After Death is my chronicling of Sherlock's life on the run with his guilt and grief after Reichenbach.

The chapters do speak to one another, but can be read as standalone pieces.

Thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and John aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. I promise to feed them and take them for walks and give them back when I'm done.

Triggers: VERY disturbing imagery. Blood, death, explosions, scarring, cutting, snakes, being buried alive, drug use, gore, suicide, murder.

He never used to dream. Not until he left.

Now the dreams come every night After, stack like specimen bottles lining the shelves of his mind:

#124.
Naked shoulder scarred John. His hand. Fingernails.
Reach out, touch John's scar. Bullet hole. Explosion
in John's skin. Looming wound. The shape of words.
CONTAMINATED. SICK. He carves on John's eyelids, cheek.
FREAK on bottom lip. MONSTER on his heart. BROKEN
on his shoulder. The red edge of hatred. Slice echoes,
discordant. John twists around his name. Splits apart.

#731.
John, a broken tree. The dry cracked plain.
Bark crumbling skin. Rough patches. Parched.
Leaves shake, beg for water. The wind, his terrible wind.
Strip John down of green tender flesh
to the red marrow. Scrape underneath
John's pulsing roots, snap in half. Dry to a husk.
Crows feast. They have his eyes.

#205.
Moriarty's eyes, beetle black eyes that slither. Cobras coiled.
Anaconda. Chew on John's leg, slip up the calf,
torso, thigh, neck. John, paralyzed, eyes wet with screams.
Tawny tuft of hair surrounded by teeth.
Fangs. Digest. Acid. Hands, feet, shove, scrabble
from the inside. A vomit of bones.
Soft, lilting, slithering laughter.

#439.
John's deep blue. The salty oceans of John's eyes.
Dark forests of seaweed. Iridescent creatures
in the crushing black. Bright slips of color.
The waves of John lapping. Float in John.
The red bloom. Boiling red. Boiling him alive.
Rush of searing steam. The dry reefs of John's body,
harden, stone, crumble. Tentacles. Suckers.
John's inky screams. The stretches of dead fish.

#378.
Feathers and straw. The soft feathers of John's hair,
the smooth feathers of John's skin. Straw for his bricks.
Quiver. Rustle in oatmeal. Straw man. Blow away,
scatter dust. Grotesque mockery of flying.
Snap together bundle. Twigs. Dip in tallow. Light.
A fat, wild flame. His hands at John's fire. A false hearth,
all light, no heat. Bonfire. The incense of John's burning skin.

#39.
The dark inside of coffins. John's hands. Claw marks.
Deep wood. Dirt crushes John's face. Stops his throat.
His hands on the shovel. Six feet, sixty feet.
Wood splinters. Nails. The weight of earth. Loam.
Gravel in John's lungs. Sharp rocks of John's screams.
Toss another handful. Muffle. Bury John. Delete John.

#840.
Cliffs. Porcelain white, pockmarked grey,
stack together. Fingerhold. He climbs, hands fit into cracks.
Femurs. Tibias. Bones of balance and sickness.
Chasm of John's blood. Cliffs of John's bones. John's mandible,
flexing, soundless. Breaks off in his hand.
John's teeth. He falls into the red, slippery sea.

#536.
The hot needle. Slip under his skin. Seven percent lightning.
Veins crackle, flex, break. Plunger shot. Pale delirious fire.
John explodes, pink mist. Minerals. Hot flash of mica.
Shower of John. Freckles of blood. He breathes John in.
High on dead atoms of John.

#907.
Ribs, one, two, three lines. Snap. John's cage of bone,
pry apart. Jaws of life. Lift, hold, cradle heart.
Connected white string tendons. John,
heart in his own hands. Still beating. Coos like a dove.
Offer peace, offer home, offer soft wings for flight.
His fingers dig, crush. Nails down the side.
Sticky blood on grey feathers.

#611.
John, the bridge. Cables stretch in his wind. Flail,
twist in a double helix. Attachment. Center.
Cords sharp crack. He holds the knife.
Cuts John's steel links one by one. A whip on John's skin.
John bucking against concrete and water. His hands push.
The ledge. Shove. John's wings, hollow, broken.
The sickening arc of John's fall.

#499.
John's jumper. Aran. Fisherman family.
Patterns of home. Cabled zigzag dangle. Thread pull.
Unzip, slip stitch. Pile of white threads,
then piles of dishwater hair. Unravel into pink flesh,
strands of skin slough off, unwind John
with his pale fingers. John's nerves, a silver quivering tangle.
The thick cables of John's intestines. Arteries. Veins.
Capillaries. John, a mess of bloody strings.

He doesn't bother deleting these nightmares of John. He made this pain with his own hands. He doesn't deserve the relief of forgetting.

AN: The title refers to a lyric from Sting's "Inside." Thanks to Jodi2011 for her assistance with this chapter (particularly the last lines).

Thank you for reading! Comments are welcome and relished.