Of Tea and Nightmares

You used to have nightmares before Reichenbach, before the fall. You always thought – too optimistically, perhaps – that Sherlock was different on the mornings after you had one. It was almost as if he was waiting for you to recover in the best way he knew how: trying to tone down his personality in respect for yours. His demands for tea were always somehow less rude, and he would sit in silence for hours. That in itself wasn't unusual, but it was a different sort of silence. Sherlock sat in his seat, fingers steepled, and eyes closed. But every so often you could feel his gaze upon you as, for the first half hour or hour or so, you worked at getting your head back on straight and steadying your shaking hands.

Back then, however, your nightmares were nameless. Faceless gunmen on the endless desert; patients, with names that have now escaped you; fallen comrades, whose names you can't forget but avoid remembering.

Somehow, it was easier to deal with something you couldn't name. Now your nightmares are vivid, all too real, and they definitely have a name: the one name that will bring you, a grown man, a soldier, to your knees.

Sherlock.

He's dead. There's no doubt about that. You saw him hit the ground and took his pulse. You saw the sheer amount of blood. You're a medical man and a soldier, trained to accept both the failings of the human body along with the death of one's fellow man. He's dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.

It took you almost two months to go back to Baker Street. You found everything just as it had been left, as if it had been only that morning that Sherlock breezed out the door, expecting you to buy milk and make him tea and as always, blog about his cases like the dedicated and loyal friend you were.

That's what hurts you the most, you think. The fact that you had been loyal, and – it pains you to think this – but somehow, Sherlock hadn't. He had left you only with the pathetic "goodbye" from his phone call, and then he had jumped off that godforsaken building and plummeted to his death. And he had lied. "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly, in fact tell anyone who will listen to you... that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." Liar.

For once, Sherlock Holmes had been wrong, and you knew it. He was wrong, you were right, and yet still he was dead.

Long hours in the office aren't enough to exhaust you past the point of dreaming. Ever since that day, there have been no more nameless, faceless dreams of Afghanistan. There's been only Sherlock – your best friend. Your dead best friend, you always have to remind yourself.

It takes innumerable cups of tea to lull you to sleep, and even then it's restless. It's as if your brain and your heart are protesting about what they know is to come. You're going to relive that day, you're going to try and save your best friend's life, and each time you're going to be too late.

Every time it varies. Sometimes you're running up the stairs on that roof, trying to make it in time to grab his wrist, his coat, something, to stop him from jumping. Sometimes you desperately give him CPR, trying to stop the flow of blood and the loss of life. Other times, the dream starts earlier in the day, and you race across the clock to try and stop the fatal events from unfolding. It never works.

Tonight you're running up the stairs to the roof, lungs heaving and muscles cramping, and you're not going fast enough. You burst out onto the roof and run to the ledge, desperately grabbing at the air, looking down – and there he is. Gone.

As always.

You wake up, heart pounding and hands shaking, and you wipe the sweat from your brow as you sit up in bed. Glancing over at the clock, you see that somehow you made it until nearly 6 AM before having a nightmare. Crawling out of bed, you go downstairs to make the customary cup of tea, and that's when it happens.

There's someone sitting in Sherlock's chair. To be more precise, Sherlock is sitting in Sherlock's chair.

You sigh. Still dreaming, then. This doesn't happen often, but it has before, and all it does is make things infinitely harder. It's as if your brain won't accept the fact that he's gone – not the move across the country type of gone, not the gone to get milk type, but gone. Dead.

Sitting down in your chair, you fold your hands over your chest and stare at Sherlock, waiting for him to say something. By this point, you have learned that nothing works. There is no use in saying anything to him. He's just a dream, a specter, come back to haunt your poor soul. Like you need the help.

He's staring at you over steepled fingers, just like he used to. "John," he says, and his voice is just as it was before, as if nothing has changed. "You had a nightmare."

You pause for a moment, and then correct him. "No. I'm having a nightmare."

He looks perplexed. "Why would you be having a nightmare? You're awake, John. I'm alive. I'm sorry – you have to understand, I had to take out Moriarty's web–"

You stand and walk slowly out of the room, trying your best to contain your tears; you've given up on your shaking hands. When this happens, it's always the same. I'm alive, John. Please believe me.

The kettle is apparently disagreeing with your desire to make tea, as you find it increasingly difficult to fill it with water and set it to boil. Fake-Sherlock has followed you into the kitchen and is standing near the table, his tall frame awkward and gangly.

There's silence, and you refuse to look at him until the kettle boils. You make your tea and turn your back on Sherlock, heading up the stairs. It breaks your heart to do so, but he's not real. You can't make this any harder than it already is.

He's still there when you get to your bedroom, following you. Sherlock stares at the tears now fallen on your cheeks, and sighs deeply. "Go to sleep, John. I'll be here in the morning."

You sit silently on the bed as Sherlock's ghost makes its slow descent down the stairs. Only once he has passed over the last step and undoubtedly sat back down in his chair do you allow the tears to freely flow. The tea is abandoned on the table next to the bed, and sobs wrack your body. I'm alive, John. I'm sorry. Always the same damn thing.

