Chapter 1

Masterpiece Theatre

-JW

I still have the dreams. They never really stopped.

They just stopped being nightmares; until now.

Every night I crawl into bed, dreading the sleep that awaits me. The screams echo along with gunshots. There's a man lying beside me, arm ripped open from grenade shrapnel. He needs my help, but I can't get to him. The blood flow is increasing.

Then I look into his eyes; those familiar, piercing blue eyes. He's pleading with me to save him, do something. Blood is seeping from a head wound, covering his pale face. That's definitely an odd sight, pale in the Afghan. His dark curls peak out from under his deerstalker.

Deerstalker?

Black coat. Dark hair. Blood. So much blood on the sidewalk.

"Let me see him! He's my friend! Please!"

In the distance I hear my name, called by...a woman? Mrs. Hudson. Right. And I'm on Baker Street. Wake up, John!

"John." I hear Mrs. Hudson say. "John, wake up." And I'm awake, rolling over and falling off the couch. His couch.

"Mrs. Hudson," I say, my voice hoarse, "what what are you doing up here?"

"I heard you crying out, dear." she stands off to the side as I try pulling myself off the floor. I must've fallen asleep reading again. "Thought maybe you were in trouble."

"Oh," Had it really been hat bad? "That can't be," I mutter to myself. That hasn't happened since...since before.

"I'm sorry, what?" I hear her say as she makes her way into he kitchen.

"Nohing. Senseless muttering." I stand up straight now and observe my surroundings. The sunlight trickling through the windows throws spotlight on everything-all of his things. I scan through it all; the papers concerning he man hat caused all of this, the hardly-used cellphone sitting beside the couch, and his violin. It all throws me for a loop-his absence kills me.

It's so much worse than the Afghan.

"We can go visit him today if you want. I have time." Mrs. Hudson stands and puts her hands on my shoulder. "He was good for you, you know? But," she paused, as if letting the last statement sink in. "in the end, you were so much better for him. I've never seen him care for someone so much."

He didn't care for anyone!

I just stare at the cup of tea in my hands. When did that get there? Long enough to get cold, I see. When she takes it from me, I don't make a sound but get up and walk mechanically to my room. When there, I change into jeans, a blue button-up, and my dark brown coat. Walking back to the kitchen, I see that Mrs. Hudson has taken the liberty of boxing up some of his things. That will certainly not do.

"Don't." I rush and grab the violin from her before she places it the case. "Please. Not yet." She complies, but not before giving me a pitying look.

"He hurt a lot of people, John," she mutters, "but you-I cannot see what, or why, he would hurt you of all people."

I have no idea what that means. Shrugging it off, I trudge down the stairs, waiting at the door for Mrs. Hudson.

xXx

"I'm angry."

"You were the best man...the most human...human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie...so there. I was so alone and I owe you so much."

"One more miracle, for me, Sherlock.

"Don't be...dead"

-SH

I glance around at my surroundings. The men pursuing me have lost my tail, but I can't be certain. In the alleyway now, I jump to grab the fire escape ladder. I catch a glimpse of the men as I climb. Imbeciles. Of course, it isn't their fault. Or maybe it was. People are so unobservant. Climbing onto the rooftop after scaling the fire escape, I ready myself to jump to the rooftop adjacent to me. Fear pulses through me as I remember the last time I was on that rooftop, just a few months ago. As I descend down the staircase, a twinge of guilt passes through me, halting me in my tracks. My croft has been keeping tabs on him for me- that's a relief. But it still doesn't feel the same as if I were the one watching my flatmate.

Cursing myself for letting my emotions get to me, I trudge down to the bottom floor and peek through the corridor. No one. Good. I make my way to my old lab. He can't find me in here. I've covered my tracks perfectly. There's no way.

But, still, a part of me knows he is coming down the hall. And there it is-a dark figure seen through the frosted glass of the lab door. It opens and I duck behind my work table and pull a sedative out of my coat.

The sniper rounds the table, pointing his gun at my forehead. "There you are. You thought you could escape death twice, eh? Good luck." Perfect timing. The beaker to my right explodes, and I jam the needle into him leg, depressing the pump and sending the liquid straight into his bloodstream. His eyes flutter shut as his wail cuts off. With that, I take the gun and shoot him in the heart. He deserved pain. He was going to hurt them.

I shake myself off and heft the lifeless body on my shoulders. I'm sure blood is dripping on the floor, but that doesn't concern me. All I think is, "I'm free." I don't realize I've said it out loud until I've heard it echo down the hall. As I walk to the morgue, I start putting facts into place. All I need to do is prove Moriarty set this whole thing up and I am not a fake.

A fake. How could they ever think something like that about me? This thought disgusts me, because I know the minds always turn on the best one. I know because it was one of my first experiments. The sniper is beginning to grow heavy, but I can handle it. It's the guilt that is weighing on my shoulders. Such a strong emotion, guilt is. In all my years I've never been so filled with one feeling.

He didn't deserve this. But, really, he needed this. He'd be deadit'd it weren't for me, just like Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Of course, I should have told the doctor, but the logical thing would be to wait until this furiously tight web Moriarty has spun to unravel.

Hefting the man off my shoulders and onto the examination table, I strip him of his extra weaponry and pull out my phone.

Last one at Bart's.

In the morgue.

Come at once.

-SH

The quick text I send to Mycroft is not abnormal. Since my fall, I've had to keep in constant contact with my brother. Every time I take down one of Moriarty's men, he is the first to know. He will send his men and everything will be sorted out behind closed doors.

Just like old times.

Finally, though, it sinks in, "I'm free," I whisper to no one.

But not quite yet.