John's dreams were unpleasant. Not unpleasant in the sense that he was watching Sherlock throw himself off a building, but rather in the sense that they were full of nothingness and a sense of foreboding.

Sherlock had been with him for this long... and John knew that the hallucination was going to disintegrate soon.

It scared him.

The difference was, he knew it shouldn't. He had been alone this entire time; Sherlock was an imagination of his own mind. He had been alone, but he had been happy. Sort of. Through the sickness and the vomiting and the sobbing and the emotion... He had been with Sherlock, his best friend, and he had been... okay.

He didn't have to be alone, he realized. He had been thinking about the words that Sherlock had told him. That John could let his friends care for him... That they could share his pain... John doubted that anyone could understand what he was going through, and definitely not Sherlock, in the least, but... Maybe having his friends close would be... alright.

... Even if his one true friend was dead.

John blinked his eyes open, blearily looking towards the ceiling. He felt tired and sweaty. The latter was a good signal that his fever had finally broken... not that that was a particular worry of John's.

He was more worried about Sherlock.

Who wasn't there.

"Sherlock...?" John mumbled, sitting up.

The detective wasn't sitting in his room. In fact, it didn't seem like Sherlock had been here at all. John's room was entirely spotless- not including his own mess that had been collecting- and everything was where it had been before Sherlock had stopped by.

John's heart was racing as he threw the blankets away, stumbling out of his room. He walked into the hall, peering into the sitting room.

"Sherlock?"

There was no detective.

John swallowed back the urge to be sick, curling his hands into fists as the left one started to tremble.

No.

No, he was fine. He was fine, he didn't need Sherlock. He didn't. He didn't.

"John?"

John flinched. He whirled around, staring at Sherlock as the detective stopped in the doorway. There was snow collected on his coat and standing out against the darkness of his hair.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock strode across the room, placing his hand on John's forehead.

"Your fever's broken," Sherlock commented, sounding pleased. "Good to know. Do you want lunch? I've got some Italian here, if you're interested," he said, holding up a shopping bag that smelled like take-away.

John's stomach decided very much that, yes, it was interested, but John ignored his stomach's rumbling in favour of talking to hallucination-Sherlock.

"Where were you?" he murmured.

"As is obvious, John, I went out. You needed some shopping and I needed lunch. You'd be proud of how much I eat these days. I'll eat a meal everyday if I'm not busy, which is, sadly, not so often..."

"You've been not-busy for seven months, then?" John asked, taking the bag of take-away from Sherlock. "What have you been not-busy with...?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said. "It's so boring- John! The risotto's mine!"

John looked up at Sherlock as he opened the container of risotto. "Is it?"

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Have it your way. This figures, doesn't it?" he muttered, throwing himself onto John's sofa.

"There's still the other stuff you ordered," John muttered, finding silverware for himself. "Please eat... I really don't want to have to worry about that, too..."

"You don't have to worry about me. I take care of myself," Sherlock said absently, stretching out and kicking his shoes off.

"No, you don't..."

"Okay, yeah, I don't."

John looked across the room at Sherlock. The consulting detective looked back at him stoically before John offered a slight smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John didn't miss the ghost of a smile that passed Sherlock's lips as he looked away.

It was all so domestic, John realized, sitting here, eating take-away, Sherlock sprawled out across the couch with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. It was all so very nostalgic... and John smiled wistfully at the memories of Baker Street.

"I think I might call Lestrade," John said, after awhile of silently eating lunch. Sherlock had been silent by default, although John had the suspicion that he was tired.

However, the lanky detective looked at him critically when John mentioned calling the Inspector.

"Oh? What for?"

"Just to... well, I thought I might have him stop by. We could talk... or something."

"Sounds dull," Sherlock said, although John noted the sudden relief in Sherlock's eyes before he looked away again. "I'll leave you to your devices."

John put down his empty take-away container. "You're leaving, then...?" he asked, hesitantly. He didn't want to know the answer, but it was better to see Sherlock off, rather than the hallucination just vanishing one day. At least, this way, he got the chance to say goodbye. He hadn't even had that before. This was a blessing...

... or something like that.

"I must. I have an important meeting in Zurich in two days, and I absolutely cannot miss it."

"Right..." John's stomach was starting to tie itself in knots. Perhaps he shouldn't have had that take-away before he had this conversation with Sherlock. "When...?"

"This evening... if that suits?"

"I think so... I'll have Lestrade stop by afterwards, then, to..." John cleared his throat. "To keep me company."

Sherlock nodded absently. "Fine."

John paused again. "... I'm never going to see you again..." he murmured.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sherlock replied.

His tone made John think, once again, that he knew something that John didn't, but John realized he had often felt this way- like he was missing something obvious- and it was just a part of their relationship. He didn't question it.

