A/N - Please note, that this is my first Sherlock FF, so please, do not judge too harshly!

also, this is based on a dream i had, so it may get weird at times

I do not own Sherlock, if i did i would be Stephen Moffat and/or Mark Gatiss and be sooo cool!

Ghost of you

After a long difficult case with Lestrade, John and Sherlock were finally on their way back from Scotland yard and the case was behind them. Both of them needed sleep, but Sherlock was still amped up on adrenaline so he felt fine, despite the fact that he had just spent 72 hours on the go non-stop looking for the most recent serial killer. John told the cab driver to let them out at the market a few blocks from their apartment. They could restock their fridge a bit, and hopefully the walk home would finally get the adrenaline out of Sherlock's system.

They left the market a few minutes later with a few necessities, mostly just to get them until the next day when they could really go shopping, and Sherlock didn't seem to be slowing down at all. On the way home Sherlock pulled John into an alleyway and kissed him passionately. John, caught up in the moment, did not resist. However, as his senses caught up with him, he pushed Sherlock off of him. "Sherlock!" he said mildly annoyed, "I have not slept properly in three days, and YOU haven't slept AT ALL in that period. Do you think we could take a rain check until we get some rest?"

"But John," Sherlock replied, slightly childishly, "I need you WAY more than I need sleep" John chuckled and blushed slightly, but he stood his ground and grabbed his friend's shoulder and turned him, pushing him towards the street.

"Sherlock Holmes?" said a baritone voice deep in the shadows.

"What is it?" Sherlock answered slightly briskly, turning towards the voice.

A vaguely familiar man stepped out of the shadows. "Do you remember me?" He asked harshly.

"Should I?" responded Sherlock lightly.

John looked at the man carefully. His hands were in his pockets of a tan trench coat. The coat was open and he could see an old frayed suit underneath. "Sherlock," John whispered urgently, "He has a gun"

Sherlock gave him a nod and a look that clearly said 'of course I know that'. His hand in his pocket showed him texting someone their address and to hurry.

"You ruined my life," said the man, still approaching.

"I have ruined many lives," Sherlock said blithely. "You seem to be pretty run of the mill to me, caught cheating, probably with the wife of your company president, lost your job, and your wife left with your kids. Does that sum you up?" a fleeting look on the man's face affirmed Sherlock's theory. "Then I didn't ruin your life, you did. You shouldn't have cheated, at least with the wife of the president, and everything would have been ok."

The salary man's face burned red with anger. "No one knew, no one would ever have known if YOU didn't butt in. You said that every detail was important to the case at my company, but me and Lisa weren't even relevant!"

"So what are you going to do? You don't have the guts to shoot me." John was shocked at how calm Sherlock seemed. He reached in his own pockets for his gun, when he remembered that he was out of bullets. Sherlock had used it for some stupid experiment in the last case they were working and had used all the ammo.

"Someone needs to get rid of you" the man said, pulling out his gun and stopping where he was, about 50 feet from Sherlock and John.

"Stop right there," John said, pulling out his own gun. "Drop your gun if you don't want to be shot where you stand,"

"Please shoot me." The man said, not lowering his gun. "I am too much of a coward to do it myself, and my life is ruined." John pulled the trigger, but as he suspected, there were no bullets left, and nothing happened. Sherlock took John's arm and pulled him behind him.

"I still don't believe you can pull the trigger, let alone hit me," Sherlock said with unnerving confidence.

The man's face reddened once more and he muttered, "That's where you're wrong!"

Sherlock closed his eyes, ready for the searing impact of the bullet, but instead he felt himself being pushed to the side, making him fall to the ground. He felt warm blood on him, but in mentally scanning his body parts, he could locate no wound. He opened his eyes and saw the limp form of John Watson on top of him. "John. John!" Sherlock pulled John off of him and examined the wound. As he did so he let out a sigh of relief as he heard sirens in the distance.

John's eyes fluttered open, and with effort, he touched Sherlock's cheek, pulling him out of his concentration. "Good, you're ok" he wheezed. His eyes closed again. "I love you, Sherlock,"

Sherlock didn't know what to do, or say. He choked on his emotion, forcing himself to repress it. He couldn't deal with it. Not yet. Sherlock peeled open John's coat and opened his shirt, trying hard to be as gentle as he could. He could hear John's wheezing breath catch every time he got close to the wound. Sherlock's stomach sank as he saw the placement of the bullet wound. It was just below the ribcage, centered and straight through his upper stomach. Chances of survival were small if the bullet went straight through. However, since Sherlock never felt it, he concluded that it hit John's spine and got lodged. Surviving that was much less likely, not to mention, on the low chance he survives he would probably be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

He barely noticed the legs of policemen running around him surveying the area. A yell from back down the street confirmed the arrest of the shooter. And yet, all Sherlock saw was the small wound in his friend's chest that had just condemned him for life. He took of his own scarf and used it to apply pressure to the wound. Suddenly, Lestrade was there. "Sherlock, what happened?" He asked seeing John on the ground and Sherlock covered in blood.

