Sherlock sat up in bed, his hair matted to his forehead and drenched in sweat. His heart was pounding and his mind was racing, but even as he climbed out of bed, his nightmare had begun to leave him. He walked shakily down the hall to the kitchen and set about putting the kettle on. While he waited for it to boil, he went in the living room and took up his violin. Standing at the window, Sherlock began to play. Not ten minutes later, John came trundling down the stairs, his hair a mess and his t-shirt slightly askew.

"Sherlock, it's 5:30 in the morning," he complained, "What are you doing up?"

Sherlock said nothing, but continued playing his violin, completely ignoring the screeching of the teapot behind him. John merely sighed and went to pour the tea. When he came back, he set Sherlock's cup down and settled in his chair. Just as he did so, Sherlock finished his song and set down his bow. He carried the violin to the chair and sat down, pointedly avoiding eye contact with John.

John sipped his tea, looking at Sherlock curiously. "It was that dream again. Wasn't it?"

Sherlock said nothing, but his blue eyes flicked up to look at John.

"Alright. White walls? You were in a bed, in a hospital gown? And there was nurse?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Sherlock, you're not afraid of hospitals, are you? I mean, we spend all that time at Bart's…."

"No," Sherlock stated, plucking mindlessly at the strings of his violin.

"Then what is it? Why else would you be having these nightmares?"

"It's nothing, John."

"Nothing? Sherlock, it's a recurring nightmare, something has to be wrong. You know you can talk to me if –"

"John, really. Don't use sentiments against me." Sherlock stood up again, setting down his violin and taking his tea with him towards his bedroom. He didn't bother to glance back at John again before slamming the door. He needed to be alone for a while.

Sherlock circled around the body, his coat billowing around his long legs, and bending over every so often to get a closer look. John followed him like a puppy, agreeing with all of his deductions and praising him enthusiastically for them. Sherlock couldn't help the proud smile that came from John's approval.

"Alright, Sherlock," Detective Inspector Lestrade asked as he ambled over to them, "What have you got?"

"You said he was an escapee, yes?" He asked. Lestrade nodded. "Good. There's still dirt and stone particles stuck under his nail from his escape from the prison. It obviously took him some effort. The bags under his eyes suggest he was exhausted at the time of the murder, so he was probably up all night after his escape. When the murderer found him, he would have been too tired and too excited about his escape to notice the man following him. He was stabbed in the back, but I trust you already know that. Judging by the shape of the wound, I'd say your murder weapon is a 6-inch U.S. Marine combat knife. Any questions?"

Lestrade blinked a few times, and John muttered another exclamation of awe. "Yeah," Lestrade finally said, "U.S. Marine knife, so the killer's American?"

"Most likely."

"Also, you said he escaped from jail?"

"Obviously."

"Well, he didn't. He escaped from a mental hospital. This guy was a complete nutter; I'm not surprised he didn't realize someone was following him."

Sherlock froze for a moment, his mind blanking in one of those rare moments when his accentuated abilities of thought failed him. His eyes were unfocused for moment, and all he could see was a white light. Not a natural light, but far too white to even comprehend correctly without it hurting his eyes. But in a moment, John was pulling him back into reality. He shook Sherlock's left arm, asking him if he was alright. "What?" Sherlock asked, shaking his head and staring at John incredulously.

"I asked if you were alright," John repeated.

"I'm fine."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, eyeing the detective curiously. "You're acting strange today. Are you alright?"

"I just said, I'm fine."

"Yeah, alright. I'm just making sure. Look, I think you've done all you can here, and we can handle the rest. Why don't you head home and rest a bit?"

"Rest," Sherlock murmured, rolling his eyes as he brushed past John to hail a cab.

Once they were back at the flat, Sherlock went straight for his violin and stood by the window, loudly composing a new lament for himself. John, on the other hand, decided to order dinner in for the two of them and put the kettle on. He sat in his chair, typing away on his laptop in front of the fire. About an hour passed before John finally spoke up. "Bloody delivery should have been here by now," he muttered, getting up to retrieve his phone.

"Don't worry about me, I'm not hungry," Sherlock muttered, continuing to play his violin.

"Sherlock, you need to eat something. You've been acting a little strange lately and you're not sleeping right. At least do me a favor and keep your eating habits close to normal."

Sherlock sighed and put down his violin. "Then we'll go to Angelo's. Don't worry about take out."

"Alright," John agreed, "But speaking of your sleeping habits, how are the nightmares? Still happening?"

Sherlock hesitated as he swung his coat around his shoulders. "Once in a while. But it's not important, John. Let's go to dinner."

Within twenty minutes, the pair were seated at a table in their favorite restaurant. Sherlock ordered for the both of them, but ended up pushing his plate away after only a few bites anyway. He stared off into space for a while, until John brought him back to Earth, like he always does. "You alright, mate?"

