A/N

I got sick of writing fluff, wanted to write something more dramatic. I feel like I did alright with drama, though it does get a bit sappy at the end. Apologies. And I'm still learning how to write a good conclusion, so the ending might be a bit abrupt or awkward. I'll edit it if I find some inspiration hidden somewhere, I promise.

There will probably be a part 2: Sherlock's POV sometime in the near future (yet another project to add to my pile! *nervous laughter*)

Warning: Contains talk about suicide/depression/cutting. If you're uncomfortable with these topics, you should probably leave.

***If you or someone you know is sifting through suicidal thoughts or self-harming tendencies, please do not hesitate to call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 (US) or Samaritans at 08457-90-90-90 (UK & Northern Ireland)***

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

John shakily held his phone in a firm grip. Slowly, he pounded out a message to a number that'd been long disconnected. The air around hung with a chill that froze the world around it; there were no birds, no wind, nor any other sign of humanity. It was just John and a field full of graves on this particular London morning. Only three things he was certain of: He was alone. He was scared. He was crying. Nearby stood the most important thing he had anymore; a granite headstone set ablaze with the name of his dearest friend.

I can't take this anymore, Sherlock.
I can't take being alone. This is my
note. See you soon.
–JW

John let tears fall to the ground as he read his message over and over again. Without any hurry, he reached for the knife in his pocket. The cold steel burned his hand while tears assaulted his face. I miss you so much. Just a few moments and we'll be together again. But before long, his phone went off. New text.

No, John!
–SH

John stared at the phone with wide eyes before typing out a reply.

…Sherlock?
–JW

He began laughing unsettlingly to himself.

I must have finally lost it. Oh god.
Dear god I can't do this anymore
–JW

No, you haven't, John.
–SH

I just want this all to end
–JW

Listen to me. Don't. Do. This.
–SH

Anger bubbled in John's stomach as he attempted to decode the situation unraveling around him. There's no way this were real. But he'd play along to see what would happen.

Why should I listen to you? Just
so you'll vanish into thin air
again?
–JW

So you can leave me alone to
suffer?
–JW

He waited with baited breath for a reply. A minute passed without anything; he returned to the knife. The cold, kind blade that would release him from all his suffering. He pressed it against his skin, icy to the touch. His phone beeped again.

I've been here all along.
–SH

He shook his head with a sad smile.

I've had enough of these visions.
–JW

If you were here, you'd be pulling
the knife out of my hands.
–JW

Tears fell onto the phone as he desperately waited for the next reply. He wanted so badly to be saved, for this to be real, for the nightmares to finally end so he could have his old life and mind back. In one ragged movement, John fell to his knees and crumpled to the ground. Another alert came from his phone; he read anxiously.

John, where are you?
-SH

John chuckled before responding.

You're not here. You're dead.
I'm insane.
-JW

Where. Are. You.
-SH

The thought of this being another figment of his feeble mind made John laugh a bit more - a maniacal, twisted, somber laugh which was only produced by one who'd lost it long ago.

I can't do this.
–JW

I'm so sorry I couldn't protect
you, Sherlock.
-JW

John! Damn it, tell me where you are!
-SH

I… God I'm scared. So scared.
-JW

WHERE DO YOU THINK I AM,
YOU GIT?
-JW

I'm exactly where you left me
waiting.
-JW

I'm still waiting for that miracle.
-JW

You're at my grave…
-SH

Just one more miracle…
-JW

John's breathing and heartbeat were absolutely racing in his chest. He stared at the granite slab before him in wonderment, trying to process the moment as it progressed. He was texting Sherlock. But Sherlock was buried beneath him. Yet Sherlock sounded like he was alive. Of course he does, you bloody idiot. He always sounds alive when you imagine him talking to you. Why would you imagine him trying to talk as a cadaver? I've completely lost it. These must be those moments of panic before the lights go out; before you swallow that last bit of bitter air and accept your fate as a dead man. Another text alert rang out in the silence.

John, wait for me. I'm coming.
-SH

And I don't know if I believe you.
How are you talking to me? You're
supposed to be buried underground.
-JW

No. I don't believe you.
-JW

Just wait.
-SH

I don't know if I can anymore.
-JW

I'm so broken, Sherlock.
-JW

I'm so broken.
-JW

I still have one miracle, John.
You must believe me.
-SH

You, out of all people, must
believe me.
-SH

John stared at his phone. Of course I want to believe you. Of course I'm going to believe you.

…Of course I'll believe you.
How can I not? You're
the world to me.
-JW

I just don't want you to disappear.
-JW

I don't want this to be a
figment of my sad mind.
-JW

I'm so scared, Sherlock.
-JW

John shook violently, each successive text pushing him closer to the brink of insanity. He tried to do some deep breathing exercises his therapist had recommended. This isn't working. Why isn't it working? Fuck. I can't do this. He brought the knife back up to his wrist, lightly rubbing the cruel blade against his clammy skin.

