She lay beside him, her fingers smoothing sandy blond hair that was graying much too fast. Her fingertips then lightly traced his cheekbone and jaw line, drawing from him an inarticulate sound. She placed a single finger gently on his lips.
"Shush, love. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep."
Instinctively, he pulled her to him. She put her head on his chest, his heartbeat already slowing.
Before they first lay together, he'd warned her about the dreams that took him back in time to darker places and taught her how to safely awaken him from his terrors.
She thought she understood, but the first time, like the first time she'd seen the scar on his shoulder, had surprised her. She'd never forget the look of mingled pain, shame and fear on his face. She'd soothed him then as she did now and all those other nights in between.
Occasionally, it was Afghanistan that tormented him, but more often a single man in a great black coat who fell to earth.
What had Sherlock been thinking? Keep your eyes fixed on me. Will you do this for me? This phone call, it's my note.
Just as well Sherlock was dead for if he were to magically reappear, she'd give him a piece of her mind for the agony he'd caused her beloved.