I do not own BBC Sherlock


"John." The therapist called, pulling me out of my reverie. I looked up slowly, my lips resting against my trembling knuckles. I knew my eyes where wide and my face ashen. I hadn't slept for days, large bags hanging under my eyes. My cheeks sunken in. I looked almost as terrible as I felt. Almost.

"You don't look well, is there something bothering you?" The woman asked, as if she was ignorant of my current situation. It was raining outside, like the sky was weeping for me. The dark overcast forced a shadow over London.

"You know why-" My throat closed, making it painful when the sentence cut off. It was the anniversary of Sherlock's death today, two years he had been dead. The thought caused me to wince and begin to shake, my leg throbbed in agony, the burn helped me slightly. I enjoyed the pain, I deserved it.

"Sherlock?" She asked gently, I flinched back from her as if she had hit me. Of course it was Sherlock, it was always Sherlock.

"I'm not depressed," I argued weakly when she scribbled it down. Annoyed, she tilted her leg up to block my view from the clip board.

"You're showing signs of depression. I told you, you need to come to visit me on a regular basis." She urged, but she sounded far away to me. I was thinking about the last two miserable years. I was almost completely gray now. My eyes where lifeless and I felt like I had aged fifty years in a matter of months. I went through the daily motions, getting up, showering, going to work. I still lived at the flat, unable to part with it. The thought of leaving the flat behind, Sherlock's home- our home, was unimaginable.

Every day was quiet. Every day was boring. Every day was the same.

I'm sure I was making it worse by not being sociable and not dating. But no longer did I have the life in me, the energy I possessed when I had been with Sherlock. It's like when he died, half of me had too.

"Did you know that in mythology humans originally had four arms, four legs, and a single head made of two faces?" I started slowly. Everyone was cautious with me now. I was a broken glass that had managed to be picked up and glued together, but some parts where missing and you could see the lines from where I had been broken. The therapist listened to my every word.

"Zeus feared their power and split them all in half, condemning them to spend their lives searching for the other half to complete them. That's how we came about the idea of soul mates." I explained, carefully peeking at the therapist and awaiting her judgement. I had been thinking about me and Sherlock's relationship for a long time. Almost every day I considered what I could have done. Or should have done.

"Do you believe that Sherlock was your soul mate?" The therapist asked gently. My lips began to tremble and I stare at my knees. Did I? Why had I told her such a silly story? I was making a fool of my self. Hot tears slipped down my cheek. I gave her a small nod, and she came across the room. She wrapped her arms around me and gave me hug. It was rather unprofessional and I was sure she could loose her job for it. But I clung to her like a I child.

"Mrs. Hudson." I called in a small voice. She looked up from the table and gave me a heartbroken smile.

"How was it, dear?" She asked, gingerly approaching me as if I was a wild animal that might spook if she was not careful.

"I feel a bit better." I lied, and she beamed. Her smile did help some, and we sat at the table eating biscuits and tea.

"Will you go to the grave, today?" She asked later in the evening. I glanced at the clock. I still had two hours until the cemetery closed. I shook my head.

"I can't." I rasped, feeling my heart clench. Every time I went, it renewed my hope. Made me believe that Sherlock would return. I needed to close the gaping, raw hole in my chest. I needed to sew it up and let it scar over. Not visiting Sherlock's grave on a weekly basis would have to be the start.

"That's fine, love. Why don't you go get some rest, you look tired." She said, patting my hands with her wrinkled ones. I gave her a hesitant smile before wobbling up the stairs. My cane felt heavy as it helped me with each step. Slowly I climbed up to my room, passing Sherlock's on the way.

I had only gone in twice since Sherlock's death. I'd curled up in a ball in the center of the large bed and cried the first night Sherlock had died, again on the last anniversary. But not this year, this year I would be strong. I opened the door a crack, peering in exactly as I had a thousand times before. The room still smelt faintly of Sherlock, beneath the chemicals. My eyes scanned the familiar bed, the closet, the periodic table.

My gaze dropped to the picture of us on the bedside. Lestrade had snapped it on his phone and given it to Sherlock for Christmas. In the picture Sherlock and I were on our first crime scene together, leaning in close together over the pink phone. I was in the mid speech while Sherlock was looking at me with soft wonderment. It was a look I had never seen directly, the picture was the only proof I had that he even cared. The picture had been meant to be a joke, and Sherlock had scoffed when he received it, but there it stood, sitting firmly on the side of the bed covered in a small layer of dust.

"Dust is eloquent." I found myself repeating with a small chuckle as I turned and hobbled up the stairs.

"John!" Sherlock called, his eyes frantic. Darkness all around them, swirling, coiling, shifting. Moriarty was laughing. I stiffened, I must be dreaming. My bleary eyes parted and Sherlock leaned over me, shaking my shoulders.

"John, wake up!" Sherlock demanded. I heaved in a deep breath, lurching forward. My forehead crashed against something hard, and I heard a groan matching mine.

"Ow!" Lestrade snapped, holding his head. He was wearing a large beige trench coat which suited his tan skin nicely.