Then drop the knife, John.
-SH

John bit his lip to keep it from trembling. Tears streamed from his face and his shoulders heaved as he replied.

Fine. I will.
-JW

Please save me.
-JW

Please fix me.
-JW

John sat on his knees, head bowed, trying to calm himself down with more of the useless breathing exercises. Nothing could prevent the mournful and devastated sounds from escaping his throat. John doubled over, weeping into his knees in an attempt to console himself. He didn't exactly understand what was going on – phantom texts from a dead friend seemed like a fairly crazy phenomenon – and it shook him to the core. For a moment, he thought he could hear a name being carried on the wind. "John!" it had said. Fantastic. Now I'm hearing things too. He glanced toward the knife, reaching to grasp its handle again.

Suddenly, a hand yanked him up from the ground. Pain shot throughout his shoulder. Damn it all! That hurts! He turned his eyes to see who grabbed him so fiercely, anger stirring in his heart. He intended to yell – You bloody git! What the hell are you doing? – but all his thoughts crashed as his gaze swept over the tall, dark-haired man before him. A tremor resonated throughout his body as tears freely fell. For a few moments John's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, gasping for air. Finally, with more than a hint of disbelief, he uttered the man's name in a whisper. "Sh- Sherlock?"

There were no smiles. Just tears. The usually-composed detective couldn't hold his granite composure in the wake of such an experience. John could see Sherlock, eyes red and giving him a look of hurt, of agony, of apology. Dull flashes of anger flickered momentarily across his face, yet they simmered once he made direct eye contact with John. Weakly he mutters the name, eyes scanning and deducing every feature of the broken man. "John…"

Shock. That's all John could feel – a sick, gut-twisting shock which leaves him completely immobilized, staring at his old friend like a deer in the headlights. It's a wonder he hasn't allowed his body to break under the completely overwhelming sensation and render him unconscious. The pure adrenaline of the moment was probably the only thing keeping him on his feet at this point. Sherlock looked nearly the same as when he jumped from Bart's that fateful day. He had lost some weight and looked as though he hadn't slept in quite a few days; but he was absolutely perfect and beautiful to John's broken mind. He reached out a hand to touch him, letting the name cross his lips again. "Sherlock… It… I…"

As he made contact with Sherlock's chest, the detective grabbed a hold of his hand to ensure that he was really there and gave it a firm squeeze. "Yes, John." Came the low reply. John was certain that Sherlock could read his emotions like a book – desperate, fearful, full of wonder. The touch had proven itself to be an overload for John's system. His breathing became somewhat labored and vision blurred, his body finally remembering how weak it truly was.

John had stopped eating proper meals quite a few days ago. Other than the occasional cuppa and scone, he was running on no food whatsoever. Sleeping had become nothing more than quick catnaps whenever his mind was tired enough to finally shut down. He'd refused to sleep on a normal schedule – when he did, he'd dream. And when he'd dream, he'd dream of only Sherlock. He couldn't stand the smiling visions of his old friend, acting as if he were alive and normal, still living in 221B. But he didn't need to be asleep to see these visions – no, no. He could be sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, and suddenly Sherlock would come into the room with a bag of body parts or a box of books, looking annoyed or clever or – sometimes – truly happy to be back home. Yet just as soon as he'd arrive, he'd fade away, leaving John to cling onto memories and tears to stay sane.

Knees buckled beneath the soldier as the world became fuzzier still. "John, what's wrong?" asked Sherlock in a – was he panicking? Sherlock Holmes, panicking over me? He was caught by the detective's lithe arms just before he hit the ground.

John managed to weakly reply. "I'm… I can't believe you're here." He tried to hold onto consciousness, to savor this moment for every second it was worth; but the hunger and drowsiness were piling heavy on his mind. John tried to reach up and touch Sherlock's perfect face, to graze the amazing skin with his fingertips. He wanted nothing more than to caress him and hold him and cling to him, but the adrenaline was wearing off. He needed sleep and food, if nothing else.

Though he was fading quickly, the soldier could manage to hear Sherlock. "John, we need to get you to a hospital." John was lifted to his feet once more; the world spun as he tried to stay standing. "Can you walk?"

"Ye… yeah. Think I can." He blinked slowly a few times in an attempt to stave off the horrid feelings coursing through his veins. "Sherlock I'm so-" His words turned to a low, indistinguishable mumble as he stumbled forward. "I think I need help walking," he whispered.

"Alright," came the reply as John felt his arm being pulled over Sherlock's shoulder. It was an odd configuration; the taller man had to bend down a bit in order for the smaller to be minutely comfortable as they strode forward.

