One More Miracle

Coping

Chapter 1: John's Point-Of-View

I was standing in the cemetery at the grave of my best friend, Sherlock Holmes. The black headstone with his name engraved on it showed me my reflection, thanks to the late afternoon sun. When I looked at my reflection, the man that looked back looked awful. Defeated. He had huge bags under his eyes from lack of sleep and his hair was unnaturally messy. It was a surprise he was still on his feet. To tell you the truth, he barely was. I barely was. 

I continued to stare at Sherlock's grave for a while longer, and all I could think about were the things I should have said to Sherlock when he was standing on the roof. I should have told him that I couldn't be without him. And I can't. I can't be without Sherlock Holmes. 

I looked up from Sherlock's grave and saw something that made me freeze where I was. Rather, I saw someone that made me stay rooted to the spot, unable to move. Standing in front of me, only a few meters away, was the back of Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock," I breathed, my voice barely over a whisper. Somehow, Sherlock seemed to hear me. He turned around, and I saw his face for the first time in 5 months.

He looked the same as he always had, though there was no blood on his face like there had been after he had jumped off of the roof of the hospital. His cheekbones were still looking sharp, and his eyes were still a color that couldn't be described with words. When he spoke, he used that voice that I had come to associate with solving crimes and acting like fools at the same time. 

"Hello, John," he said in a very calm voice. As he spoke my name, a smile broke out across his face and I felt a strange tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach. 

"Sherlock," I said again, but this time my voice was louder, more confident. "Sherlock!" I yelled and began sprinting toward my best friend that I had thought dead for a full five months. 

Sherlock and I ran toward each other; both our arms were outstretched. All I wanted right now was to hug him and know for sure that he was real. His hand was inches from mine.... I was about to have Sherlock back, my Sherlock.... 

My eyes flew open and I sat up in bed, breathing hard. 

It had all been a dream, I thought to myself, It was only a dream. It had felt so real, and I wanted it to be real so badly. 

"It was only a dream," I said to myself, this time out loud. Hearing it spoken into the silence, I knew the words to be true; finalized. With that thought, I promptly burst into tears and fell back onto my pillow. I swore loudly because I felt stupid for crying, which only made me cry harder. I don't know how long I lay in bed, but somehow I fell back asleep. Fortunately, I didn't dream of Sherlock again. 

When I woke up a second time, I decided to get up for good. I reluctantly climbed out of bed and pulled on my robe. I had momentarily forgotten my dream about Sherlock, so I felt pretty good. The sun was shining; there were birds chirping. It was a beautiful day. 

Halfway to my bedroom door, I remembered my dream from the previous night. I had to lean against the wall for support; the feeling of loss was fresh and overwhelming. 

Don't cry, I thought to myself. It was only a dream. You don't need to cry. Biting my bottom lip to hold back the tears, I walked towards the kitchen to get some breakfast. 

I'd had to move to another flat after Sherlock died. I tried going back to 221B Baker Street, but I had decided to leave once I realized that all I had done was stare at Sherlock's armchair and wish he could come back. Mrs. Hudson had said that she didn't mind, which made me feel better. After all, I wouldn't have been able to afford the rent on my own anyway, and I absolutely refused to get a new flatmate, now or ever again. It seemed like an insult to Sherlock's memory, and, secretly, I still thought that he would come back. 

I managed to make it into my kitchen without crying. The new place was smaller and located just outside of London; it was the only place I could afford now that I was... alone. I made myself a small breakfast of toast with jam (apparently renewed grief over the death of your best friend doesn't make you all too hungry) and sat down to watch telly. I flicked through the channels, though nothing was particularly interesting. Finally I stumbled across some cool sci-fi show that I later found out to be Doctor Who. I hadn't watched it before and thought it was pretty good. So basically my morning consisted of grief and time-travelling aliens. Typical. 

I decided to go out for lunch, though I didn't want to go alone. I called Mrs. Hudson, but she was busy. I even tried Greg Lestrade, though he was busy as well. I decided not to call Mycroft, he had become increasingly distant since Sherlock's death. I finally stumbled upon a contact in my phone with the name "Molly Hooper" and decided to call her. She picked up on the second ring. 

"Hello?" She said when she picked up. 

"Molly? It's John."

"Oh hi, John. How are you? Is everything OK?" 

"I'm fine, thanks," I replied. "I was just wondering if you might want to have lunch today."

"That sounds great," Molly responded. "Where?" I gave her the name of a cafe that I liked in central London and told her that I'd meet her there in an hour. "Alright, I'll be there," she said, and hung up. 

Feeling slightly better now that I would have a friend to talk to today, I got dressed. I wore my striped jumper and jeans with my black jacket. This outfit reminded me of Sherlock and the cases we had solved together, though I decided not to dwell on that. Instead, I went to go meet Molly. 

Molly arrived right on time; just five minutes after me. We sat at a table in the back and made small talk until a waiter came to take our order. 

"Hello, my name is James and I'll be your server today. Sir, would you like a drink for you and your date?" James asked in an American accent. 

"Oh, no, I'm not his date," Molly corrected him. "We're just friends." 

"Oh, I'm sorry, my mistake," James apologized, and with a sudden pang of realization I remembered how I had said those same words, "I'm not his date", to Sherlock's friend, the waiter, when we had had dinner together for the first time. I got lost in my memories of that night until Molly's voice brought me back to the present. 

"John?" she asked. "Drinks?" 

"Yeah, sorry," I said. "I just want water, thanks." James nodded and walked away, leaving Molly and me alone again. 

I tried to keep the topic of conversation away from Sherlock for as long as possible, but since he was how we had actually met, that didn't last long. His name finally came up when we were talking about life at the hospital. 

"Oh, it's alright," Molly said when I asked her how work was. "It's just a little bit calmer without Sherlock, though. More boring as well..." She trailed off at the look on my face, which must have been a cross between startled and pained, as that was how I felt. She quickly tried to cover up for her mistake. 

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to.... I just was thinking...." Molly fumbled over her words. 

"No, it's OK," I assured her. "I was just a little stunned- that's all." Molly nodded with relief, though I could still see her cheeks turning pink. 

"John, there's something I need to tell you," Molly said. "It's about Sherlock." I leaned forward, every nerve in my body suddenly on alert. I nodded so as to encourage her to go on. "Right before he...you know...he told me that he thought he was going to die, and he needed my help. He wanted to be prepared for any situation, and that included falling from a great height.

I sat there, glued to my chair, unable to think or breathe, hoping beyone hope that Molly Hooper was about to say what I thought she was going to say. 

After a long breath, she continued, "John, I don't think Sherlock Holmes is dead."