I plug in my headphones to drown out the noise.

The pounding of feet,
The screams of pain,
The booms of the cannon,
The sound of arms.

I put on my headphones to drown out the terror.

A shot in the distance,
The tearing of skin,
A strangled scream,
Blood, large amounts of blood.

I put on my headphones to drown out the quiet.

Glaring lights,
Hands tugging, pulling, prodding,
Large amounts of medication administered,
The hazy beat of a monitor.

I put on my headphones to quell the nightmares.

Alone,
Weak,
Afraid,
Lost.

—

It's been two years, seven months, thirteen days, sixteen hours, forty-two minutes and four seconds since Sherlock Holmes has been dead.

John doesn't understand why he's counting, or how it's possible that he can remember all this in his muddled mind, but he does, without ever being truly aware he's doing it until he stops and realises he is. But even with all this counting, John knows that it won't change anything. Sherlock is dead, whether it's been two years, or only five seconds. Sherlock is dead.

He stares unblinking in his bed, the soft tick of the wall clock being the only noise present in the dark room at the moment. A bead of sweat has formed near the corner of his left brow and he's very aware of how chapped his lips are as he runs his tongue over them. Another sound register's in his mind after awhile; a sort of pa rum pum pum pum noise. He can't put his finger on it, but it's familiar. He later recongises it as his heartbeat.

His eyes sting, but he isn't sure if it's because he's tired, or if it's because there are tears behind them, threatening to fall. When his breath comes out in soft wheezes, he knows that it is the latter. He shuts his eyes tight, willing the tears to go away, but he is unsuccessful. The tears come out without his consent, rolling down his face onto the pillow below. John turns on his side, buries his face in the white cloth below and sobs openly, the sounds muffled against the mattress. God forbid he wakes up Mrs. Hudson again with his wails. The lady is old enough; she doesn't need to lose more sleep over him.

The bed smells distinctly of him.

John knows its wrong, maybe even borders of creepy, but he can't help himself from sleeping in the old room of his deceased flatmate. Everything smells like the detective and the old soldier clings to that scent, that last remaining piece of his friend. Even the blue bathrobe he's wearing, the one that hangs limply on his body, much too big for him, was once his.

"Stop it John. You're a grown man! You're much too old for these childish behaviors," he scolds himself. It doesn't stop him from breaking into a rather loud sob. He only hopes his landlady hasn't heard it. He turns over onto his other side, reaching with shaky fingers for the lighter on the bedside table. He clutches it tightly, wondering curiously what Sherlock once used it for. Most likely when he smoked, but possibly on occasions when he did one of his strange experiments. He may just have used it to light stuff on fire when he was "Bored". A quick glance at the charred edge of the table confirms this fact.

He opens the draw, reaches in, and pulls out a pack of dunhill cigarettes. John has never smoked before, but since the death of his housemate, the older man has taken up the nasty habit. It calms him for a short while, eases the pain away, makes him forget all about the consulting detective, the fall, and the consulting criminal who pushed his companion to his death.

He places a stick in his mouth, flicks on the lighter, and brings the glowing flame to the tip of the fag, inhaling deeply. Already his body begins to loosen and John relaxes against the bed. When he can smell the other man and his body tenses, he takes another deep drag. He can finally understand why Sherlock enjoys this stuff. A part of him believes that if he continues to smoke, Sherlock will burst through the door and start sniffing John like a bloodhound. This makes him smile lazily.

He lays back onto the bed, his legs hanging over the edge, his feet planted squarely on the carpeted floor below. Another drag. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat.

He closes his eye, his mind a foggy blur, the lingering smell of Sherlock and smoke combining together into one deadly, intoxicating sensation. Eventually he comes to the end of his rope, the fag no more than a butt now. He extinguishes the rest of the cigarette in the ashtray; the same one that Sherlock stole from Buckingham Palace, the one he stole for John. A tight feeling wells up inside him and John curls into fetal position to stop the cramps coiling in his insides. Usually a smoke helps, but most often, once he finishes, the same pain he feels before has returned with a vengeance. He gnaws his bottom lip, breaking the skin as he rocks back and forth in a frivolous attempt to quell his twisted innards. It doesn't help. It never has.