"What are you doing in my room?" I demanded. Lestrade was one of the few people, if not only person I had kept up with. We had even had a drunken night of crying on each others shoulder that we had both pretended not to remember.

"There is something strange going on, a weird case. I need your help." Lestrade said, babbling on about how I needed to hurry and get dressed. I shooed him out of my room, quickly dressing and washing my face before following him out the door.

"I need coffee." I groaned, glancing at the clock. I had barely gotten six hours of sleep. Lestrade shivered against the cold as we hustled into his police car.

"We will get you some at the station." Lestrade promised, worrying his lip with his teeth.

Laid out on a table where a pair of retro trainers, a pink phone, and a bottle of yellow spray paint. I felt my throat seize as I stared at the objects. Donovan and Anderson where watching from another room, but the windows where glass, so privacy was a bit lacking.


"Someone broke into the station to place the phone here, which first caught our attention. Then the museum was hit, and the yellow spray paint was placed in the center of an art gallery. The retro trainers are the strangest, someone broke into a pool and set them down in there. Do you know what it means?" Lestrade asked. I was shaking. It was where we had first met Moriarty, at the pool. He had killed Carl Powers and taken his trainers. Sherlock and I hadn't exactly informed Lestrade about that little life altering event.

"Jim Moriarty, he- he killed Carl Powers and stole his shoes a long time ago. Sherlock cracked the case and they met in the pool, that's how it all began." I relayed, my eyes never straining from the objects.

"Okay ..." Lestrade said. A steadying hand rested on my shoulder and I felt myself calm.

"I need you to tell me what this means." Lestrade said slowly, once again careful not to shatter the already broken. I flushed when I realized I was gripping Lestrade's jacket and quickly released him. The image of me holding onto Sherlock's sleeve when we had been handcuffed came to mind.

"Look here." Lestrade said, catching my attention once more. On the spray paint can a sloppy 'I' was written on it in marker. The DI tapped the phone and the screen saver was an 'O'. Flipping over the trainers, carved into the rubber on the bottom of the soles was a curve. When placed together they fit as a 'U'.

"Can you make any sense of it?" Lestrade asked. My heartbeat was so strong I nearly missed his question. My blood rocketing through my veins. I couldn't hear, couldn't focus. I ran out of the room, my limp which had been persistent and strong over the last two years vanished. I flew down the stairs, not bothering with the elevator. Waving down a taxi, I knew exactly where to go. I knew who would be waiting.

Every step I took up to the roof of St. Bart's made me feel stronger. The energy pushed back into my body. My eyes sparking with life. Something, someone was here. Bursting open the doors I leapt into the sunlight, breathing hard.

"Sherlock?" I begged. The roof appeared empty as I spun around, blinking rapidly. Spots splattered over my vision. The cool, crisp air was fresh from the earlier rain.

"Sherlock!" I screamed so loudly that I doubled over, panting heavily. It bounced off the buildings surrounding me, echoing back in my own devastated voice. The sweat and tears mingled on my face, droplets sliding down my chin to land on the concrete. Dark gray spots staining it.

"Astounding how much steeper it appears from up here ... to jump I mean." Sherlock's voice was the softest flutter of a raven's wing against my ear. The deep, smooth tone which sounded like it was from another era was too perfect to be real. I fisted my hand into my jumper, right above my heart. The thumping was strong and rapid.

"Sherlock." I sobbed, unable to look up. It was a dream, it had to be. There was no way that this could possibly be real. I'd seen him in the flat before, memories that were so vivid they seemed real for a few moments. But this, I could feel him in front of me.

"John." He called my name, and I finally looked up. He was standing at the exact spot he had been when he jumped. His dark coat flapped in the wind, his hands tucked behind his back neatly. His blue scarf was tied around his throat and his hair was lightly being played with by the breeze.

He looked exactly the same, as if I'd been transported back in time. I stared at him a few moments and he gave me a small nervous smile before stepping down from the ledge. His leather shoes tapped against the ground, his long legs appearing before vanishing back beneath his coat. His eyes held so many emotions, I couldn't even begin to unravel them.

But it didn't matter, because the next moment I found myself swimming in a gray mist.

When I woke up I was in the flat, sitting in my chair. The collar of my shirt had been unbuttoned, and my lips tingled.

"I owe you a thousand apologies." Sherlock began, his eyes consuming me. I chocked down a sob, and trembled as his long, pale hands caressed my own. His fingers curled beneath my wrist, tracing my pulse lightly.

"I had no idea you would be so affected." Sherlock said solemnly, his eyes roving over my face and heaving chest. I gripped his arm, leaning up I allowed the whimper to spill from my numb lips.

"Is this a dream? Is it really you?" I asked him, even trusting the Sherlock in my dreams over myself. The pained look that flashed over his face was brief. His hand slide over mine, which was still tightly clutching at his broad shoulders.

"It's me. I'm back." He assured, his eyes never left mine. As if he was also unsure if I was real, as if I would slip away. I had been shattered, broken. Now it was as if Sherlock had come and sealed the glass giving it a pristine new look. I fumbled forward, pulling him into a hug which he hesitantly returned.

"I-I thought you'd died." I said into his neck. He stiffened, and his hand made small methodological circles on my back.

