Normalcy.

Sherlock never really imagined he would dream of such, but even after months of what happened in Sherrinford, he still finds himself waking up in the middle of the night, breathless in memory of that vivid day.

Baker Street was eerie with silence, the ticking of the clock in pace with the sound of his own heart. He was slick with sweat from the crimson trails crossing his vision, and the contrast of the room's darkness was making things worst. It was like he was in a constant state of unrest, body exhausted even if he was fresh from a deep slumber.

There was a certain dread that was at the pit of his stomach, of yearning and despair wrapped into this abyss of emotion that he couldn't put his finger on, and in the cold and desperate night, one face flashed in his mind.

Irene Adler's.

Knowing that his sister left her out of their game was his source of light every time he wakes from his nightmares, an unadmitted relief washing through his entire body. She was going through enough as it is, and to be dragged into another conundrum as orchestrated by his own kin would feel too much even for him.

Besides, he couldn't stand the idea of losing her because of his own recklessness. With his mind fleeting to Mary, he ran his fingers over his damp hair in exasperation. He's had enough with grief.

And he hasn't talked to The Woman yet about that night when he seeked for her company, that fateful night when the world came crashing down along with Mary Watson. It was a moment of weakness that he had shared with her, a devastating loss and the feeling of sickening isolation that drove him to the one person whose death, or more like fake death, also punctured him to the core.

His mind reeled, looking at the time on his phone flashing just a few minutes past two in the morning, and he wondered if she was also as restless as he was. Still, with his fingers trying hard to not unlock his phone and dial her number, he sighed and went to search his bedside drawer instead, letting out as sigh as he patted three nicotine patches onto his skin.

Why can't the sun seep through the windows fast enough?

"Sherlock… Still having nightmares?" John asked as he sipped his coffee.

There was no use in denying, for the doctor had also confessed he had his fair share of bad dreams. Sherlock sighed and nodded at the same time.

"You know… Talking to someone helps. A bit." his friend offered, unconvincingly.

"I'm talking to you. And we have our cases. That's all I need." he replied, biting back the rather nasty retort he had in his head. He's learned to practice control and a little bit of sympathy after…well… after the humbling experience with Eurus.

John simply shrugged and went back to scrolling through his laptop, And yet despite his friend's attempt to show interest in the news headlines, Sherlock could easily read through his glassy expression.

"Ho- How about you, John? The new therapist helping you well?" he tried to inject more curiosity in his tone, despite his mind whispering what he already knew.

John gave a soft laugh. "Last I checked, she's not related to you so… I guess that's good."

Sherlock smiled back at the joke, trying to cover up the idea that it pained him to see so clearly how John was always at the brink of breaking down, eyes still focusing on one spot of the room and then the other. And he knew exactly why: the doctor continues to see his wife. And no therapist, or any other person, could amount to taking away that kind of burden and pain - Sherlock believes that it is one of the few things about emotions that he had come to understand.

The very reason why he regretted being a little too welcoming towards their new client.

"So let me get this straight. You came here from America upon hearing the news that your wife was dead, only to identify a completely different body in her place. Name and age were also different, no apparent similarities or indications that could lead to being mistaken as your wife, and you, a barrister, has done nothing to check her or the other dead woman's records. Well, this is quite..." Sherlock was about to say 'idiotic' but John shot him a look and he said, "... odd," instead.

"As I said, Mr. Holmes, I tried to ask and trace back the papers….anything. And she was… is my ex-wife. We have been separated for years now and I haven't heard from her since." the man sighed. "Plus, the morgue…It was like they didn't even try. All they said was that she was brought in, with me as her immediate contact and that's all they have. That poor old lady was even laid in a coffin too big for her - it could fit two people!" the man exclaimed, running his hand over his head in despair. "I even tried to look for her family, but nothing."

John cleared his throat. "Certainly interesting. Maybe about an eight?"

The man raised his head curiously. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock ignored the client, turning to John. "Not really. But seeing that it's a dull week, then this should do."

"So… Should we start with the morgue?" John quipped.

Sherlock looked at the client pointedly. "Oh, please. The woman's dead and the people at the morgue probably just pulled anything they could to get this supposed mystery to a close. We should start with his wife. Find out where she actually is."

There was something about the entire thing that sent chills down his spine, even if it was nothing more than the usual cases he was handling. It was like a premonition dawned to him, a burning feeling forming in his chest as he stared at the open door past where their client was sat.

He was snapped out of his trance upon hearing John's voice.

"Can we have her name then? Or a photograph to start with?" said John.

"Ah yes, of course." the man replied, rummaging through his briefcase.

As the man handed the photograph to John, Sherlock saw his friend's expression turn into an explicit display of shock and confusion.

"What is it?" he asked, unsure why his heart was pounding loudly in his chest.

John turned to look at him, handing him the photograph stiffly. And that's when he saw what caused the doctor's paralysed expression. The familiar features, though much younger in the photograph, was unmistakeable.

"Is something wrong?" asked their client. When they didn't reply, he continued. "That's her... My ex-wife. Irayna Norton… or - more appropriately since we're divorced - 'Adler'?"