Author's Note: I should be studying for finals. Instead I'm doing this.

It begins with a feeling.

John is walking home from the shop when he gets the strange sensation that someone is following him. He slows his pace slightly, whips his head around, and places a hand on the gun that he can't ever seem to part with. But there's nothing behind him when he turns. He shrugs it off as paranoia. The shrink he's been forced back to since Sherlock… since Sherlock left… has said that his paranoia is a result of grief. John isn't sure. John doesn't care. He shrugs off the feeling and continues on his way to his dreary flat.

He couldn't afford Baker Street alone. And even though Mrs. Hudson would have probably worked with him, he couldn't have stayed there anyway. It was too much. Sherlock was too vividly present in the flat. It's funny that even in death Sherlock still has a more striking presence than John. He's everywhere. Always. And John feels like he's nowhere. Like he's a ghost, floating dully through a life he once participated in.

It's not that he's sad exactly. He was, yes. He was desperately, heartbreakingly sad. He was sad for himself, for Sherlock, for his friends and his family, for Mycroft, for Greg Lestrade, for the public who believed they'd been lied to, for Sherlock's reputation, for what could have been, for what never would be… Yes, he had been sad. For years, it seemed. But he isn't sad anymore. He has no more tears to cry. Now he's just empty. He doesn't feel a thing.

When he reaches his tiny flat he makes himself tea, forces down half a cup, and throws the rest down the drain. Tea's more of a habit than a pleasure these days.

He's not depressed. No one believes him, but he's not depressed. He's just empty. There's a difference. He's sure of it. There must be a difference. He doesn't want to die. Maybe it's because he doesn't feel like he's alive at all, but that's not the point.

He works. He eats. Hell, he's even gone out a few times. He can live without Sherlock. He can live without Sherlock. He's not sure that he'll ever be happy again, but he can live.

John takes a cool shower. He goes to bed.

It continues with a dream.

John has dreamed of Sherlock before, more times than he can count. Sometimes he sees Sherlock falling again. He wakes from those dreams with a shout, his body covered in sweat. Other times he simply sees their lives as they once were. They're drinking tea together, or laughing at the television.

Sometimes they're kissing, soft and slow, and John is carefully mapping out the lines of Sherlock's chest. Sometimes he's pushing into Sherlock with force and passion that he's never loved with while awake. He wakes from those dreams painfully hard and confused. He tries not too overthink them. He tries not to regret what he never did when Sherlock was alive. But he does anyway.

But tonight his dream is different. He dreams of lying in Sherlock's arms, being cradled gently by him. He feels warm and safe, and when he wakes, he swears he can still feel a soft hand running along his scalp. It's more real than it's ever been. He shakes as he runs a hand through his hair, and feels that it's standing oddly, like it's been touched. But it's nothing, of course. It has to be nothing. John goes back to sleep.

He wakes in the middle of the night to a phone call. A blocked number on his cell phone. He answers, bleary-eyed and still half asleep.

"Hello?"

"John."

"Mycroft… Why the fuck are you calling me?"

His words are cold, he knows. But Mycroft's voice reminds him of Sherlock, and Sherlock reminds him of Moriarty, and Moriarty reminds him that Mycroft sold his own brother out. He's the reason Sherlock's gone. Mycroft is the only person John ever allowed himself to blame besides himself.

"I'm calling with news, John."

Mycroft's voice is calm. Like he isn't just speaking to John for the first time in two years. Like he didn't cause Sherlock's death. Like he didn't effectively tear apart John's entire world.

"I'm hanging up," John says. But something stops him. He waits for Mycroft to speak again.

"He's alive," Mycroft says suddenly.

John goes numb. Somehow more numb than he already feels. He hangs up the phone and falls back onto his pillow. He doesn't believe Mycroft. He doesn't hope. He tries to push the phone call out of his head. It isn't possible for him to be alive. He watched Sherlock die. He saw everything.

John tries to go back to sleep, but Mycroft's words nag at him, and he can't.

But eventually he must, because he wakes early the next morning to a soft knock on the door.

He gets up, bare feet padding quietly on the floor, and pulls the door open without bothering to look first.

The door swings open and John forgets how to breathe. He'd never known that knees actually buckled, but apparently they do, because he stumbles to the ground. His breathing finds him in quick, panicked gasps. He's still asleep. He must be. Because there's no way that he's awake. There's no way that Sherlock Holmes is standing in front of him. Warm and breathing. It's not possible.

"Sherlock," he hears himself breathe, as strong, alive hands work their way under his armpits and pull him back to his feet. He lets himself be pulled into the flat and onto his chair. He slumps into the leather like a ragdoll.

"Sherlock," he says again, when the man stands against the wall across from him.

God, he's just as he once was. Dark curls hanging over his forehead. Eyes shining blue and green and grey, and seeing. No scars, no sign at all that he'd been gone. He hadn't aged a bit. So it had to be impossible. It had been years. He should have aged.

"You're not here," John says in a small voice.

Sherlock fixes his eyes on him. "I am."

John feels his head shaking. "You… you're dead."

Sherlock's eyes soften, just a bit. "No."

"I saw you die."

"You saw what I wanted you to see."

"We buried you."

Sherlock shakes his head. "You buried a cadaver. You didn't bury me."

"I don't…"

"I had to. I had to do it," Sherlock's voice is low.

And then it starts to hit John. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock has been alive this entire time. For years John has mourned this man. He's cried. He's lost everything. Only he hadn't really lost anything at all, because here Sherlock was. He had lied to him. And for what? A case. Perhaps John had gotten too boring. He always knew it would happen eventually. With Sherlock, nothing ever really stood a chance. It was too much. His head spun like a whirlwind.

"I…" his voice cracks and breaks. "You're alive."

Sherlock, goddamn him, smiles. It's small, barely there, but he smiles. John sees red and suddenly he's on his feet. It seems they work again. He's in front of Sherlock in an instant, and punching him across the face with every bit of force he has. Because he lied. Because John mourned him. Because John missed him more than he thought it was possible to miss anything.

He doesn't feel any better when he steps away and sees the already darkening bruise on Sherlock's cheek. He's still hurt, and confused, and overwhelmed, and relieved, and terrified, and god, his hand aches now, on top of everything else.

Sherlock doesn't react to the blow. A trickle of blood falls from his nose, almost gracefully.

"Get out of here," John growls. He doesn't even know what he's saying. He's wished for Sherlock since his death, and now he can't stand to be in the same room with this man who lied to him. This man who took his life away so fucking easily.

"John."

John squeezes his eyes shut. He's heard Sherlock say his name a hundred times in dreams, but it's nothing compared to this. Tears well in his eyes before he can fight them. "Please," he chokes, because he can't see Sherlock right now. He can't process this.

"I can explain," Sherlock says, and John's eyes are still closed, but he swears he hears emotion in that machine's voice.

"There's nothing you can say."

"John."

"Nothing."

"He was going to kill you."

John pauses at that, because it isn't what he expected.

"You, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty had snipers fixed on all of you. John. They would have killed you. I didn't have a choice."

John opens his eyes and sees a tear fall from Sherlock's cheek. Always the actor, John thinks.

"Sherlock, please," John's world has zeroed in on one point. Sherlock Holmes. And it's too much. He feels a million things at once and he doesn't know what to do. He wants to throw himself at Sherlock, and hit him until the pain in his mind goes away. He wants to kiss him, draw him close, and never let him go. He wants… he wants to breathe again. He wants a moment to take everything in.

Sherlock reads him, he must, because he accepts defeat and turns for the door. "I was without you, too," he murmurs as he goes.

John lets his head fall into his hands. It seems he's remembered how to cry.