It was always the same dream, the cold water pulling, and ravenous in its need to submerge it's victim completely into the darkness. There was always thrashing, he wasn't a man that gave in easily. And the surface of the waters grew further and further, panic started to set in, slower and slower he was pulled into the dark. And Sherlock ripped awake screaming.

"John!" the consulting detective would sit up, his brow beaded with sweat, his night cloths clinging to him. This was why he hated sleep, he hated dreaming. But after three days, his transport turned on him and pulled Sherlock into the nightmares always awaiting unconsciousness. He brought a shaking hand to rub his eyes, at the same time he attempted to calm his breathing.

If John were there, he would have given Sherlock a shake, he would have pulled him out of his nightmare. Then he'd wait for his friend's breathing to calm, and announce in a half yawn half sigh, "Tea?"

Sherlock put a hand to his chest, looking around the empty flat, John wasn't there. John was dead, and he wasn't coming back. Yet he couldn't help but believe otherwise. The ship he was on sank, only a few made it off. Some of the survivors described a short blond man helping the women and children into the lifeboats. Of course that would be John, recklessly giving up his spot in a life raft so others could have it. He would be sure to get as many off the ship as he could, all the way up to the point the ship sank, pulling those inside down, down into the maddening darkness. Water, it was said drowning was the most peaceful way to go. Somehow Sherlock found no comfort in the thought.

The minutes seemed to be longer and emptier without John, how was that? Time wasn't usually relevant to the consulting detective, but somehow he knew. He knew, it had been exactly One month, thirty days and six hours since John was reported dead.

Sherlock thought if he went to the funeral then it would mean John had really passed. It would feel like he killed John, just by attending. If he didn't go he could believe the Doctor was on a holiday or at the clinic or visiting his drunk of a sister. In the end the consulting detective had gone, he watched as a tearful Harry and Mrs. Hudson followed behind John's coffin. Then the soldiers standing outside the church. Sherlock did not go inside, he kept his distance at the cemetery, watching John's friends crowding around, as if trying to get a peek at the descending coffin. Mycroft had gone all out, no expenses were spared. This still didn't give Sherlock any comfort. After everyone left, the last to linger being Lestrade, he was there for an hour longer. Finally he turned to leave, his steps slow and his shoulders drawn.

Sherlock approached the grave then, reading the clear lettering carved in the smooth gray stone. He wondered if Mycroft had chosen what it said under John's name and birthday.

~0~

For Doctor Underhill it was always like this, a man on the roof, him standing in the road. He couldn't hear the conversation; he never could make out the words. But somehow he knew it was goodbye, it was goodbye and no matter what was said the young man on the roof jumped. Each time he jumped, Doctor Underhill would wake up screaming. He knew he had been screaming because his throat was sore and voice hoarse.

Looking around his sparsely furnished room he couldn't help feeling lost. This was his room, he told himself, this is his life. He should feel grateful the kind landlord below was more than happy to rent it out to him. It had been two months, or something close since he'd washed up on shore. No identification just a suitcase he was clinging to, marked Doctor Jeremy Underhill. The small town's Doctor assured him that his memory would return, and he'd already alerted the authorities of his being alive.

It turned out Jeremy was supposed to be coming to town anyway taking over another Doctor's practice. Jeremy wasn't so sure with taking over a spot he couldn't remember accepting. That and he wasn't comfortable with his memory loss and tending to patients. However when Doctor Franz tested his knowledge Jeremy knew exactly what to use and say. It was only his memories he'd lost but not his skill. That made no sense to him, no sense at all. Another interesting fact was the scare on his shoulder, when had he received that? Why couldnt he remember? Was his life so horrible before, was he a good man or a bad man?

As far as Jeremy could tell he didn't have any family, no pictures in his case, although his other luggage could have been lost to sea. Still no one came for him; he must be alone after all. It could be the reason he was going to such a secluded town after all. Whenever he thought of family his memory flashed to the rooftop nightmare and he wondered if it were a true memory. If he were in fact running from this memory and all it entails.

Jeremy shook his head, and rubbed his eyes, deciding to get up and make himself tea. This morning he wondered if he'd manage to get some more sleep, he didn't have to be up for another three hours to catch the train to London. Glancing down into his mug he sighed. Probably not, he looked over and realized he'd made two cups of tea. He often found himself doing this, and he wondered who he used to make tea for. Were they looking for him? Or had they been long since dead?

~0~

Mycroft watched his brother pace the flat; he looked away from the computer monitor. The older Holmes had always known that John had completed his brother. John was the anchor and now Sherlock was lost. Mycroft reflected on this fact, the idea that Doctor John Watson was gone, as in not coming back. For reasons unknown, Mycroft still expected to see the Doctor sitting in the flat or walking the street ready to be kidnapped. He shook these thoughts away, taking another pull from his nearly empty scotch. The funeral had been the worst, so many people some genuine in their morning, others just there for the show. He'd been careful to keep the media out of this, still the words HERO BLOGGER PUT TO REST, covered the paper and someone had taken a picture of the casket being lowered into the ground. For some reason this had angered Mycroft, knowing John hated the fuss, that and he wouldnt have some one profit off a good man's funeral. With a sigh, the older Holmes turned back to the monitor, Sherlock was still pacing.

Everyone assumed Sherlock would attend John's funeral, but when the service started and he was no where to be found ,people wondered if the two flatmates had been friends at all. Mycroft knew his brother had attended; he was hidden in the shadow of a tree, listening to the empty words of a hired preacher. Friends and family, well the only family was John's drunk sister and Mycroft had been sure she returned home safely. It was the least he could do for the Doctor, after all he would have done the same. Mycroft hated this feeling of sentiment; he'd been trying for a while to put the Doctor behind him. It was these quiet times in between work and bed that the memory of John Watson wiggled his way into the British Governments thoughts.

He poured himself a scotch and sat back looking over to the chair across from his desk thoughtfully. How many times had he kidnapped the blond Doctor? How many times did the man sit there with an exasperated grin on his face? Mycroft decided he'd be rid of the chair tomorrow, that would solve that.

He glanced over his paperwork once more, the clock chiming three am.