"Right," he said simply, because he didn't know what else to say.

The day passed without any excitement. John barely dared to move, afraid that once he blinked too many times, Sherlock would be gone. But Sherlock, who had dozed off for a bit, stayed true to his word. He stayed all day.

It was around six that the butterflies came back, that John's hand started trembling again, that his eyes started to sting, but he forced it all away on the knowledge that he could have his goodbye this time. It would be fine. He would be fine.

"You should call Lestrade," Sherlock said, at some point.

John, hands shaking, obliged. It was an awkward conversation at best, and downright painful at worst. Lestrade agreed to stop by.

"He'll be here in ten minutes..." John murmured as he ended the call.

"Good." Sherlock stood, once again placing his hand against John's forehead. "Your fever seems to be staying away. Stay hydrated and continue taking paracetamol if you still have a headache, but don't take it just if you feel tired. Sleep remedies tiredness, not medication."

"I know," John said a bit irritably. He was a doctor and he didn't plan on becoming reliant on pain medication for depression... or whatever it was that he had been experiencing.

"Don't do this to yourself again, John. I don't want to have to bail you out every time you feel sad," Sherlock said seriously.

John laughed slightly. "Yeah, right... I'll try to remember that..."

"Good," Sherlock said again. He, unlike John, sounded serious.

John knew that he was. And he didn't want to make Sherlock worry. He really, really didn't. Even if Sherlock was dead... His ghost was probably worrying or something. John didn't know, but he still couldn't stand the thought.

Upsetting Sherlock was just about one of the worst things John thought he could do. After Sherlock had done for much for him, John couldn't imagine something more hateful than making him feel bad.

Even if he had jumped off a-

No. Do not think about that. That is the past.

Sherlock was watching him, his deductive, analytical gaze across his face. John tried to make his smile genuine, although he knew that he wasn't doing a great job at it.

"So, this is goodbye," John murmured.

"So it would seem..." Sherlock said, still watching him. "But it's a new beginning for you."

"... I know this is a hallucination. You just said something inspirational," John murmured.

Sherlock smirked. "Yeah, well..." He shrugged.

John suddenly found himself subject to a hug. From Sherlock Holmes.

He smiled sadly and returned the hug.

"I'll miss you... I already do," he whispered.

"I know. The sentiment is reciprocated." Sherlock paused. "I mean... I miss you, too..."

John sighed, stepping back. He had wanted his proper goodbye and now he had it and he didn't know what to say. Certainly not goodbye.

"You're alright, John. You're strong. You're a soldier. Don't let me down," Sherlock said.

"I wouldn't. I couldn't..."

"That's my blogger." Sherlock looked at his watch. "Lestrade will be here in one minute and twenty seven seconds. I'll leave you two to talk."

John nodded slightly, feeling a bit numb. He had to get past this, though. He had to, or he would never move on. If he didn't move on... Giving up on himself was giving up on Sherlock and he could not stop believing in his best friend. If he was the only person who did, he would just have to be the one person who did.

"Stay safe," Sherlock said, stepping around him to the door.

"Bye..." John murmured. "I- I-"

What was he supposed to say? I'll miss you? I miss you? I want you to stay? I need you, I care for you, I owe you, I-

"I know," Sherlock interrupted softly, offering a hesitant smile.

And he did. John knew that he did.

"Bye," he repeated.

Sherlock gave him one last smile before he had vanished out the door.

John didn't move, struggled to hold back tears, and forced himself to take deep breaths because he was a soldier and even though Sherlock said that soldiers cried...

He had to stop crying.

A knock on the door made him jump. Heart jumping to his throat, he wrenched the door open.

Lestrade was on the doorstep, eyebrows furrowed.

John sighed.

"Hey, John..." Lestrade greeted hesitantly, although he glanced to his right, looking towards the corner.

"Hi..." John murmured, following his gaze. "What are you looking at...?"

"I thought I just saw- nevermind." Lestrade offered a wan smile, looking back at John.

"Sherlock?" John supplied mindlessly. "Don't worry... I think I see him all the time, too... Do you want a drink?" he asked, looking from the street to Lestrade. "I've got take-away and just bought some scotch..."

"It sounds great, John."

John smiled hesitantly. "It sort of does... doesn't it?"

Because if it's one thing that John doesn't want to do, it's disappoint Sherlock. Whether or not he's dead or alive...

That's all for this story. Again, thanks a bunch to Storylover18 for the wonderful idea, even though I skewed a bit from the original idea and the fact that I said it was going to be a oneshot and... yeah. Hopefully, you've enjoyed it, well, at least, enjoyed the somewhat? happy ending. Thanks for all of your support.

I do not own Sherlock.

Thank you!