"Fine."

"You don't look fine."

Sherlock looked up at John and narrowed his eyes. John could always tell when something was wrong. He always knew what Sherlock was thinking, even when no one else could understand.

Not much else was said over dinner, but when they arrived back at the flat, Mrs. Hudson had made tea for them. The two settled down in front of the fire for the night, and for the first time in the weeks since his nightmares began, Sherlock drifted off into a deep slumber. John watched him, and decided it best not to disturb him. Instead, the doctor put a blanket over his friend before retreating to his bedroom.

"Molly, I need you to record the results of these x-rays within the next ten minutes while I head down to the morgue." Sherlock bustled out of the room, leaving a slightly flustered Molly behind in the lab. John rushed after Sherlock, following him to the dead body they were studying for a case Lestrade had brought them that morning. As they leaned over the body, John shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "John," Sherlock sighed, " If you insist on dancing the entire time you're here, then you might as well make it a little more interesting."

John stopped suddenly and glared at him. "Shut up. I'm not dancing."

Sherlock straightened up and narrowed his eyes at John. "Tell me what's bothering you."

"Can't you just work it out?" John snapped, pacing towards the door and back again.

"I want you to tell me," Sherlock muttered, almost heartfelt. John looked at him curiously. "So that I know I was right."

"Ah, of course," John sighed, shaking his head. "It's just…Molly never seems to acknowledge me very much, does she?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't see the problem in that."

"It's like she just doesn't care that I'm in the room. It's always 'Sherlock this,' and 'Sherlock that.'"

"John, you and I are both fully aware of the feelings Molly harbors toward me."

"Yeah, but that's not the point! I mean…I always feel that way around you. With Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Even your brother. Is it…I'm doing anything wrong, am I? Do you think I've put them off somehow?"

Sherlock shook his head and actually took a moment to ponder John's thought. "I wouldn't think so, but you do have a point. Then again, genius does tend to draw an audience. What about when I'm not with you?"

"I don't see them much when I'm not with you. I'm usually on a date or something."

"And does your date ignore you?"

"What? No, of course not. I mean, most of my dates are a bit of a blur, but…I'm fairly certain I mattered to them."

Sherlock stiffened at John's choice of words, and took a few steps toward him. "You matter to me, John. What difference does it make what my colleges think?"

Sherlock burst into the flat Thursday morning with a newspaper in his hand and smile on his face. "John!" He shouted, "I've found him!"

John, who had been dosing happily in his chair by the fire, blinked up at his flatmate in slight annoyance. "Found who?"

"Moriarty! He's using a fake name, but I've worked it out!"

"So? Who's Moriarty?"

"The man the cabbie mentioned in the pink case. You remember, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. You've tracked him down?"

"Yeah, I have. Could you do me a favor and phone Lestrade? I need to pop out for a bit, won't be long." And with that, the detective slammed the door behind him.

When he returned later that night, he texted Lestrade and asked him to meet him at 221b Baker Street. He bounded into the flat to find John sipping tea, and soon enough, the inspector was coming up the stairs. Sherlock let him in, and positively beamed at him. "Lestrade, I think I've saved you a load of trouble finding this one," he remarked, rubbing his hands together and pressing them together beneath his chin as he collapsed in his chair.

"Alright, what is it, then? A murderer?"

"Everything," Sherlock, breathed, as if Lestrade should have already known this. "He's a murderer, a thief, everything. He's a consulting criminal, surely you've heard of him before?"

"Well, maybe I would have, if you'd give me a name."

Sherlock glared at him, and John turned to him in a moment of confusion. "Didn't John tell you?"

"John?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah, I did. I called him earlier, Sherlock."

"Moriarty," Sherlock snapped. "James Moriarty! He's out there, and I've found him."

"Alright, then," Lestrade sighed, his confusion forgotten, "Let's get him, then."

Moriarty was in a cell. Lestrade has taken Sherlock's advice to heart, and now this terrible murderer was behind bars. Sherlock, despite Lestrade's better judgment, was allowed a few moments alone with Moriarty before they left the station. "Hello," Sherlock murmured, "My biggest fan."

Moriarty grinned at Sherlock through the bars of his cage, much in the same way a cat might look at a mouse. "Hello, Sherlock. Strange, us meeting this way."

"What?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his brow.

"Well, it isn't how we usually meet," Moriarty drawled, still without his smile faltering.

Sherlock studied him, from his oddly perfect clothes and hair, to his unsettling smile. "You're insane," he decided.

"You're just getting that now?" the villain growled. "Odd thing for you to say…of all people."