He grabs hold of the sheets and throws them over his body, wrapping himself in a cocoon of white. He labours his breathing, trying to pull himself into slumber. He knows what he'll find when he closes his eyes, when he pulls himself into unconsciousness, but he can't stand being conscious right now. He doesn't know what's worse, but in this moment, he'll take the nightmares over reality. Thanks to his earlier smoke, he has little trouble falling asleep, but he still has to endure the pain for a few more minutes.

—

Falling,

Endless falling.

Always falling,

Never stopping.

This dream isn't uncommon for John. In fact, he's been having this same dream for two years now. Each time he dreams it, the height at which he watches his companion fall, becomes greater than before. The only thing that never changes about the dream, is the person falling, and the feeling of terror as he watches the figure plummeting to the earth below. He always wakes before the impact, the name of the detective dying on his lips.

Again, he is witnessing the same scene. Watching the moment as Sherlock steps up to the ledge, the cell phone cradled close to his ear. Sherlock lifts his arms to the sky, and leans forward, gravity taking its initiative. John screams out his name, but it is moot point, because his words can not stop his friend from falling. His voice can not cushion the blow. He knows this already, but still the veteran tries.

The body falls, but there is no flailing, as though Sherlock is already aware of what is going to happen next. John wants to close his eyes, attempts to even, but his eyes are glued to the picture, looking intently as he would at his favorite program on the telly.

Suddenly something shifts in the air. Something is different, and John can feel it. The body is still falling, that is not different, but now there is a faint noise in the air. It is soft, quiet, and John would mistake it for the wind, but in everyone of these dreams he has never heard or felt the wind before. It takes the soldier to finally realise the cause of this new noise is music.

A feeling of dread fills him. Before he had this nightmare, his dreams were consumed by the war. The sound of shots, the screams, all those noises that brought death and sadness to his sub-conscious. But the noise that always registered in John's mind, the noise that always told the ex-army doctor what was to come, was the sound of a drum. When he would hear the beat of that drum; that angry, pounding thump vibrating off his head, he knew that he was about to relive the war again.

Was it possible that he was about to enter the war again? Would his falling companion suddenly turn into the battlefield of Afghanistan? Would this falling figure suddenly become a part of the war? Would he have to watch Sherlock die in another way?

Fear eats away at John, his eyes wide. He tries to wake himself, but he knows he won't achieve his goal. Once the nightmare starts, it will not stop until John is screaming with mercy.

The music grows louder, and John prepares for the sounds of the drum. But it doesn't come. The music that is building, is not angry or pounding. The music is soft, slow, melancholy. It does not thump; in fact, John can't describe what the sound makes. He only knows that it sounds distinctly familiar.

The music increases with each second, becoming louder and louder, until it is practically wailing, but not in a bad sense. The music is soothing, almost like a lullaby. The vibrations of the instrument, whatever it may be, tingle along the skin of the army doctor. John feels a wave of security and calm spread through his body, until even his fingertips are shaking from the tones.

The next thing to shift in John's mind, is the setting. John blinks and finds himself no longer outside, staring up at hospital rooftops, but in his flat, sitting on the couch. He wonders if he has woken up, but he can still hear the slightly far away sound of an instrument playing. Besides, he remembers clearly that he had fallen asleep in Sherlock's room. Sherlock...

John flips around, toward the chair that he knows that his companion once sat. And sitting there, knees to his chest, his violin in one hand, his bow in the other, sits the one and only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

The doctor blinks repeatedly, rubbing vigorously at his eyes. But every time he looks up, Sherlock is sitting there, playing his violin without a care in the world. The music had sounded familiar, and now John knew why it had been so familiar to him. Yet, the violin still sounds distant and the older male knows that he is still dreaming, because it's impossible for Sherlock to be alive.

"Sherlock," he croaks, his voice faltering.

Sherlock continues to play, but turns his head to look at John, a smile gracing his face. The blond takes a tentative step forward, pushing himself up from the couch. He shuffles toward the brunette, quietly.

