Only Yours

3

Sherlock's P.O.V

I am awoken by a bang, probably from the house next door. I have no recollection of the previous night and my eyes seem glued shut and when I try to open them, they close immediately. I groan. This is what happens when I drink. I must have been to a bar... no, several bars, last night.

I have drunk a lot over the past two years. It is... harder than I thought it would be, getting over John. Yes I love him, I always have, I always will. Of course, I disapprove of sentiment in every sense and the first time I realised what I felt for him was love was when I stood on top of the hospital, looking down at him, hearing his scared voice through my phone and realising that I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to leave him. But I convinced myself that what I did was right. John would grieve, as he would for any friend, and then get on with his life. Fall in Love. Get married. Have children. Carry on with his life as if I never existed.

The bed I am sleeping in is softer than usual but feels familiar. The apartment Mycroft got me is horrible. Rats, bugs, no plumbing or electricity, and the bed is hard with cheap sheets. But I am due to leave London very soon, I have been here a month, and soon someone will recognise me. Before Moriarty told everyone I was a fake, I had been famous. Very famous. God, if John had heard that he would have told me I was cocky. As I bury my face back in the pillow, I feel a jolt in my stomach. I always do when I think of John.

Suddenly, my phone starts ringing. The noise pierces my brain, and I wince as I pick up the phone. With my eyes still closed I answer it.

'What.' The caller chuckles and I recognise him. 'What the hell do you want, Mycroft.'

'Well, brother mine. Long-time no talk. Where are you, I have you booked to leave London in less than an hour by the 8:26 train from Charring Cross.'

'Mycroft, you're slipping. It's the 8:28 and you know where I am. I am in the poor excuse of an apartment you found me.'

'Sherlock, no you are not. I am standing in your room right now and you are clearly not here. Where are you?'

I sit up, a little puzzled, but am immediately overcome with a wave of nausea. 'Can you get a lock on where I am? My vision is blurry and I feel extremely nauseous.'

Mycroft sighs. 'Drinking again, little brother? Or is it drugs this time?'

I feel so sick I cannot even think of a snappy retort. Slowly, I stand up and open my eyes, before gasping. I know where I am.

'Sherlock...' Mycroft says slowly.

'Why am I in Baker Street?'

'Why are you at Baker Street?' We say at the exact same time. I look around and four things stand out straight away.

1. I am standing in my bedroom at 221B Baker Street.

2. I am completely naked.

3. There is someone else still asleep in the bed

4. That person is John

Mycroft is silent as he processes things. I am silent as I frantically search through my mind palace, trying to find last night.

I find it.

I remember watching John strip off, obviously about to go for a swim in the duck pond. Before I could help myself I had interceded. I remember him staring at me before standing on his tiptoes and kissing me hard on the mouth. I remember staggering back to Baker Street and I remember taking him, right on that bed.

Oh god.

'Well, well, well, Sherlock. By your unsteady breathing pattern I am guessing you remember why you are at Baker Street. Was it to get... reacquainted with an old friend? Sherlock-'suddenly he is shouting and I instinctively hold the phone away from my ear. 'DO YOU REALISE HOW STUPID YOU HAVE BEEN? DO REALISE THE DANGER YOU HAVE PUT HIM IN? YOU NEED TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW! BEFORE HE WAKES UP! GO!'

I get dressed very, very quickly, realising that Mycroft did have a point. I may have just signed John's death warrant. My clothes are all over the floor, mixed with Johns: I cannot find my underwear so I go without. John will never know.

I pull on my trench coat and open the door... but I can see John, who miraculously did not wake up. He looks peaceful and adorable (yes, I know I do not use that vocabulary but that was the only word to describe him) and I wonder if this is the last time I will ever see him. Before I can stop myself I run over and kiss him lightly on the lips. They are soft and smooth and warm and I never want to stop, but he begins to stir and I quickly run out of the flat and down the stairs. I pull up my collar and duck my head, blending with the crowd. I reach for my neck to tie my scarf, but there is nothing there.

Shit.

John's P.O.V

I reach out, my arm searching for the warm body I know to be there. I can remember last night very well, all of it, and I am so happy. Sherlock performed one more miracle. He is back.

I open my eyes, and he is gone. I listen for the shower but it is not on so I get up, frowning. The whole apartment is empty. I pad into the sitting room, looking for anything, even his clothes but they are all gone. Or where they not there in the first place?

Did you imagine it, John? Do you miss him so much you are having dreams like that?

No. I can remember it all. And I am very painful, especially down there.

Are you sure, John?

My concisence is asking some valid questions. Why would he leave if it had been real?

Immediately I am overcome with the pain, the grief that has been present since his death. I imagined it. Sherlock is gone and he cannot come back and now I am imagining him.

I slump down on the sofa. I cannot believe it. I want him back. I need him back.

Suddenly, something flung over his chair catches my eye. I slowly stand up and reach for it, curious. Lifting it up, I inspect it and realise what it is. My heart lifts again.

It's Sherlock's scarf. And there is no way it was there before I left the flat. My detective is alive. My detective has come back.

Hey! Hope you like it!

This is dedicated to my friend L. I hope it is good enough! I will try update later in the week but vote and comment!

-Jordanx