“So, John,” Started the therapist, who John barely listened to, paying her for nearly only background noises as he got lost in his mind. “tell me what you saw tonight.”
“His eyes are always the weirdest part of him,” John said, tapping his fingers on his knee almost frantically.
“Tell me what you saw, John.” She said, leaning a little closer.
John didn't reply, simply looking out the window and staring, hypnotised.
“John.”
“He appeared in my bed again, above me.” John said, looking back over to the therapist. “He moved a hair from my eyes and smiled at me, and said he loved me. He's scary, his eyes are always black, and he always looks like he's fading away. But, I love him, although I wish he would leave.”
“Okay. Did he say anything else? What else did he do?” She asked, raising a brow.
“He told me he loved me, then started kissing me.” John said, remembering back to last night. He closed his eyes and put his face in his hand. Sherlock had come back to him every night since his death, and it was starting to make him question his sanity. “He played with my hair and cuddled me.”
“Anything bad?”
“No, not this time. He didn't touch me. He just cuddled with me. He was cold, but it was comfortable. He was being really nice. He loves me.”
The therapist continued to talk to John, until he decided he wanted to leave. He went back home and spent the rest of the day doing nothing.
When it was time for bed, John laid down and pulled up a blanket. After his talk with the therapist, he was almost excited to have Sherlock's visit.
John closed his eyes and fell asleep. He was woken up at midnight. Perfect. That's always when Sherlock visits.
John opened his eyes, he was met with the black, dead eyes of his lost lover. John smiled softly, looking at Sherlock's body. Today, he wasn't wearing a shirt. John leant up, attempting to kiss him, but Sherlock playfully pulled away.
“Aw, Sherlock,” John giggled and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. Silently, the spirit leant down and started kissing John's lips. The cold lips pressed softly against John's warm ones, but they mixed well.
John set his hands on Sherlock's ghostly waist, smiling softly. Sherlock purred and kissed John happily.
Sherlock laid down on John and kissed his lips. They started kissing passionately, rolling over each other and deepening their kisses.
When the clock ticked 12:59, Sherlock said he had to go. John smiled and kissed him sweetly. “Bye, Sherlock.”
“Bye, John.” That was the last thing Sherlock said, before it turned one and he disappeared.
John went back to sleep, feeling pleased.
Sherlock was sort of creepy. He was all dark, his eyes were the deepest black anyone could think of, he looked like he was fading and melting, and his eyes had tears stained under them.
But that didn't matter, because John knew he was dead. John knew he was going crazy, he knew Sherlock wasn't actually there-- or that he was there, and wanting John's comfort even after he was dead.
John woke up early in the morning and sat up. He got dressed, took a shower, did his regular routine. He walked into the kitchen and picked up a banana, since he's been too depressed to make breakfast, he just had a bunch of fruit there to eat.
He sat at his chair and ate, then stood back up and threw the peel away. He wished Sherlock was there.
John laid down on the couch and closed his eyes, daydreaming of his best friend, who had jumped off Bart's and ended his own life. John felt like he was the one to make him jump. He should've done more.
The relationship he has with his dead friend is a lot different than the one he had with the real one. The first day Sherlock visited him, John cried to Sherlock and kept saying he loved him. Now they were boyfriends, and Sherlock allowed him to do whatever he was comfortable with.
They never had sex, Sherlock was still quite anti-sex, but sometimes there was touching to go along with the kissing.
Most nights, they just laid there and cuddled, completely content to be there with each other, even if it was just for one hour.
John stretched out across the couch and closed his eyes. Sherlock was such a beautiful man, he had so much to live for, and he jumped because his reputation. John knew Sherlock didn't pay Moriarty. Moriarty just wanted to break him.
Sighing, John rolled onto his side. He wanted to be with Sherlock. He felt such a yearning inside him, he needed to be with Sherlock.
John smiled and stood up, stumbling to the desk. He opened the drawer and stared at the gun, picking it up.
“I love you, Sherlock!” John said, putting the gun to his chest and pulled the trigger.
And-- nothing. He felt nothing go through his body and kill him. John growled, realising there were no bullets. He picked up a knife instead. Mrs Hudson came in before he could slit his wrists and took the knife.
“John! Sherlock wouldn't want you to kill yourself.” She said, holding his arms tightly.
John felt like a child that was getting scolded by his mother, even though Mrs Hudson wasn't yelling at him. He started crying and he leant over, hugging her.
“Oh, John,” Mrs Hudson pat John's back. “You need to move on.” She hugged him, frowning. She could feel John's tears against her neck.
“I know… I loved him so much,” John pulled away from the hug and cried. “I wish he would come back.”
“Maybe one day, he will.” Mrs Hudson said, setting her hand on John's shoulder. She had no idea that one day, years from now, Sherlock would really come back.