Waking You Up

Wake You Up X

Sherlock is out walking when he sees him. He's walked a lot, in the four days since John's funeral. He can't sleep, can't focus enough to do anything. The flat just reminds him of John; he can't stay there for long. So he walks. It's work, anyway. Has to keep his mental map of London updated. He's gotten behind on that. 

He sees him in Soho, standing next to a bookshop.

"There you are," John says, like Sherlock was the one who wandered off.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks him.

John shrugs, falling into step with him. "You were the one who decided it was a good day for a walk."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "You're dead."

John laughs. "You're threatening me because I questioned your decision to go for a walk? Come on, we both know I can take you," he teases.

Sherlock is offended. "You absolutely can't. I'm smarter than you."

"This is going to turn into a brains over brawn argument, isn't it?" John asks, then grins. "It's pointless, anyway. I only use my brawn for you."

"You do not," Sherlock says, though he can't help feeling ridiculously pleased. "You use your brawn to help lots of people. And for – other things."

"Most people would disagree with that disdainful look on your face when it comes to those 'other things' I do," John replies.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "And most people would consider that a pick-up line."

John raises an eyebrow. "Who says it wasn't?"

Sherlock frowns at him. "You can't hit on me. You're dead."

"You keep saying that and I'm going to get a complex," John says. "Think you actually want me dead."

Sherlock grabs his arm. "The last thing I ever want – wanted, was you dead." He hesitates, then admits what he's given no one else a clue to. "I think it might kill me too, John."

John covers Sherlock's hand with his own and squeezes, but he looks at him like he hasn't heard what Sherlock's said. "I got you something," he says. "It was supposed to be a surprise, but-" He shrugs. "It's dumb, but you might like it. I had to hide it at work, so you wouldn't find it. Only Sarah knew where it was. I'll let you have it, but you have to promise me something."

Sherlock is suspicious. "What?"

"You have to wake up," John says.

This feels familiar, but before Sherlock can figure out why, he jolts awake. He's on the floor in the living room of their flat, where he must have passed out when his body gave up after too long with no sleep.

"It's a dream," Sherlock tells himself. "A stupid dream, just like the funeral. Dreams aren't real."

He makes it an hour and a half before he takes a cab to John's work. Where John used to work.

Sarah's in, and when he walks up to her, she looks at him in concern.

"Sherlock?" she asks, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. "Do you need something?"

That's a ridiculous question to ask. Of course he needs something. He needs John to be alive. But Sarah can't do that, so her question is hollow, ringing with a false sense of friendship. She thinks because someone they both love is dead, they've bonded. They haven't. She's horrible, to want to use John's death to bond.

That's cruel, Sherlock knows, but John isn't there to tell him not to think like that.

"John," Sherlock starts, but doesn't know how to finish. He can't say that he dreamed of John, and dream-John said to come here. That's ridiculous, sentimental. It's something idiotic grieving lovers do, placing stock in meaningless dreams because they have nothing else to cling to.

Sherlock is only one of those things. He does, however, have nothing else, so he finds a way to phrase it. "John got something for me. He was hiding it here, you're the only one that knows where it is."

Sarah smiles, fond and sad. "He said you'd find it in two seconds if he kept it at your flat. He got it a few days before-" She stops, then stands up. "Come on. I'll show you where I've kept it."

He follows her numbly, his mind busy informing him that this was not possible. 'Stop theorizing,' he orders it. 'We're still collecting data. Remember, no matter how mad-'