

Rip. And with the second.

Stumbling into the living room, he allowed himself to sit in Sherlock's chair that had been gathering dust since he'd died. He leaned back, sinking deep into the soft leather chair. Sherlock's sent still lingered, so faintly that John doubted anyone but him could pick it up. He put his nose to the leather armrest and inhaled deeply.

John felt nauseous, a symptom of nicotine poisoning. He coughed and vomit dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He coughed more, and vomit sprayed across the Persian rug. "No!" a scream tore through John subconscious. "John! John can you hear me? John. Oh God. What have you done?" In his state John had no idea who the voice belonged to.

His guess was it was his own minds rendition of Sherlock. But there was no way to be sure. And John didn't really care. He would be gone soon. He would be with Sherlock again, where he could tell him how he felt. He'd wanted to say it since the moment they had met.

It amazed John how Sherlock never figured it out, Sherlock could read him like an open book. But the idea of love was so foreign to him the John guessed he wouldn't know what it felt like if it hit him in the face.

By the time Harry had gotten there John had only minutes left. She had anticipated finding him alone in the flat, depressed and quite possibly drunk, like he had been the last time she had visited him, but she never expected that he would try to take his own life.

John was always the strong one, but love had left him a broken man. She shouted at him, trying to get a response, but got nothing. His eyes were rolled back in his head. She dialed 999, and explained what had happened ad calmly as she could manage as he brother slowly slipped further and further into oblivion.

She saw a patch poking out the neck of his tee shirt. She let a sob escape as she pulled up his shirt to reveal the six patches that lined his chest. She ripped them off hoping that it would help somehow. Now all she could do was wait.

She fell to the floor, putting her hand over her mouth to try to control the sounds her sobs were making. "Please don't leave me. Please John." she said kneeling in front of him. She slapped his face trying to get a response. Nothing. She checked his pulse. Dangerously low. "John please!" she screamed dropping her head in her hands.

She could hear the sirens now John still had a chance. "Please?" she got out one final plea before the EMS team burst through the door lifting John's limp body onto the stretcher and placing an oxygen mask over his face. Harry ran down the stairs after them, Mrs. Hudson met her in the foyer.

"What is going on? Oh my God, John! Oh John, not you." Harry and Mrs. Hudson ran out to the ambulance, the near strangers held each other as a person they both loved dearly was driven away from them, half dead, with a very little chance of survival. Without saying anything Harry drove them both to St. Bart's.

Something was amiss. Sherlock didn't bother knocking; he knew no one was home. He ran up the stairs into 221b and observed. First he saw the vomit that was pooled on the living room rug. Then the patches. Oh John. No. Sherlock didn't bother hailing a cab, the traffic would be horrific, it was 8:30 and people were heading to work. Sherlock started running.

He burst through the hospital doors at 8:47. Panting and sweaty he walked up to the receptionist.

"Is John Watson here?" The receptionist typed his name into the computer.

"Yes he was admitted yesterday, but he's still in intensive care. No one will be allowed to visit until he is more stable. Unless you're family." Sherlock needed to see him, needed to hold him, to feel him. I am family."

Sherlock looked nothing like John. It had to be something believable. "I'm his husband."
"It says here he was married to a Mary and they got divorced 6 months ago. That is the last record we have." Sherlock held himself back from jumping over the counter and choking the woman.

"Please I was away on business, we just eloped we haven't updated anything yet. Just let me see him. Please?"

Sherlock sat in the chair next to John's bed for what felt like hours. He held his hand while he cried softly to himself. If only he had been there a day earlier. Goddamn Moriarty for doing this to John. Goddamn Moran. God damn himself for putting John through the last three years without him. The updates Molly had given him were bad, but he'd never thought John would do something so drastic. If he didn't wake up Sherlock would never forgive himself.

"Who the… Oh my God. Sherlock." Sherlock Had dosed off, hand still clutching John's tightly as if he let go John would too. Sherlock raised his head and saw a much more feminine version of John. Harry was standing in the doorway. Eyes puffy, with dark bags underneath them.

"Uh… Yes. Hello, we haven't properly met. Sherlock Holmes." he said offering his free hand to Harry. She took it and gave it a weak shake.

