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I had this dream once, but I suppose it was more of a nightmare. I remember it so clearly that I want to believe it was real. I remember walking into that room, his room, my eyes fixed on the only important thing. Sherlock. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, a mischievous smile on his face, sporting nothing but a black robe. I suddenly felt a pang of desire, moving towards him slowly, my eyes fixed on his. When I finally reached him, he didn't say anything. He pulled me down into a passionate kiss, our tongues battling each other as if fighting for power over the other. When he broke away, he grabbed my wrists and threw me down on the bed, pinning me against the sheets that smelled so strongly of him. I didn't struggle. I wanted it. I wanted him.
He nuzzled his face into my neck, his hot breath making me shiver as he kissed the sensitive skin. His hands found the hem of my shirt, tugging at it.
"John," he almost whined, licking his lips, "Please." I sat up, pulling it over my head hurriedly and throwing it across the room. He ran a finger along my collarbone, then down my sternum, all the way to my navel. Oh god, he's teasing me, I thought to myself, already feeling a thin film of sweat on my skin.
"Something the matter, John?" he asked softly, his fingers fiddling with the button on my trousers. Oh yeah, definitely teasing me.
"You're just… being you," I breathed, looking for the right thing to say. Sherlock smirked, his hands suddenly speeding up. Before I knew it, I was naked, and he was naked. His hands touched me all over, caressed me, my skin tingling whenever he grazed over it with his light touch. I closed my eyes at some point and when I opened them, he was gone.
Gone. Like he has been for so many months. I woke, cringing and feeling rather cold. I stared at the window, my eyes not really focusing on anything particular. I just stared out into the blackness of the night.
Mycroft called again, checking up on me. He gave me a stern talking to about not going to see that damned therapist. I didn't care about the therapist. She was an idiot who was so easy to spout off things about how my relationship with Sherlock was unhealthy. It was bullshit. I didn't want to hear it. Being with Sherlock was the happiest time of my entire life. I hardly doubt that qualifies as being unhealthy.
Whenever I get upset, I text Sherlock's number. If he is still alive, he probably gets them. He probably laughs at my desperation. It is rather pathetic. Mycroft said that his phone's been disconnected, but I don't believe that. I tried to call it once and got the voicemail, so the number is obviously still in service.
Sherlock, your brother is giving me shit again for not going to see the therapist. She's an idiot, anyway. You wouldn't like her. I'm a grown man. I can make choices for myself. Anyway, I miss you. Please come home soon.
The sending of a single text usually opened the floodgate of emotions. I found myself on more than one occasion curled up on the couch, crying into my knees as I punched a cushion in frustration. Sometimes, I just felt numb.
I slept in your bed again last night. It still smells just like you. God, I miss you, Sherlock. I miss you so much. Why don't you talk to me? I know you're there.
Sometimes these texts caused an insurmountable amount of anger to well up inside of me. Since Sherlock died, I've had to have my phone replaced three times because of throwing it. Mrs. Hudson said she wasn't going to go and get another one if I broke my current one, so I refrained from throwing it. Instead, I stomped around for a bit, punching a hole in the wall when there was no reply.
God damn it, Sherlock. Please. I just want to talk to you. Please.
There's no response and I start to cry. The vicious cycle continues. Near the end of my spell, I end up in the bathroom, retching from crying too hard. As I stare into the toilet bowl, I count the months it's been since his death. The one-year anniversary is coming up. I really don't want to think about it.
I had another dream like the one I told you about before, but this time, there were no interruptions. It was nice. I'm still waiting, Sherlock.
I sighed and texted Lestrade, wondering if he wanted to get dinner.
Can't. Busy with work. Will stop by later for takeaway? –Lestrade
How about Molly?
Oh, sorry, John, but I've got a date tonight! Hope you're doing okay! –Molly
Shit, I'd be happy to have dinner with Mrs. Hudson at this point, but she's gone, too. I end up not eating anything, because I don't feel like going to the grocery. Lestrade completely forgets about his promise to come over and I spend the night alone.
It's been a year and a half now. Sherlock still hasn't come back. I've stopped crying. Now I just feel hollow. Is he really dead? Maybe he found someone else. I'm waiting for a man who will never return for me.
Sherlock. I'm so tired of waiting. Please, just come home. Or at least give me some indication that you might return one day. For me. Please.
After an hour, there is no response. That settles it then. It's over between the two of us, whether he's alive or dead. It's time to move on.
Mycroft, I need you to check on John. –SH
Why? The last time I talked to him, he seemed fine. –Mycroft
He's not fine. He just sent me a horrible text. I almost responded. –SH
Don't, Sherlock. –Mycroft
I didn't… brother. So will you please check on John? Or tell Molly to do it. –SH
I don't have time. Maybe Molly can have breakfast with him or something. You know, get the poor bloke out of the house. –Mycroft
I'm worried about him. I miss him. –SH
I know you do, but it's too soon. –Mycroft
I know… -SH
I had breakfast with Molly. It was awkward, because Molly is awkward. She said that I seem depressed. That is probably due to the fact that I am depressed. I didn't mention the suicidal thoughts I've been having. I don't know how well that would have gone over with her or anyone else, for that matter.
When I get home, I pull the mobile from my pocket and text Sherlock.
Breakfast with Molly today. She seems to be doing well. I wish I knew how you were doing…
I delete the message, because it's not important anymore. Nothing is important anymore.
Mycroft, have you spoken to John? –SH
No, I haven't. Someone needs to go check on him. –Mycroft
… Mycroft, maybe it's time… -SH
It's not. Just be patient, alright? –Mycroft
John is depressed. What if he does something stupid? He's known to do some pretty stupid things. –SH
He knows better. –Mycroft
I'm going to see him. Now. –SH
Sherlock, don't. –Mycroft
Too late. –SH
How many of those pills did I take? I really can't remember. There is a noise downstairs. It sounds like Mrs. Hudson's come home. I call, but there is no answer. Perhaps she had guests. Then I hear footsteps. They're heavy footsteps, coming up the stairs. I can't move, though. I'm so tired and the medicine is starting to take effect. I lay on the couch motionless, waiting for the source of the noise to be revealed.
Before he even comes into view, I know exactly whom it is. Tears start to stream down my face. It's his scent. He smells like he always does, like fresh mint leaves.
"Sherlock, help me," I barely whisper, trying to sit up. He leans over the couch, his face coming into view. I can't help but start to sob violently, hiccupping from the force.
"John, what did you do?" Sherlock asked, peering at the bottle of pills on the table.
"I wanted to die… without you. Without you, there is nothing to live for." For the longest time, he stands there, just staring at me, before kneeling down and embracing me as tightly as he can.
"Come on, John. We're going to the hospital." I nod into his shoulder, my tears staining his shirt. He retracts for only a second, his eyes locked onto mine. He's crying too.
"I missed you," he sniffs, wiping the tears away.
"Welcome home, Sherlock," I manage to say before I fall unconscious.