Johnlock, with implied Slash. Post-Reichenbach Fall. My first attempt at Sherlock fanfiction. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Oneshot, R&R.

When John wakes, he knows he's dreaming.

The instinct to rip the loaded gun from his dresser is distant, and instead, there is a calm haze in the air. This feeling is rather foreign to John. The past year, or perhaps even three, has left him feeling constantly uneasy. A breath of wind washing across the room, a creak, a sigh, is met only by the barrel of a pistol, and John's panting, shirtless form.

Instead, he feels only peace. Resistant to the feeling, John yawns and opens his eyes. The down of his pillow scratches his nose and he pushes himself upwards, to face the shadowed room.

After a while, the black blobs begin to take shape, and John recognizes his bedroom. Dresser in the corner, pot plant sagging, rocking chair hiding beneath the window. It only takes a moment for John to realize what's offset. And it is at this moment that John becomes certain he's dreaming.

For in the corner, perched on the rocking chair, is Sherlock Holmes.

At first, John doesn't react. Their eyes meet, and they stare at each other for a while. Pools of blue, thinks John. It's nice to know that his dream state hasn't downplayed the beauty of Sherlock Holmes.

Eventually, John rests back, and Sherlock speaks.

"Hello John."

"Sherlock."

Silence.

"How did you get into the flat?"

"Mrs. Hudson never changed the locks."

"Ah."

"Why are you still in the flat?"

"Mrs. Hudson never changed the locks."

"Ah."

There's quietness for a while, and John shifts so that his bare arms cross his chest.

"You're getting better at the game."

"What game?" asks John.

"My game. You're harder to read."

John almost feels a spark of pride.

"Really?"

"Well, partially. Why aren't you dating again, John?"

John isn't going to ask how Sherlock knows this, but Sherlock tells him anyway.

"After all, there aren't many happily engaged men that sleep with pistols on their dressers. Your plants are dead; and surely none of your type of woman would allow that. Your clothes are in a horrid condition. I'm surprised Mrs. Hudson hasn't seen to that. Not to mention the finger nails I placed in our fridge are still there. After a year, John."

John brings his hands to his face.

"I'm not any better at the game Sherlock. You're right; I'm alone."

"Well obviously John. But that's not the catalyst for my confusion. Instead, I ask, why?"

John raises his head, and shakes it incredulously. Sherlock's mouth puckers as he watches John lie down in bed, and pull the sheets over his head. There's silence for a moment longer, before Sherlock's muffled voice breaks the peace.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to wake up from this dream."

John can feel dream Sherlock smirking.

"You think you're dreaming?"

"Of course I am," whispers John, from beneath his duvet. "The real Sherlock Holmes would never reveal himself to me in my bedroom. That's not melodramatic enough. The real Sherlock Holmes would have woken me up, rather than watch me sleep. The real Sherlock Holmes would understand why I could not start dating again. The real Sherlock Holmes would understand why Mrs. Hudson hasn't set foot in this place in a year. And most importantly, the real Sherlock Holmes is dead. It's foolish to believe otherwise."

"Did you once believe otherwise, John?"

John swallows sharply. A thick mess of emotions is building, and his composure is collapsing. He squeezes his eyes together, willing this dream Sherlock to go away. But of course, he doesn't.

"Do you miss me, John?"

John almost laughs. He pulls back the sheet and stares disbelievingly at this dream, this impostor, Sherlock Holmes.

"Of course I fucking miss you. I fucking miss you every day. It was John and Sherlock. We were a pair. You were my best friend, you were…" John breaks off, as he reigns in his voice, which is gurgling, dipping and cracking in all the wrong places. The roof is becoming blurry.

"I was what, John?"

John doesn't answer. He can't.

There's silence. Silence for hours. Silence that stretches for miles, that teeters on cliffs and thrashes on the waves. An abyss of silence.

And eventually, John closes his eyes.

A cold, gentle kiss to the temple lulls him to sleep.