"Harry Watson. I'm,"

"I know who you are. Don't worry, you two might not get on but he loves you." Sherlock assured her.

"He loves you too." Sherlock's breath hitched. Love was so strange to him. He'd never felt towards anyone. Not even his own mother, or even his brother. Maybe when he was a child he'd felt it, but if he ever had he'd forgotten what it felt like, until he'd met John.

Then next day John was moved out of the I.C.U, and into his own room, Mrs. Hudson came as soon as she'd gotten the call. She looked as if she had just seen a ghost when she walked into John's room.

In all fairness, it's probably what she thought she saw. Sherlock was supposed to be dead. He was supposed to have died at this same building three years earlier.

"You see him too?" Mrs. Hudson questioned Harry.

"Yeah. Strangely enough I do." she replied. Mrs. Hudson started to cry and Sherlock got up and wrapped her in an out of character hug.

"It's going to be ok. He's going to be fine."

"But you were dead! John he saw you… I think that's why he. Oh God. I hope he wakes up soon."

John couldn't place the voices with people. They were too muffled. He couldn't keep track of time either, but he guessed that someone must have saved him. He should have been dead by now. He would have been with Sherlock by now.

Why did they save him? Why couldn't they just let him go? It was too painful without him, he just wanted to die. Was that so much to ask? John tried to open his eyes, but his lids felt like they were made of rock. He gave up and slipped back into the darkness.

Beep…beep…beep…beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep. John's heart rate spiked and the machines started ringing. He was going into cardiac arrest. Sherlock had been sleeping curled up in the chair next to John's bed where he had been for the past two days, only leaving to go to the bathroom. Which was not really leaving because John's room had its own bathroom.

"John!" Sherlock shouted as he was woken up by the sound of the alarms. "John. Stay with me please?" Sherlock was scared shitless, just like every other time John was in danger.

And just like all the other times it was Sherlock's fault. If he'd just gotten there the day prior. He thought as a team of doctors invaded the room.

"Sir you need to leave." One of the nurses demanded.

"No please! I need to stay!" Sherlock said calmly, trying to show he that he would be fine to stay. But he was ushered out anyway; force to sit in the waiting room while his best friend lay helpless having a heart attack.

Sherlock must have been having one too. His heart was pumping so fast he thought it might rip a hole through his chest. It hurt. His heart hurt.

Sherlock called Harry and Mrs. Hudson when John was stable again. And as Soon as he was allowed he went into John's room, sat down in the chair, he held John's hand until fell asleep. He stayed there until John woke up.

John's chest really hurt. There was a dull pain that tore through the inside and a burning on the outside. He saw Sherlock, well his imaginations rendition of Sherlock, curled on the chair besides his bed.

Hair mussed, eyes red with large bags under them. He'd never seen Sherlock look like shit, but there was a first for everything. Just like John guessed he had just suffered his first heart attack. He tried to sit up but just ended up falling back hard on the pillows and coughing until his throat was raw.

Sherlock's subconscious poked through into his dream, or shall I say nightmare.

Flash. Moran was there holding a sniper.

Flash. He had John held captive, only unlike the time Moriarty had done the same, there was no Semtex. Just the sniper pointed into his back,

Flash. Sherlock had no idea what Moran was asking of him. He could have been speaking Russian for all he knew.

Flash. Dream Sherlock wasn't clever enough. Moran pulled the trigger. John coughed blood dripped out of his mouth.

Flash. Sherlock was holding him in his arms. Lying on the ground of some deserted warehouse, where surely no one had heard the shot ring out.

Flash. Sherlock searched his many pockets for his phone, even checked John's. But Moran had taken them. They were completely alone.

Sherlock's head snapped up right. But the coughing still buzzed in his head. Wait no; the coughing was coming from this room.

"John. John you're awake!" Sherlock went to reach out for his hand before thinking better of if. He was supposed to be dead. John hated him. "John, I'm so sorry." Sherlock tried but John wouldn't look in his eyes.

"It never fails." John said writing him off. John had to hand it to himself, his imagination was expanding. He'd never thought up a crying Sherlock.

Sherlock felt like he couldn't breath. The weight of the last three years tightened his chest. He truly hated him, and he had no one to blame but himself.

