Falling For You

Sweet Dreams

John Watson held his cup of tea in his hand and made his way over to his seat.  He didn't look up until he saw something on the floor that was weird.  A shoe.  Not only a shoe, but a shoe attached to a leg. John followed the leg up to the body and saw Sherlock Bloody Holmes looking at him.

"Hello, John," Sherlock smiled.

John closed his eyes. This wasn't real.  Sherlock was dead.  He was dead.  "Stop it," John cried.  

He found that when he opened his eyes, Sherlock was still there.  He was still sitting in his black chair like he used to do and he was looking at John who was positive he was having a mental breakdown.

"John," Sherlock said.  

"Go away.  Stop it," John begged, tears gushing out of his eyes.  

Sherlock looked at his dear friend confoundedly.  Had he done something wrong?  "It's alright, John. Calm down," Sherlock pleaded in a gentle voice.  

But John wouldn't hear it.  He was done with being haunted by the shadows of his past.  By the shadows of Sherlock Holmes.

"Leave me alone!" John snapped.  He jumped up from his chair and Sherlock watched him pace about the room for a second.  John turned back to Sherlock who was still watching him with his eyes the color of the sea after a storm.

"Do calm down," Sherlock begged, unsure of what to do with his hysterical friend.  John couldn't take anymore of it.  Not a single bit more.  He fell to his knees and started hysterically crying.  Sherlock was playing with his mind again, wasn't he?  He was just pulling off one final "magic trick" to see how far he could push John until he was broken.  But John had been broken a long time ago.  John was broken the second Sherlock stepped off of that rooftop.

"Stop it.  Please.  Leave me alone," he sobbed.  

Sherlock joined his friend on the floor of the flat.  John clung to Sherlock with salty tears staining his face.  Sherlock was crying too.  He didn't know why he was crying.  Maybe because he was scared. Maybe because it seemed as though John Watson didn't want to see Sherlock anymore.  But Sherlock didn't know why he was crying.  He just was.  

"Shh, it's all going to be okay," Sherlock said as he stroked his companion's head softly.  He was treating John how he would have treated Redbeard.  He would have stroked Redbeard's head until he calmed down.  He would have hugged Redbeard close to his chest and whisper promising lies of false security into his ears until he had fallen asleep.  

"You're not real," John stammered, still crying into Sherlock's chest.  

"I am," Sherlock countered.  

"Then why did you leave me?  Why did you let me think you were dead?" John was still positive that he was talking to nothing more than a hallucination.  He was so tired and sad and his eyelids were so heavy.  He just couldn't stand to be awake anymore.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered.  "Christ.  I am so so sorry for the pain I caused you."

But John was asleep.  Sherlock didn't realize this for a few more seconds.  Then he found himself lifting John like he was nothing more than a baby, and he walked off to his own bedroom.  He placed John on the bed and tucked him in under all of the covers, making sure that he was warm and cozy. Sherlock did the most peculiar thing after that.  He got down on the other side of the bed and watched John sleep.  He had missed his John Watson so much while he was away.  He had missed the crinkles on the sides of his eyes and mouth he got every time he smiled, and he missed the way John's short hair fell without him even having to touch it.

"Goodnight, my Dear Watson," Sherlock winked.  Then, he silently got up and went over to the couch so John could have a much deserved peaceful slumber.

But Sherlock found himself wanting nothing more than to be in that bed beside him.