"Turn around, hold me when I sleep

It's so much better, when you're lying next to me

You turned your back

Upon another soul

So much to say, so much you'll never know"

- Beauty's Running Wild, Scars on 45


It's 3 in the morning, and I awake with a start.

I roll over to the sight of a lithe, pale body. Sherlock is fast asleep, with a look of such serene calm that it wouldn't have been out of place at a nursery.

I take in his features, eyes shut, cheekbones still, nostrils unmoving; lips chapped, messy, tousled hair, his shirt roughly buttoned up - he is surreally beautiful - I dare not question the the fact that he's on my bed, sleeping soundly less than half a meter away from me.

I just lay there, trying not to breathe, trying not to scare this beautiful, unmoving creature from my side. I need to see his face, to feel his warmth, to sense his presence, just for one more second, one more minute.

I need just one more miracle -

But then I blink, and he disappears.

I realize that Sherlock's not here, he was never here.

That he's 10 feet under the ground, has been for 3 years.

All these sleepless nights I've been hoping, praying, dreaming for him to come back, but to no avail - he is a ghost of memories, memories too bitter to recall, yet memories too sweet to forget.

I roll over again and this time I'm greeted by a mess of tangled blankets and pillows.

3 years, 1095 days, 65,700 minutes without the world's only consulting detective by my side -

I know that someday, I'll move on.

I'll wake up one morning and not have a single memory of Baker Street 221B, of Irene Adler, of the hound, of Moriarty.

I won't remember my best friend (if only I could call him something more), the man who made me what I am today, the only person I have ever truly loved - I won't remember Sherlock.

I just hope someday comes soon.