Wake You Up XVII

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He lands – no, doesn't land, sits up. He's in their flat, on the sofa, clutching John-bear. 


"You killed John," a voice hisses. 


Sherlock looks towards it, and sees the skull glaring at him. 


"You killed John," the Union Jack pillow agrees. 


There're echoes from all around him, and Sherlock can't take it anymore. He rampages around the room, destroying anything that dares speak, until there's nothing left but the heavy sound of his breathing. 


"I really am insane," Sherlock says absently. 


He eyes the morphine. 


"You don't want to do that," John says. 


Sherlock turns towards him. "Yes I do," he says calmly. "I told you it might be kill me, too, didn't I? I can't tell what's real any more, John. Do you know what that's like for me? All I have is my mind, and it's stopped working. The only time things make sense is when I'm with you. If I have to sleep forever for that to happen, then I will." 


"You don't want to spend the rest of your life as a vegetable. Trust me, I've seen it. It's not pretty. You'll go insane from boredom," John says. 


"I'm already insane!" Sherlock shouts. "Look at me, I'm yelling at the ghost of the man I-"


"You're Sherlock Holmes," John tells him. "You're the best man I know. You can do anything." 


"I couldn't tell you how much you meant to me, before it was too late," Sherlock says bitterly. "I couldn't save you." 


"You have to beat this, Sherlock. Because if you don't-" John's voice drops to a murmur, so low that Sherlock shouldn't be able to hear it from this distance, but he does. "I think I might follow you." 


Terror fills Sherlock. He doesn't understand why. He's the one trying to follow John, he shouldn't be worried about John trying to follow him. But all he knows is that he can't let that happen. 


"But it won't come to that," John says confidently. "The Sherlock I know wouldn't let something like this stop him. You have to fight." 


"How?" Sherlock demands. "I don't know what you want me to do."


"Just wake up. Please." John chokes back a desperate sob. "Just wake up."


Sherlock's never heard John make that noise. It takes only a second for him to realize he'll do almost anything to keep John from ever making it again. "I don't understand," he admits finally. "What does that mean?"


"I need you. You know I do. Come back to me, so I can tell you how much," John tells him. "Please, Sherlock, come back to me." 


That, oh, that, Sherlock can do. He doesn't know what's real, but he knows he will always come back to John. 


He reaches for John, stumbles, blinks.

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