"That bullet was supposed to be mine." Sherlock said, so quietly that Lestrade nearly missed it. "Why did you save me?" Tears were on the verge of overflowing. John coughed weakly. Sherlock shook his head, trying to contain himself. It seemed as though he hadn't even noticed that Lestrade had arrived on the scene. The D.I. went up and touched Sherlock gently on the shoulder. The younger man jumped in alarm, which was odd, because Sherlock always knew what was going on around him. No one could ever, ever, surprise him, not to mention Lestrade had even called out to him.

"You sent me a text, remember?" Sherlock closed his eyes and started to recite his view on the man they met in the alley in a complete monotone.

"Mid to late forties, judging by his hair, been job hunting for a good while, from the state of his suit. Wife left him, took the kids, mistress also left him. Lives alone, probably in a cheap motel. We investigated his previous company for embezzlement, his affair with the president's daughter came out. He thinks I ruined his life, so in revenge he was going to murder me and then commit suicide. That's why there are only two bullets in the gun." Sherlock tried to keep pressure on the wound, but his hands were shaking. He stared down at them absently. That was odd, he had been in situations just as bad and he had been fine. Why then, do they start….

Lestrade trampled in the way of his thought. "You are right, even down to the two bullets in the gun." Sherlock hadn't even noticed the DI leave his side, let alone come back. What was wrong with him? The paramedics arrived a moment later.

"What do we have here?" one of the EMTs asked as she gently removed Sherlock's hands from the scarf, and then the scarf itself. She looked to someone behind her, and two colleagues came up one with bandages and the other a breathing tube.

"Dr. John Watson," Lestrade said, stepping back to let the medical team completely swarm Sherlock and John.

"Single .22 caliber bullet, fired close range. Entry point is below the ribs, no exit point, I am almost certain there is a bilateral diaphragmatic rupture and spinal damage are almost certainly affected, possible nick to the right lung. He passed out from shock exactly two minutes and forty five seconds ago, he is displaying dyspnea." The paramedic was now carefully easing a hard board between Sherlock's legs and John. She and some others slowly lay the stiff board on the gurney next to them. As soon as John was strapped in, had an IV and breathing tube working, the paramedics gathered everything in the ambulance and rushed off to the nearest hospital. Sherlock sat there, unmoving, as his best friend was swallowed up and borne away, possibly to die, without him.

Sherlock awoke just as dazed and confused as he had been in the dream he had been having. It was one he had many times before, a memory haunting him night after night. He sat up and looked around John's room, trying to piece together the night before. He had been at the bar; he remembered that, he just couldn't remember whom he had been with. Or why he had been so desperate to get so drunk he passed out before getting undressed.

There was a sharp tap-tap on the door and Mrs. Hudson came in. "get up!" she said crossly. "What would John think if he saw you here, in bed, after noon?" She threw a black suit, crisp white shirt, and black tie onto the bed. "Get dressed," she said shortly before leaving the room, slamming the door behind her.

Sherlock sighed and reached back for the nightstand. His fingers closed around the thin orange bottle that was set there. He took two of the pills inside and swallowed them without water and slowly started to get dressed. By the time he had finished getting dressed the amphetamines had started to kick in, and he was finally able to think clearly again. He hated the cloudy feeling he had to endure ever since that night. Sherlock went downstairs and met Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, also both in black, waiting by the door.

"Christ, Sherlock, you look almost as bad as when I left you here last night" said Greg, astonished. "Your energy seems normal enough though," He said as Sherlock glowered at him. Well, one mystery solved, thought the detective. "C'mon, this afternoon is just us three, Donovan and Anderson went this morning." He led the way to his car in front of the apartment.

"Well, its not a scheduled event, unlike last time," Mrs. Hudson said, wiping a tear from her eye. "I can't believe a year has passed already." She blew her nose on a tissue she pulled from her sleeve and opened the back door of the car. Sherlock grumbled as he opened the passenger side door and also got into the car. He wasn't a fan of driving with the DI, but at least they weren't in a patrol car. The blue eyes stared out the window as they drove. He was bored again. He needed a case. Since the amphetamines gave him his old energy back, he needed something to occupy his mind. He had already figured out the two questions he had woken up with, now what?

Lestrade stopped in the parking lot of a large cathedral and everyone got out. Lestrade pulled a large bouquet of flowers from beside Mrs. Hudson. "Its from all of us," he said with a shrug as Sherlock looked at it with a smirk. They bypassed the large church and entered the graveyard. The trio passed column after column before they turned automatically and started walking farther away from the cathedral, they passed row after row of graves without even checking the names. Finally Sherlock stopped at a modest sandstone headstone with a large blossoming sycamore tree next to it. Lestrade laid the flowers next to the headstone along side the few other flowers that had been resting there. Sherlock noticed small stones placed on the base of the headstone along with the remains of small candles.

Sherlock kneeled down and ran his fingers over the name.

John Hamish Watson

A/N - THIS IS NOT THE END! there will be more, dont worry.