I was desperate to write this, and I was pretty certain I wouldn't have got any sleep if I DIDN'T COMPLETE THE STORY DAMMIT

okay seriously i feel kind of proud of myself for finishing this, I never ever ever finish fanfictions

okay I'm finished now

okay I'm going to take a break now

okay I love you guys and thank you for liking my first ever story on this site, I feel so accomplished. :]


I feel odd. Really odd. I hear voices somewhere, but they're distant, muffled and inaudible. I think I hear Sherlock. I don't know. I don't know what I'm looking at either – it's like I'm in a swimming pool. I see a blue blur, and a little bob of blackness floating within it, which looks a lot like Sherlock's hair. I want to reach out and grab it but I can't move. I'm stiff. Nothing feels right. It's as if I've got anger, hate, lust, passion, envy, hurt, hope, happiness all packed into my mind, and I can't take it… it's too much for a dying man like me. Am I even dying? I don't know, again. I don't know anything. I feel so weak and stupid. The black figure has gone now, and all I can see is blue. So much blue it's starting to hurt my eyes.

Now… now I feel like I'm falling. Falling into nothing. Is that even possible? I'm sure it is. I've dreamt about it. Just those dreams where all of a sudden you're falling, and you wake up, panting for breath, expecting to have died, but you're perfectly fine. You're in the safety of your own home; nothing is happening to you, you're not dead. I'm not sure if I'm dreaming or not. It feels real, but at the same time it feels abnormal. I don't know how that makes sense, but it just does. It's just one of those things… those things you can't explain.

I've had a lot of those 'things' during my time with Sherlock.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

I can't remember how I got here. I can't remember anything. All I can remember is Sherlock. And Moriarty. Yes, there was Moriarty. Bloody Jim Moriarty. I don't know what he's done to me now, but I hate him. Yes, I do.

It's just me, a blue blur and the feeling of falling…

I'm tired. I want to sleep, just fall into endless unconsciousness and never wake up. Oh, that sound so good. I don't want to fall anymore. I want to stand still, I want to be where I was before, wherever that was, with Sherlock…

Sleep…

Sleep…

Sleep…


"John."

"Mmmphrr."

"John."

"Give it a bit more time, dear," the nurse said to Sherlock, patting him on the back encouragingly. "He'll wake up soon."

Sherlock wasn't sure whether to believe that or not. He'd been visiting John for the past few weeks in hospital, and whenever he tried to wake him up the only response he got was a groan. He'd heard the same comment from the same nurse over and over again and he was starting to lose hope now.

John was lucky. Really lucky. The bomb at 98 Sandbourne Road should have killed him dead, but when he was found he was hanging on for dear life, severely injured and so close to death. Sherlock had never been so hurt in his life – Moriarty had managed to escape yet again, leaving Sherlock in the most flustered state. The bombing had been reported very quickly to the Metropolitan police, and when they had arrived to find John dying, Sherlock felt like he had had his heart ripped out of his chest.

Sighing, Sherlock stood up, just about to leave before he heard his name being whispered. He turned to look at John, who was actually opening his eyes for the first time in weeks. He sat down again, the hope rushing back into him again.

"John."

John smiled. "'urts," he murmered. "'urts a lot."

Sherlock frowned, not sure what to say. That he was happy? No, that would sound stupid and soppy. "You could have died," he settled with, still unsure of the words.

"Yeah, but I 'i'nt." John cracked a smile, and for Sherlock it was hard to resist the urge to smile back. He was right – it didn't. Four weeks later John Watson was awake in the hospital, having a conversation with his flatmate Sherlock Holmes. He should've been dead. It was a miracle he was still alive. He hadn't died!

Yet.

Oh, shut up Sherlock.

There was still one thing stuck in his mind, however. He hadn't been able to get it out no matter how hard he tried, and he needed to ask before John fell back asleep again. Sherlock could tell he would, because his eyelids were started to flutter even though he was trying hard to keep them open.

"Why, though?" He asked. "Why did you do that?"

John's grin grew wider, even though it hurt. Everything hurt. "Because," he said, "I ain' impor'an'. You are."

There was a moment of silence between them and Sherlock had one of his very rare moments where he had no idea what to say in response. Not only had it flattered him – because it honestly, honestly had – but it had sort of made him… well, angry. Because John was important. He was Sherlock's flatmate, accomplice, friend, best friend even… Sherlock had no idea what he had done before John. He didn't even want to imagine it.

"Shut up, John," he said, interrupting the silence. "You are important." He looked away as he said it, feeling a little embarrassed.

Sherlock could hear John chuckling, and he shot him a sharp glance.

"No-one as impor'an' as Sherlock 'olmes."

Sherlock looked back to John, but he was already fast asleep.


1 month later

"Oh my God that man never listens," John murmured underneath his breath before exclaiming, "Shut up, Sherlock!"

It had been half an hour and Sherlock had been playing his violin non-stop, even after the constant "Okay, Sherlock, lovely performance, now can you stop!" exclamations from John.

As if he hadn't heard a word, he continued playing the same piece. John groaned, burying his head into his hands. It seemed like a miracle when Sherlock finally stopped.

"Thank goodness!" John exclaimed, and he heard the pitter patter of Sherlock's light feet approaching the sitting room.

"You know," Sherlock mused, putting his violin away, "just because you were blown up by Jim and magically managed to survive, I won't give up my violin for your head."

It was nice to know that things had pretty much turned back to normal after Jim Moriarty's reappearance. John still had to walk with a crutch just like the first time he met Sherlock, and his shoulder was as painful as ever, but other than that he had pretty much recovered in the hospital.

"Sometimes I wish I had never moved in with you," John commented, getting up.

"Milk," Sherlock said absentmindedly, browsing through his mobile.

"What?"

"Milk," he repeated. "We're out of milk."

Oh, the good old days, alright, John thought miserably as he sighed and made his way out of 221B Baker Street.