A/N: I hadn't planned on writing a second one of these, but here it is. This is a continuation of my other oneshot, "White Horse", but you don't have to read that to understand this. The song is "Come Wake Me Up" by Rascal Flatts. I own nothing.


I can usually drink you right off of my mind,

But I miss you tonight.

John usually avoided alcohol. With his history, he really didn't want to push his luck. Since Sherlock left, however, there was nothing else to distract his mind from thinking about how lonely he was or how boring his life was without his mad genius lover/flatmate.

I can normally push you right out of my heart,

But I'm too tired to fight.

He was tired of fighting, so tired. His heart had shattered when he opened the door and saw Sherlock preparing to leave. He tried to pick up the pieces and soldier on, but he was just too tired anymore.

Yeah the whole thing begins,

And I let you sink into my veins,

And I feel the pain like it's new.

He sometimes thought that it would have been better if they had never gotten together in the first place. But then, a memory will resurface; Sherlock, beautiful Sherlock, blushing shyly as he kissed John for the first time. The memory hurts, as do all the others, when he remembers. He should have never cheated, never went behind Sherlock's back. If he had just talked to him…

Everything that we were, everything that you said,

Everything that I did and I couldn't do,

Plays through, tonight.

He sees, every time he closes his eyes, Sherlock's face as he reveals that he knew about the affair. John tried to pass it off, pretend like it had been a onetime thing, but he could see that Sherlock knew it had been more than that. Sherlock had been so hurt, looked so lost. He should've never slept with Mary, sexuality crisis or no. He loved Sherlock, but he couldn't get his head around loving a man when he had exclusively dated women. If he had talked to Sherlock about that instead of trying to hide it…

Tonight your memory, burns like a fire;

With every one it grows higher and higher.

And I can't get over it; I just can't put out this love.

I just sit in these flames and pray that you'll come back;

Close my eyes tightly, hold on and hope that

I'm dreaming, come wake me up.

John had hoped that this was a nightmare many times. He hoped that he was just dreaming and he would wake up with Sherlock beside him, sleeping or doing something on his laptop. No matter what though, he never woke up, never saw his best friend and lover lying beside him, peaceful and relaxed, smiling that smile that never failed to warm his heart.

Turn the tv up loud just to drown out your voice,

But I can't forget it.

The first thing he did when he returned to the flat after work was to turn on the telly. He had moved out of Baker Street, unable to deal with the empty rooms. He began working longer shifts at the hospital, but it still left him with too much free time. Every time he entered his flat, he closed his eyes, hoping that Sherlock's voice would ring out against the stillness as he lay on the sofa, complaining that he was bored. That never happened, and he would hurry to turn on the telly, trying to forget the baritone voice he sometimes thought he couldn't live without.

Now I'm all out of ideas and baby,

I'm down to my last cigarette.

John had no idea what he could do to stop thinking of Sherlock. It had been months since Sherlock had left, but John couldn't stop thinking about him. Everything reminded him of the other man, even the scent of the cigarettes he had tried to quit smoking.

Yeah you're probably asleep,

Deep inside of your dreams,

While I'm sitting here crying and trying to see.

Yeah wherever you are, baby,

Now I'm sure you moved on and aren't thinking twice

About me and you, tonight.

Sherlock never slept as much as a normal person. He wouldn't have slept at all unless John dragged him to bed. Is he sleeping now? Is he curled up in his bed somewhere, sleeping peacefully and not sparing even a second's thought to John, who couldn't sleep without dreaming him? Did he ever think back to their time together, or had he deleted it already? John couldn't delete things like Sherlock could, and even if he could, he didn't think he would.

Tonight your memory, burns like a fire;

With every one it grows higher and higher.

And I can't get over it; I just can't put out this love.

I just sit in these flames and pray that you'll come back;

Close my eyes tightly, hold on and hope that I'm dreaming

I know that you're moving on, I know I should give you up;

But I keep hoping that you'll trip and fall back in love.

Time's not healing anything,

Baby this pain, is worse than it ever was.

John had imagined, so many times, what would happen if he ever saw Sherlock again. He would take walks throughout the city for that purpose, yet he never found the other man. He knew that Sherlock had more than likely moved on already and that he should do the same, but he couldn't. He wanted Sherlock to come back, to forgive him and give him another chance. Time apart hasn't helped. It was their anniversary, what would have been their anniversary if he hadn't ruined it, and it hurts more now than it did before.

I know that you can't hear me but baby,

I need you to save me tonight.

The gun, sitting in his desk drawer, hadn't been used since Sherlock's last case. The metal was cool in his hand as he picked it up, hefting the familiar weight. He picked up a bullet and put it in the chamber, watching the way the dim light made the barrel gleam. If ever there was a time he needed Sherlock, it was then. He couldn't stand to live without him anymore.

Tonight your memory, burns like a fire;

With every one it grows higher and higher.

And I can't get over it; I just can't put out this love.

I just sit in these flames and pray that you'll come back;

Close my eyes tightly, hold on and hope that

I'm dreaming, come wake me up.

The muzzle was cool as he pressed it against his skull. The safety was off, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. He closed his eyes, imaging Sherlock once more, and he could swear he heard the door opening. Someone was calling his name; Sherlock was calling his name. John smiled as his finger tightened on the trigger. He's dreaming, once again, but this time he won't have to wake up.

Oh I'm dreaming,

Come wake me up,

Oh, I'm dreaming.

Sherlock yanks the gun out of his hand before he could pull the trigger. John opens his eyes, blinking as the person in front of him doesn't go away. Sherlock, standing in front of him and holding the gun, was frowning.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Sherlock asked, furious.

"I…" John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off.

"I leave you, to get over you, and what do you do? You make that impossible."

John notes the bags under Sherlock's eyes, and notes that the younger man has lost some weight without John there to force food on him.

"I knew I never could forget you, but I thought that I could at least appear to have moved on. And then you decide to kill yourself! What were you thinking?"

"I missed you," John said, looking up into the pale blue eyes he had missed so much these past few months. "I couldn't live without you Sherlock. I was an idiot and I chased you away, and I couldn't stand knowing that I lost you because I was stupid."

Sherlock looked at him, eyes assessing and deducing everything. God, John had missed that look.

"It appears that we need to talk," Sherlock said at last, looking from the gun to his former lover.

John nodded, hoping that he didn't wake up from this dream.