"I'm sorry." He said briskly, the circles stopped and he made a motion to retreat from my body but I held him tightly. I buried my face in his curls, my body racked with dry sobs.

"You'll leave again." I said, his hands held me loosely at the back.

"I won't." He promised, obviously uncomfortable by the emotions rushing from my body. I allowed him too pull back, but kept his hand in mine.

"Where-" I began, but seeing his face brought on a whole other onslaught of emotions. He sat back on his heels, kneeling before me in a dark suit.

"Traveling the world with Scarlett." He answered easily. I blinked in confusion, a woman? Sherlock had left me for ... a woman? Maybe this really was a dream. The sense of dread that filled my belly felt very real.

"Scarlett?" I choked, and he gave a terse nod.

"We've been on quite a few adventures. She is a fantastic traveling partner." Sherlock smiled, it was the greatest compliment I'd ever heard him giving someone, and it wasn't directed at me. I looked away, in shock. He'd been the center of my world, and here he was having the time of his life with a woman.

"Is she beautiful?" I found myself asking bitterly. Sherlock gave me an small annoyed look.

"Beauty should be the least important factor in a persons overall persona, but she is indeed stunning. Although I suppose youth is always favorable." So she was young and beautiful, and Sherlock acknowledged both. She must be something else. Then it suddenly hit me.

"She's here?" I gasped, reeling back. Sherlock scrunched his brow slightly.

"Of course. She is down stairs with Mrs. Hudson. Scarlett!" He yelled for good measure. It was silent downstairs before feet pattered up the stairway. Anxiety filled me as I waited. Then she appeared and my eyes widened. Auburn curls where half pinned back from pale skin and clever eyes. Thick lips where curled up in a tiny smile which drew attention to the cheekbones which where hidden behind childish roundness. She was simply the most gorgeous creature I'd had ever seen. Oh god.

"Yes, Daddy?" The little girl asked, her accent french. I felt my eyes bulge as Sherlock waved her over. She came closer to me, and I could see even more how doll like her features where. Thick black lashes framed her green-blue eyes. She had a tiny elegant chin, and slender eyebrows. Such delicate features she possessed that they appeared to be painted on by the brush of an artist.

"John, my daughter, Scarlett." Sherlock introduced easily.

"I don't understand." I said slowly. Was this some kind of joke? Maybe I was in a coma? Dead maybe? This was some kind of alternate universe where Sherlock was a domestic husband and I was a strung out detective.

"We will discuss the details later. For now you should get some rest. I need to set up my homeless network again, as well as get Lestrade to find me more cases." Sherlock said, the little girl came to his side. She stood as close to possible to him as she could, without actually touching him. When he moved to stand up, she slide away, able to avoid his jerky and sudden movements with practiced ease. She was used to being forgotten, she was used to him ignoring her.

"How old are you, Scarlett?" I found myself asking. She looked up, obviously shocked from being asked such a normal question. How much time had she been spending with her strange father?

"Four, monsieur." She said, peeking up at me from eyelashes that resembled feathers. Her eyes darted to Sherlock who was pulling his microscope down from the top of the shelf.

"You where raised in France?" I asked, inspecting her clothes I saw she was wearing a ratty dress, and her hair desperately needed to be washed. Had Sherlock been properly caring for her? Last I remembered he could hardly remember to feed himself on a regular basis.

"Yes. Daddy and I lived there." She said, coming closer tentatively. I suddenly felt angry at Sherlock, this child might not have intentionally been neglected, but she was still obviously not given enough affection. I smiled warmly at her and she beamed back, becoming excited at the attention she was receiving.

"Aren't you going to start school soon?" I asked, she stood closer to me. Her hand rested on my knee curiously, to see if I would brush her away, when I didn't she looked overwhelmed.

"Oui! I mean-yes. You're name is John, no?" She asked, she clamored into my lap. I laughed and patted her head. Soft curls tickled my palm.

"Yes, my name is John." I said gently and she giggled. She perched on my thigh, gripping my jumper sleeve. Her legs swung freely as she began to talk rapidly, switching from French to English so quickly I couldn't understand her.

"Mycroft insists on sending her to one of the insanely expensive boarding schools when she is of age. Probably wants her to take over the family business of world domination." Sherlock muttered to himself. I looked around the room. Already the neat house I had kept was in a disarray. Sherlock had his and Scarlett's suitcase flipped open by the door. His jacket was flung on his chair, and Scarlett's was on the floor. A stack of papers where spread out on the table and he was rebuilding his lab in the kitchen. I found myself laughing, the warmth of the child chatting in my ear and Sherlock softly cursing to himself was swelling within me. This was life, this was happiness.

"Monsieur?" The little girl asked, her pudgy little hands pawing at my face. I saw that I was crying, again. I laughed, sniffing as Sherlock appeared before me. The closest emotion he would allow to actual worry was on his face.

"I'm fine," I assured their identical anxious eyes. I laughed, covering my face.

"I've just- I'm so very happy." I chuckled. The girl began to mewl at me like I was a baby, cooing me with gentle words. Sherlock returned to his lab.