"How did you… How are you alive?" John's head spun as they neared the road; he wasn't sure he was actually making coherent sentences at this point. For all he knew, he was randomly stringing sounds together in an attempt to talk with the detective. Once they stopped to hail a cab, he attempted to comprehend the situation; in this state – no matter how much he tried to breathe and steady himself – there was little chance he would be able to decipher anything at all. John looked back up at the man by his side. Does he have dirt on his face? What in the world? Dirt?

Sherlock didn't bother to look back at John; he was far too busy hailing a cab and ushering John inside. "I'll tell you later, John. Right now, let's merely focus on getting you to the hospital." The soldier silently complied.

The ride was absolutely horrific. John's weakened composure heightened his senses in the worst possible way. Every bump in the road felt as though the cab were being rocketed into space. Every turn was a ship being pushed by the rough waters of a stormy sea. The smells embedded in the backseat were a violent mixture of perfumes and musk and mold attacking his body, even when he breathed through his mouth. His vision tunneled and his ears began ringing, causing his stomach to twist into knots which threatened to become undone, to release whatever contents they held onto his friend's lap. Trying dissuade the sensation, he fell into Sherlock's shoulder to rest his eyes and take in his scent. "This is real," he mumbled against the soft fabric of the detective's coat.

"Yes. I'm alive." Sherlock wrapped his arm around John, holding him lightly as they came to a halt in front of the hospital. The cabbie was paid and John was pulled from the vehicle in a swift motion. Before his brain could decipher the transition from musty cab to bright outdoors followed by being dragged inside the hospital, he heard Sherlock in a panicky voice addressing a nurse. "Please! 'E needs 'elp! Found 'em in tha graveyard as I was passin' through."

John was swept onto a stretcher and carted away from the front room. "Sh… don't leave me alone again!" he cried weakly. Nurses were rushing about him as he tried to get up; they held him down and tried to calm him before attacking him with a barrage of questions. He didn't feel like answering, so he allowed the warm embrace of sleep to rush over him. He hoped to God the Sherlock would be there when he would come to again. This couldn't be another figment. His mind couldn't take the thought.

What felt like a short time later, John woke up to find himself in a white hospital room, equipped with a TV, cupboard, and bathroom. He was hooked to an IV, getting fluids n nutrients without being fed. Still, the nurses had left him a tray from the cafeteria – a slab of pale grilled chicken and green beans that smelled as bad as they looked. John was positive he wouldn't be able to stomach the meal. He laid back into his pillow before bolting upright in a panic as his brain caught up with his body, searching the room frantically.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" His breathing quickened and heart rate elevated drastically as he desperately looked for his friend. In the corner was a chair holding the man's favorite coat. Yet he was nowhere to be seen. "Sherlock…"

Within moments, Sherlock entered the room. John calmed himself down with a sigh as he came into view. Still real. He looked over his friend, noting a hurt look painting his face. John watched as Sherlock grabbed the chair, pulled it to the bedside, and sat down in one fluid movement. His fingers immediately formed a pyramid beneath his nose as he began watching the soldier carefully. He was thinking.

John gazed upon his friend with loving eyes. He was stricken by the man's familiar and powerful presence; how on Earth had he lived without him for all this time? Timidly, he brought a hand up to Sherlock's face. The detective's eyes grew wide as John cupped the man's cheek with the palm of his hand. For a few moments he stayed like this, before returning the hand to his own lap and twiddling his thumbs as silence filled the room.

"Molly." Sherlock muttered, finally breaking the silence. "Molly helped fake my death." His eyes were looking everywhere except toward John.

John turned to him in disbelief. "Molly? Molly Hooper? She knew?" A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. How did she hide that from me? She wept so openly at the funeral. She'd acted so depressed whenever we talked about Sherlock. But she knew he was alive? Why did it have to be Molly to help him? I could have kept a secret. I could have helped him! John was a bit pissed at Molly for lying to him, but he knew it would pass soon enough. Yet he bore no animosity towards Sherlock. The man had just saved his life, how could he possibly dream of hating him?

"She helped me in more ways than you could imagine. She watched over you for me." Sherlock looked at John before amending his statement. "She watched over you to the best of her ability."

John looked to his hands in shame. He'd really let himself go over the past few months. "It was just… so hard, Sherlock, to live in a place which once housed the most amazing person I'd ever met; only when I would come home every day, you weren't there. It killed me inside to walk up those steps and know that you wouldn't be there, that you were never coming home again. A few times I considered moving out – leaving the memories behind with the flat and just moving on with life. But I couldn't – not after everything that I'd experienced there. It'd be a bloody mistake to let some nice couple come in and repair the wall and re-paper it, to supply the kitchen with proper sundries, to live clutter-free and normally in that flat. It'd be a sin. So I stayed, but it ate away at my sanity bit by bit. I don't know how many times I would come home and fall to the floor, weeping and wishing I could join you…" John's voice trailed off a bit.