"Sherlock, is it you? Is it really you? What am I saying, of course it's not, you're dead. You can't be alive...can you? No, this is most definitely a dream, and a very not good one either," John mumbles quietly to himself, shaking his head furiously. He glances back up at Sherlock, who is still playing the violin, his pale blue-gray eyes transfixed on him. How John missed those eyes.

"Sherlock, why did you die? Why did you leave me?"

There is no answer.

"Why did you go? Why did you do it?"

No answer.

"Why couldn't you have taken me with you, at the very least!" John sobs, his eyes welling with tears again. He curses himself for becoming so frail over the course of the years.

There is a response this time. Those pale eyes widen, those thin lips tighten. Sherlock stops strumming his violin, though the music continues to play in the background. He places the instrument on the ground, stands, and then, without a word, wraps his arms around the shorter man and pulls him close. His long, spindly fingers run through the other's straw coloured locks, gently massaging the other's scalp.

The emotions he had tried to restrain; the anger, the hurt, the pain, the joy, the hope, all those feelings that had built up inside, finally break loose. He clings to Sherlock, his hands gripping the taller man's jacket tightly, afraid that if he lets go, Sherlock will disappear. He knows already that he will disappear, because he knows that he is dreaming. Still, the hand in his hair, the jacket he's holding, it feels real. It all feels too real.

"I wanted to come with you. I wanted to follow you. Why couldn't you let me?"

"...John, no more. Don't say anything else."

"No! It hurts. I've been hurting for two years, seven months, thirteen days, seventeen hours, thirty-six minutes and nineteen seconds. I've been alone for all that time, always hoping you would come back."

"Just rest John. Just rest."

The world around him begins to fade, the walls and furniture turning to black. He knows that he is going to fall into a dreamless sleep soon. He doesn't want that though.

"No you can't go yet. I don't want you to go again. Stay, please. This is the happiest I've been in a long time. Please stay," he whimpers.

"Not yet. I haven't finished what I started yet. I can't stay. Just sleep John, just sleep."

"Please let me come with you...please Sherlock...I...I lo-"

"Don't stop believing John, Don't stop believing in me. I'll be home soon, I promise. Just sleep..."

The rest of John's words die away as he slips into a dreamless state of consciousness.

—

"Please...Don't go...Don't go...Sherlock..." John mumbles, twisting further into his sheets.

On the edge of the bed, Sherlock sits, one hand petting John's head, the other playing his violin softly. The window to his room is open, where he snuck in. His usually cold and calculating eyes are warm and misty. His hard and indifferent face, is tired and worn, but it has a tender expression that he doesn't show for anyone except his doctor. John's hand is gripping his coat tightly and Sherlock can't bring himself to pry the other's hand off him.

It has been two years, seven months, thirteen days, seventeen hours, forty-six minutes and fifty-three seconds since his supposed death. It has been two years, seven months, thirteen days, seventeen hours, forty-six minutes and fifty-three seconds since he'd been on the lam, tracking down Moriarty's assassins, and terminating them. He's had to leave his old life behind and, more importantly, he's had to leave John behind. He's been counting, and he's rather surprised, and impressed that John has been too, even though he's a couple seconds off.

He knows he can't stay long, but having been watching the other, he couldn't leave the soldier to wallow in another one of his nightmares. Mycroft has been kind enough to let Sherlock use his surveillance to keep an eye on John, though his brother would be furious to know that he might be endangering John by being here. Still, he can't bring himself to care. He needed to make sure the other was alright, and he wasn't going to stand around, doing nothing, listening to John cry his name out in his sleep again. He wasn't going to watch John shake with fear another moment longer. He had to do something, his brother be damned.

But now he is overstaying his welcome and he has to get going. He gently pries John's fingers from him, runs one hand down the other's cheek, catching a stray tear, and leans forward to press a barely-there kiss to the other's temple. He stands and moves toward the window, stopping to take one more fleeting glance at John.

One more year John. I swear to you I will be home in one more year. Just wait a little longer.

Then he is gone, the window shutting closed behind him. And sitting on the bed, is his violin and bow, laying perfectly silent all the way through the night, only to be found the next morning, by one, hopeful, Doctor John Watson.