Sherlock glared at him. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, you're insane too. Aren't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked, and in a flash, everything he saw was white. The walls were white, the ceiling was shining with a painfully bright light, and even Moriarty was shimmering in an odd way. He blinked again, and everything had gone back to normal. He staged backwards, still glowering at Moriarty. "What was that?" he snapped.

Moriarty chuckled, and suddenly, Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but calmed himself when he realized that it was John. "You alright, mate?" John asked him.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Oh, you're talking to him again," Moriarty sneered.

"What do you know about John?" Sherlock snapped, suddenly terrified for his only friend.

"Tell me, Sherlock, what would you do without John?"

Sherlock made to give him a sarcastic retort, but stopped for a moment as that question hit him hard, right in that one, small part of his brain in which he housed his emotions. John was always there for him. Always. He always has been. At this point, he couldn't remember life without John Watson in it. He would be lost without John. In fact, he may even venture to say that he would drive himself mad with genius and loneliness without him. "I'd go mad," Sherlock muttered.

"You would, wouldn't you?" Moriarty muttered, his smile growing.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, confused. "Of course I would." He blinked hard again, his vision losing its focus until everything was very suddenly white again. He shook his head violently, and he was back in Scotland Yard, almost. The lines between reality and his nightmares were suddenly very blurred, so that he had to concentrate with everything that he had just to understand what Moriarty was telling him.

"It's okay, Sherlock," Moriarty whispered, "It's time to wake up now. Just like you always do."

"Wake up?" Sherlock muttered, stumbling backwards. He glanced to the side, and despite the blinding light, he realized that John was no longer there. Instead, Mycroft was standing beside him.

"Come on, Sherlock. Wake up," he commanded. Sherlock turned back to Moriarty, only to find that he had disappeared. Instead, he had been replaced a nurse. An all too familiar nurse, but not familiar enough that Sherlock could remember her name.

"It's alright, dear," she assured him, "It's time for your medication."

"My…my medication?" Sherlock asked. He turned to his brother, almost desperately. "Where's John?"

Mycroft only sighed and began to walk towards the door.

"Mycroft! What happened to John? Where am I?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, turning back to his confused brother, "John isn't real. Must we go through this every morning?"

Sherlock's stomach dropped. "Not real?" He asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean you're in a mental hospital, Sherlock. You have been ever since you were seventeen years old. Since then, you've imagined a friend for yourself, named John Watson, an ex-army doctor who often solves cases with you. Unfortunately, Sherlock, I have the unpleasant task of seeing to you every morning in the hopes of finding some improvement in your condition, but as of yet, I have not seen any. Please, Sherlock. Do try a little harder to remember yourself. Mummy would like to see you home for Christmas this year."

"But…John…I –"

"No, Sherlock. John Watson is merely a figment of your own imagining. He has never existed, nor will he ever."

Sherlock swallowed hard, attempting to take all of this in. "He…he was my friend. My only friend. He has to be real."

Mycroft nodded, a saddened expression shadowing his face. "I know, brother. I know. Genius requires an audience. And without that audience…" Mycroft watched as Sherlock was handed two pills from the nurse, as well as a cup of water. He looked down at the pills like a child, before turning his eyes back up to Mycroft. "…a genius goes mad," he finished. He turned to leave the room without another word, leaving Sherlock shouting for him.

Once Sherlock realized that shouting was useless, he looked down at the pills in his hand again. The nurse smiled and encouraged him to take them. He did so, as if it were a habit, then swallowed a mouthful of water. "That's a good boy, Sherlock," the nurse said, smiling at him. "Now it's Jim's turn."

"Jim?" Sherlock asked, watching the nurse as she crossed the room. There, he realized that he had a roommate. His roommate was all too familiar, and he was rocking back and forth on his bed with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. The nurse gave him his medicine, ad he obediently did as she told him. As she left the room, Sherlock watched Jim. His eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the window, and a disturbing smile was plastered across his face, much like the one in Sherlock's dream. "What are you looking at?" Sherlock asked him, sitting up in his own bed.

Jim Moriarty slowly turned his head to look at Sherlock. "The angels," he whispered. Sherlock furrowed his brow, trying to see the angels Jim spoke of, but saw nothing as he looked out the window beside perfectly ordinary people. "I don't like the angels," Jim continued, "They're boring. You're boring too."

Sherlock glared at him as he turned back to the window. "Why am I boring?" He asked.

"Because you're on their side," he answered, "The side of the angels, that is."

"No I'm not," Sherlock insisted.

"Yes you are. You're not like me. You're not actually insane; they just think you are because you're different. But at least you have John." With that statement, Jim Moriarty suddenly began laughing, for no obvious reason at all, and Sherlock shrank back into his bed in horror. He only wanted to know where John was. He didn't understand all of this talk of a mental hospital and imaginary friends. He only wanted John. John understood him, and John would always be there for him.