"No. John… I'm sorry." Sherlock reached out to hold John's hand. "I should have known how this would have affected you."

Tears fell from the soldier's eyes and onto their hands. Dammit, stop crying. "I wish you would have stayed with me. I… I've got scars from when I tried it…" He looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, his own full of guilt and shame. "You know… sometimes I let it all get the better of me. I'm so sorry Sherlock. If I had had just a hint that you were still alive, I would have been fine. I was stupid to get like this." He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "I missed you so much." He whispered.

"You've… You've tried killing yourself before?" The question was cautious and fearful, yet didn't need to be asked. Sherlock already knew it would have been true; he pulled his hands up to cradle his face and sat in silent thought for a moment.

John nodded with embarrassment as he rolled up one sleeve of his hospital gown. Across his arm was the ghost of more than a few once-impressive wounds. "I was just… I… I don't even know what to say." He took a deep breath and looked to the ceiling before continuing. "I was completely overwhelmed. So I hopped in the tub and… well. I slit my arm open in a few vital spots. But immediately afterword, I panicked and thought of what that'd do to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Harry, Sarah… Even Mycroft crossed my mind, and I'm not convinced he would have cared much at all. So I called an ambulance and got myself stitched up." He rolled his sleeve back down and rubbed his arm uncomfortably.

Sherlock simply stared in disbelief. John could see him playing the scene out in his mind, watching his eyes flick from side to side as he watched the whole thing unfurl. "John…" He couldn't manage to say anything else; his expression showed that he wasn't nearly as brave or composed as he was letting on.

"I'm so sorry… Sherlock… I just… I wanted so badly for all the pain to end. I couldn't… I…" John's voice trailed off as he looked to his friend. "I really couldn't live without you. And I know I can't live without you from now on." He stroked Sherlock's hand with his own. His unwavering eyes were as analytic and amazing as they'd always been. "I… Well… It's just… God, why is this so hard to get out?" He chuckled and looked down, hoping Sherlock would deduce his thoughts and understand.

Sherlock moved his hand slightly under John's palm, fingertips lightly touching his wrist. He looked straight into John's eyes, piercing him with an unwavering gaze. "John…" he repeated.

"Taking my pulse?" John said lowly with a smile. The detective reciprocated his amusement with a genuine smile. He took a deep breath before speaking seriously. "Sherlock. You mean the world to me. The day I saw you fall off this rooftop was the day I lost absolutely everything that meant anything to me. I lost the person I cared most for within a minute's time, and it left me an absolutely pathetic, hopeless heap. I thought of you every waking second of my day, dreamt of you every single night. I went as far as to imagine you sitting with me drinking tea from time to time. I never lost the infatuation I had with you… the pure, unchained love that consumed my heart since the day we met. I am absolutely nothing without you." He ran his hand over Sherlock's head, petting his hair lovingly with an incredibly warm smile across his face. He watched the detective and wondered what he could be thinking.

A look of pain flashed through Sherlock's eyes, chased off by a firm look of resolve. He moved onto the bed, next to John, and cupped a hand to the soldier's cheek. "I'm going to kiss you." Sherlock whispered quietly, leaning in towards John.

For a moment, the soldier panicked. His eyes widened and his mind raced as he stared at the man beside him. Is this a joke? Oh God. What if I piss him off somehow? What if he can read my thoughts through my lips? Oh Lord. Oh God. What do I do? He suppressed the thoughts and took a small breath before leaning in to mesh his lips with his partner's. The sensations that ran through his body were indescribable; passion and love and joy mixed with a sense of thrill, all bubbling in a slight brew of uneasiness rocketed through his veins. John was no longer able to think straight, but he knew that absolutely one thing was true. He loved Sherlock with every inch of his being.

Moments later, the detective broke the kiss. He looked at John with half-lidded eyes. "I'm sorry, John… for all the pain I've caused you."

A smile spread across the soldier's face as he watched Sherlock's reaction to the kiss. "I'm not going to say 'it's alright,' because frankly, it's not good for you to have lied to me like that." John watched as regret and shame fell across the detective's face. "But don't worry about it, Sherlock. What's done is done, we can't undo it. I'm just glad you're here now, that I'm still here to see you again. We'll work it out from here. I know we can." He grabbed Sherlock's hand gingerly and rubbed circles into it with his thumb. "Thank you."

Sherlock smiled sadly at John. "I know we will." The soldier pulled his friend into an embrace before laying back down to sleep. No point in over-exerting himself for now – Sherlock would be there when he was feeling more rested. He smiled as he drifted back into his dreams, anticipating what things would be like from here on out. Only time would tell what would happen, yet his heart already knew that whatever it yielded would be the most brilliant thing in the world. John was truly looking forward to life again.