It takes the whole cup of tea and another hour for you to fall back asleep. What a cruel idea, a dream within a dream – fall asleep, wake up from a nightmare, realize you're still living it, and then have to do it all again. You feel somehow that you're missing a step in that equation, but can't quite grasp it. As you fall asleep, as always there are only two words on your mind: Goodbye, Sherlock…

Almost three hours later you wake. For a moment there is the normalcy, the feeling that nothing is wrong; and then like every other day, the memory of the fall comes crashing down on you and you are pulled into grief once more.

You sit up in bed and look around you, stretching slightly. You frown; there's a teacup on the bedside table, empty. Strange, you don't remember having tea in bed the night before. Maybe your memory, like the rest of your life, is disappearing too.

You get up and dress slowly as your dream comes back to you. Racing up the steps, unable to save him, and then waking up with Sherlock being alive. You snort quietly. Typical.

Walking slowly down the stairs, you make your way into the kitchen and begin preparing your breakfast. Toast and jam, tea…

"John?"

You jump and very nearly drop the jar of jam, holding onto it at the last second. You whip around to face the other way, leaving your breakfast forgotten on the counter and wishing that you had brought your gun down with you.

It's Sherlock. Damn it, it's Sherlock again – how could this be happening? He's dead, you know this, you saw it happen; and yet here he is, standing in your kitchen – yours and his, always – looking very much alive. Shaggy hair, thin, tall frame, looking older, thinner, and more haggard than the last time you saw him.

You just stare for a long moment, and then he speaks again. "Please listen to me this time, John. You aren't dreaming. This isn't a nightmare – I'm alive, I promise. Please, will you let me explain? John, please?"

This all seems so real. Your voice is shaking, as is your hand when you point a finger at him. "I watched you die," you say, unable to keep the accusatory tone out of your voice. "I saw you hit the ground, saw the blood. I felt your pulse, Sherlock. You're dead."

"It was Molly," he says, looking down at the floor. "She helped me. I… I staged my death, John. I had no choice. You have to understand–"

"I have to understand?" You very nearly yell, your entire frame shaking now. You don't need a mirror to tell you that your face is red and there's tears on your cheeks. "I don't have to understand anything, Sherlock. I don't owe you anything. You're dead. You died! I watched it happen. And where did that leave me? Alone, with an empty flat, a lying press, and no best friend. You're dead, Sherlock. DEAD!"

He is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks his voice cracks. "There were snipers, John," he says, looking up at you. "On you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. Moriarty was smarter than I. He played the game better, with the exception of the fact that I anticipated his last move. I knew his intention was for me to commit suicide. I knew it, John. I beat him at his own game, for you."

You are so livid by the time he finishes that you don't catch the end of his speech. "You knew? You knew you were going to have to die? And yet you left me here? You let me believe, all this time – a year and a half, Sherlock, damn you! – that you were going to die? What am I, a puppet? A marionette to be pulled at by strings? My feelings have value, Sherlock! They are not to be played with! They are not yours to manipulate!"

Your anger is so tangible that for a moment, the idea that you are actually believing him to be alive is suspended, unimportant. You reach out and punch your best friend as hard as you possibly can, right in the jaw. The force of the blow knocks him to the floor, and Sherlock lays there for a moment. You're still shaking when you slowly, slowly reach out a hand to help him to his feet.

"I deserved that," Sherlock mutters, rubbing his jaw with one hand. The hand you used to help Sherlock up is still holding his, and as if upon instinct your medically-trained hand reaches to find a pulse. It only takes a second to do so – thump thump, thump thump – and you jump back as if shocked, a gasp stifled beneath one hand.

"S-Sherlock?" You whisper, staring at him. He's still rubbing his jaw and looking at you sadly.

"Yes, John," he says, and that's all it takes for you to run at him and hug him within an inch of his life, alternated with a few subtle punches here and there.

"You're alive," you gasp, staring up at him, stating the obvious for what seems to be the millionth time.

The now-alive Sherlock leads you to the table and sits you down. You're still embarrassingly shaky. "Listen to me," he says, sitting across from you. "And let me tell you this is the most honest thing I have ever said in the entirety of my existence. I am sorry, John. I am sorry for lying to you, for hurting you, for making you suffer. I had to go and take out Moriarty's web, and it took me longer than I anticipated. I came back here, back home, as soon as I could."

You sit silently for a long moment before nodding, taking a much-needed sip of tea. "You're home, S-Sherlock."

There's a long and slightly awkward silence before Sherlock speaks again. "Why did you think you were having a nightmare last night? Why would you not speak to me?"

You stare down at the table and consider lying to him, but you've never been able to fool Sherlock. "I've had nightmares like that before – where you come back to the flat and tell me you're alive, that I have to believe you. I would ask you questions, scream at you until I went hoarse, and it made no difference. I always woke up and you weren't here."

The guilt in Sherlock's eyes is almost painful to look at, but you know you can do nothing to alleviate it. You can't tell him it's alright, that you forgive him, because you don't yet. You can't tell him that everything will be fine, because you don't know that. All you can do is wait. Time will help, you know, numb the wound and make it all seem more real.

But for now, Sherlock's home.

Now, when you have a nightmare, Sherlock is still quiet. He sits in his chair, contemplates, and allows you to steady yourself. But now, he makes you tea. Words aren't needed. Every morning after you have a nightmare, Sherlock makes you tea, and the words go unspoken: I'm sorry, John.

You believe him. You have always, always believed in Sherlock Holmes.

I have recently become obsessed with BBC's Sherlock and couldn't resist writing this. Please review!