"Why won't you leave me alone? Was trying to kill myself not enough to rid myself of you." Sherlock's body shook as he tried to hold back his sobs. John turned to him now, and Sherlock became hopeful that John was going to forgive him. But instead he just yelled. "Why won't you leave me? You never stay this long!" His hands covered his eyes; he rubbed them, trying to get rid of the vision of Sherlock.

"John." He sighed, reaching out to touch his hand. "What are you going on about?" John recoiled. He'd never been able to touch him before. He gasped realizing what he'd done.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry John, I didn't mean to be away for so long. I couldn't leave them out there; they were going to kill you. I couldn't… I." It wasn't his imagination this time. Sherlock was real. Living and breathing. And there with him.

"Sherlock?" John couldn't believe it. Maybe he was still asleep and this was all a dream. He had had this dream before. Well it never involved a hospital bed before, but it was basically the same.

"Yes John, I'm right here." He assured him clutching his hand tighter.

"You're dead. He's dead John. He's dead." he shook his head, but when he looked back up Sherlock was still there. "You're not dead?"

"No! I'm not dead John." He smiled shaking his head.

"I saw you… You."

"I'm sorry. I had to do it, it was just a trick. Like magic. I couldn't let them kill you."

"Kill me? Moriarty?"

"Yes. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I'm sorry." His face turned from anger to shock to understanding. He nodded his head. Sherlock took that as a sign that John was ok with him being here so he stayed. "I'm gonna just go out in the hallway and call Harry ok? She'll want to know you're doing ok. That you're awake." John nodded again, momentarily speechless.

Sherlock returned sooner than expected, with Harry.

"I was already here." Harry explained. "It's good to see you alive." Harry cursed herself for being so crass.

"It's fine Harry. Come here." He said slowly opening his arms, inviting Harry in for a hug. She gratefully accepted the invitation, squeezing her brother as hard as she could without hurting him, which was not very hard.

"Don't ever do that to me again. I felt so helpless. You scared the shit outta me." John could hear the terror in her voice. They had never been close, but they were family and they loved each other. And John couldn't image if he'd found Harry like had found him. Only alcohol poisoning would be more likely than nicotine poisoning. But either way it would be terrible.

"I know. I'm sorry. I didn't want you to… I mean… I couldn't." John couldn't find the right words. He somehow wanted to convey how badly he'd been hurting and how in the moment it felt like the right thing to do. But also how sorry he was and how happy he was that she'd saved him. But he couldn't find the right words, so he just shook his head and dropped it into his hands. Harry held him while he cried and rubbed his back until he calmed down.

Sherlock sat awkwardly in the chair next to the bed. He wished he could be in Harry's place. Comforting John as he cried. And he really had no idea why. He guessed it was just one of the many side affects of love. He looked at Harry with pleading eyes. He had to tell John soon or he probably never would. And that wouldn't be fair for either of them. "I love you John."

"I love you too Harry."

"I have to go but I'll visit you tomorrow ok?"

"Yeah, uh ok. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh I almost forgot to tell you! I've stopped drinking!" you could see the pride on Harry's face. Her drinking was the thing John had hated most about her. John was so proud of her for giving it up.

"I'm so happy for you Harry, and I'm extremely proud." All Harry could do was smile, happy that her brother was finally proud of her. "And thank you."

"For what?" She questioned.

"For saving my life. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm just so thankful for a sister like you. And I know we've never really gotten on, but I love you."

"I know John, I love you too. I really have to go now though." She said, her eyes darting to Sherlock giving him a quick wink that John didn't see.

Sherlock gave her an appreciative nod and a slight smile, and then she left.

"John?" he asked tentatively.

"I did it because of you. I lied to Harry. I knew exactly what I was doing." John sighed and started to push himself into a sitting position, but stopped when Sherlock handed him the remote the made the bed move.

"You did it because of me?" Sherlock felt so guilty. It was truly all his fault. At that moment he wished that he could have gone back to the day they met and never told Mike about needing a flat mate. He would always have murderers after him. He would be forever putting the people he loved in danger. He just wished he could stop, and the only way to do that was to let no one get close to him.

