Chapter 1-Dreams
In the darkened interior of his upstairs bedroom, John Watson's eyes flew open. Sweat was pouring profusely down his face, as well as his chest under his nightshirt. He rolled over to look at his alarm clock. 3:30 am. He'd had worse. Lately, he hadn't been able to sleep past three or four. Nevertheless, he continued to lie in his bed, drawing what meager comfort he could from its warmth as he contemplated the dream that had woken him up.
It was the same dream as always. Before he had met Sherlock Holmes, his dreams had been of war and violence, the endless sound of bullets as they ricocheted off buildings, the screams of the men unlucky enough to be hit by them. The sound of bombs going off, throwing trucks filled with screaming men in every direction. The smell and taste of blood in the air as he wondered for the thousandth time whether each breath would be his last.
Now, however, now that Sherlock Holmes was gone, his dreams were filled with his friend's face, with memories from that short, glorious time he had been allowed to share his existence with this man. Mostly his dreams focused on the last times he had seen Sherlock. In the lab, when he had said those angry words to Sherlock—Friends protect people. He hadn't looked back at Sherlock, but he could imagine the impassive look that would have dominated his friend's face, his surprise betrayed only by a slight flicker in his ever-changing eyes. That was the last time they had spoken face to face, the last time both of their hearts had been beating in the same room. The anger that had coursed through John when Sherlock refused to come with him to the dying Mrs. Hudson's side! But of course, Mrs. Hudson hadn't been dying. And there was the crux of the matter. With every fiber of his being, John wished that he had never left Sherlock alone, never given him the opportunity to do the terrible thing he had done.
By the time John got back to the hospital, it had been too late. That bastard, Jim Moriarty had gotten into Sherlock's head, convinced him that he had to kill himself. It was more than that, John knew. John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would all have died if Sherlock hadn't, but John would gladly have given his life in exchange for Sherlock's. He always had, and always would consider Sherlock's life to be more valuable than his own, an emotional response that he knew his companion would scoff at, but which he stood by.
The feeling of his stomach dropping and his heart sinking when he followed Sherlock's instructions, looked up, and saw him ready to jump off St. Bart's Hospital. He could barely make out the detectives face it was so far away, but he had seen the small smile that he, John, had elicited with his staunch belief in Sherlock and his abilities. "Nobody could be that clever," Sherlock had said, and without drawing a breath, without even thinking, his instinctual response. "You could." The smile, the broken laugh, made more broken by the distortion of the phone. But John had known it was more than that. The detective without a heart, the cold, calculating mind, was crying, his heart breaking with what he was saying.
To this day, almost a year later, John didn't understand why Sherlock had been so determined to convince him that he was a fraud. He assumed that it was some master plot, some last revenge against the man who had destroyed so many lives, including theirs. But he couldn't help feeling just a bit angry with the man for believing that John could be so easily swayed, so easily convinced that his best friend, the man he looked up to, the man he loved, was a liar and a cheat.
Before his thoughts could turn to what had happened next, the horrific, time-stopping moments when he rushed towards Sherlock's body, already knowing it was too late, knowing that a man capable of so much wouldn't mess up his own death. The days, the weeks, the months that followed had been, in a way, worse than seeing his friend fall to his death. As he switched on the light in the bathroom and started brushing his teeth, John thought back on that time. The funeral had been bad enough, but then the therapy sessions, Mycroft's endless check-up calls and texts, Mrs. Hudson's silent, anxious puttering about after him. And through it all, John had never quite been able to believe that Sherlock was really gone. The door would open, and he would look up in anticipation of sharing an interesting story from the paper with the detective, but it would be Mrs. Hudson bringing him some tea. He would go for a walk in the park and start to see Sherlock in every tall, brunette man wearing a gray coat. But eventually, even his delusions had passed. The words he had spoken at the grave—one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't…be…dead.—John had long accepted that Sherlock could never give him this last miracle.
With a start John recognized the dangerous path he was going down with these thoughts and leaned over to spit out his toothpaste. It had been over a month ago that he finally came to terms with what he had seen, and the monotonous existence that the future had in store for him. It did him no good to go over and over these painful memories. Straightening his back he stood at attention before the mirror. Satisfied that he had squashed his emotions, he turned to get dressed and ready for the day.