At first, I dream of what happened a few days ago. A happy dream...

"Don't be so immature, John." Sherlock scowls.
I laugh, loudly and cheerfully. I take fists of snow and toss them in the air, being delightfully and unashamedly childish. The snow was light, fluffy and absolutely freezing, it was gently dusting Hyde Park with a soft layer of fluff. I was taking delight in the snowfall; Sherlock was glowering disapprovingly. Snow was collecting in his collar and he flicked it away with a look of disgust. His hand was cold and tightly intertwined with mine. The two of us must look like one contrasting couple. I break away from him and fall down in a soft snow bank, bringing my hands back and forth, making snow angels, pushing snow onto both my face and Sherlock's shoes.
"Well, might I say that you are acting like a prime example of a military man?" He scolded, shaking the snowflakes from his feet. I giggled.
"Don't be so bloody serious all the time! It's fun!" I cry.
I gather a little snowball and toss it towards him. It explodes against the shoulder of his jacket. I can just about see the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, when he bends down and scoops up a gigantic mound of snow, one fistful already raised. I panic, putting my hands against my face, bracing myself for the attack.
"No!" I shout. "If you value your life, you will not throw that, Sherlock!" He chuckles.
"I'm not particularly threatened by that, my dear, dear John." I feel the first snowball meet my face and I scramble behind the nearest tree. Sherlock, now amused, runs towards me and rains the snowballs on me. I swipe feebly, trying to fend off the many snowballs now pelting my face and neck.
"Hey, now!" I yell. "That one had a stone in it!"
He pauses and I use the opportunity to wriggle forward and grab his legs, sending him flailing into the snow bank. He laughs loudly, throwing his head back, snowflakes coating his dark hair and a few even catching in his eyelashes. The blue of his eyes stands out in the snow, and they are so beautiful they take my breath away.
"You weren't prepared for this, were you?" I ask him softly.
"For what?" He murmurs.
"For all this!" I tell him, spreading my arms out in the air.
"The snow?"
"Of course not. All the, you know, couple things. The hand-holding, the rolling around in the snow, the clichéd, overused couple things."
I'm lying on top of him, and he takes my hands and brings them to his lips.
"I am happy to do them." He informs me. I smile and kiss him, gently at first, and then soon we're rolling around in the snow, our lips freezing, our hair getting coated in frost, and not caring about it. We are content for a few minutes, until a beeping from Sherlock's phone interrupts us. He sits up and checks his caller ID, looks disgusted, and answers.
"What is it, Mycroft?" He snarls.

Then, it changes. My dream changes location; and it feels colder, darker. A sense of dread rushes through my veins.

'The pulse is still there. Faint. But still beating.

I hold his arm tighter, part of me trying to urge his heart to keep beating, the other part trying to hold on to him so they can't separate us. Because when the crowds gather to see what's happened, they will drag me away, and leave him to die. The thought of leaving him here sends more hot tears down my face. One lands on his hand, and I quickly brush it off.

Oh God. I'm panicking. Losing it. I've got to keep it together, or I'll lose him as well. I prop him up into a better position, and brush the hair from his face with my free hand, the blood leaving sickly red streaks on the sleeve. It turns my stomach, but I continue to work.

A few people have gathered, but they seem too afraid to come closer. I prefer it that way. I take his pulse again; weaker. My heart is racing, it's going faster and faster...

Then the moment I've been dreading. I feel the paramedic's hand close around my shoulder.
"Please sir, we have to work on him..."
I cling onto the only part of Sherlock I have left; his hand.
"No, no. I told you all, I'm a doctor. I am a doctor, and I can fix him, if you can let me do my work..."
"Sir..."
"Please!" I almost scream this, but my voice breaks as I turn to the paramedic. A young-ish girl, couldn't be more than 20. A trainee. She's probably never seen this kind of thing before. She looks as scared as I do. But this is no time for sympathy for her sake. I can feel the pulse slowly drifting away. I look away from her, back to Sherlock's pale face.
"No!" As they try to pull me away, I drag myself closer. After a few moments, I find myself grasping Sherlock's shoulders, crying angry, shocked tears into his chest. I can hear his heart beat. For a few moments.

Then...

...nothing. Gone. The pulse is gone too. I can feel my blood run cold in that one moment. It feels as if my pulse has stopped too. All I have strength for is to bring his hand to my lips, and press them against his now cold fingers. Hold this hand one last time. Then I let them drag me away.'

I wake, the feeling of shock and absolute terror hits like a slap to the face and I run to the bathroom. After standing there shaking for about a minute, I splash cold water on my face. My heart has regained a reasonably normal rate. I look in the mirror: my face is a very pale colour, and still trembling slightly. I can hear someone shuffling behind me, grasping for the bathroom doorknob.
"John?" Sherlock's voice is sleepy and muffled. "Are you ok?"
I nod half-heartedly. "Another nightmare, Sherlock. That's all, I'm fine." Even in his half-conscious state, Sherlock still looks concerned. His brow is creased, and his stare accusing.
"No, you're not. These have been going on too long, John. Please, go back to..."
"No." I object firmly. "I'm not going back to any therapist."
His blue eyes are pleading. He walks over and places his arms around me, gently pulling me in closer.
"At least let me help you, John."

The next day

"You've brought your journal, John?" Sherlock asks. I nod, grasping the little leather bound book that kept me going for the months Sherlock was gone. And after he came back. It was where I wrote about my grief, my hope, and my nightmares. All the things too private to write on my blog. I've never shown it to anyone. Until now.
"Before I take a look, John, I want you to tell me what mostly happens in your nightmares."
I feel a little nauseous at the thought of having to relive those moments. It's bad enough that they haunt my sleep; I don't want them to haunt me while I'm awake as well. Regardless, I clear my throat and begin listing them off.
"Most of them, if not all of them, involve you, Sherlock. You: falling off buildings, getting shot by Moriarty; dying before my eyes. Some are exactly the same as what happened after you jumped off the hospital, some are the jump, only with different details. And some never even happened. But they feel so real." I finish, feeling beads of sweat beading on my forehead. Sherlock tries to remain emotionless, but I can't deny that he looks worried.
"Not good?" I ask him.
"A bit." He mumbles softly.