"Yes. Because of you, I did it so that… So that…" John voice was cracking. Tears were pooled about to spill over. "So that I could see you again." Tears tumbled over his cheeks, falling on the hospital blanket that covered him.

"John I have to tell you something." Sherlock said, tears of his own threatening to spill. John looked as Sherlock stood up and started pacing the room. What if he said he wasn't staying? What would John do then? John had to say it before Sherlock said anything else.

"I love you." They had basically shouted together. John was taken a back. He wasn't sure that Sherlock knew what love was. But he did know he would never admit it if he didn't truly think he felt it. Because caring was a disadvantage.

"I honestly don't think that I've ever felt this way towards anyone. I'm sorry I did what I had to do before I could tell you." John was speechless. "I was going to tell you on the phone that day, but it didn't seem right. You shouldn't tell a person you love them and then jump off of a building right in front of them." John laughed at him.

"That was the first time I've laughed since Mary divorced me." He said shaking his head still laughing.

"Divorced? You were married?"

"Yeah but listen. I don't want to talk about that." John patted the side of the bed. Sherlock sat down gingerly, not wanting to cause him any more pain than he already had. "This is why I did it." John said taking Sherlock's hand and squeezing it. It was warm, alive. "I needed to tell you. I couldn't keep it in anymore. I need to touch you. To feel you. I would have hallucinations of you. But whenever I would try to touch you, you would disappear. I couldn't take it anymore."

"I'm here now. Here take them both." he said offering his other hand. Instead John pulled him in to a hug. Squishing him to his chest. "Promise me you'll never do anything like that again. Promise me. You can't leave me again. I'm not sure I would last so long next time." Sherlock rubbed circles into John's back rocking him like Harry had done. It felt so good to be able to be there for him and comfort and hold him.

"There is not going to be a next time. I've killed Moran. It's over." Sherlock kissed John softly on the top of the head. John pulled him back for more. This time on the lips. It was basically Sherlock's first kiss. Their lips smashed together again and again. Teeth clinking and tongues fighting. John's heart monitor beeped faster and faster. Sherlock pulled away. "You've already had one heart attack this week. I don't want to give you another. You aren't having chest pains are you? Is you right arm hurting you?" John giggled. Actually giggled.

"Sherlock I am a doctor you know. I know the signs of a heart attack. But to answer you question no. I'm feeling better than I have in a long time." He assured him. John yawned causing Sherlock to do the same. "I am tired though." John admitted. He used the remote to move the bed back to a sleeping position. "You must be tired. Sleeping in that chair doesn't look too comfortable."

"Do you want me to leave? Because I can if you want."

"Not that's not what I was suggesting. Lay down if you're tired." Sherlock was tired. He slipped of his jacket and toed his shoes off. John scotched over making enough room for them both to be comfortable. Sherlock laid back letting John put his head on his shoulder.

"I've never felt anything like it." Sherlock whispered mostly to himself.

"Love?" John questioned.

"Yes love. I'm just glad I get to feel it with you." He said giving John another soft kiss on the top of his head.

"Me too." John said over a yawn. They didn't say anything else and soon John was snoring on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock smiled. He had his doctor back. He had been truly terrified the past three days that John wasn't going to make it. Or he wasn't going to feel the same way. But he had. Sherlock had the same high right now that he got from solving a difficult case. He'd never thought that anything could compare to that, but having John tell him that he loved him back was a high ten times higher than solving any case.

Sherlock snuggle down closer, wrapping his arm around John's waist. He took a deep breath in through his nose. John's scent filled his nose and made him smile. He'd missed him so much. More than he'd missed anyone else in his life.

Sherlock had fallen asleep still wrapped up with John. He had to use the bathroom and carefully unwrapped himself from John.

"It was all a dream." John deflated. He was so sure Sherlock had been there. He'd told him he loved him. He put his head in his hands and stifled a sob. It had been perfect. And it was all just a dream.

"John are you alright?" Sherlock asked softly, not wanting to startle him.

"Sherlock! I thought it was all just a dream." John's face had instantly lifted when he saw Sherlock in the doorway to the bathroom. Sherlock made his way over to the bed and took John into a hug.

"I'm here. I'm real. Remember what I told you? I love you and I'm not going anywhere."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."