Nightmares.
Every night.
No joy, no happiness, no humour.
Just nightmares.
John, jumping off a building. John, placing a gun to his head. John, with blood trailing down his face, looking the same as Sherlock did the day he jumped.
It was overwhelming.
There was only one time Sherlock had been scared in his adult life: the night he saw an impossible hound.
Now, every time Sherlock woke, he would be tangled in sheets, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, his heart racing and mouth dry. And now, every time he woke, his dreams would intertwine with reality, leaving the same three thoughts echoing in his head.
John is dead.
No.
He killed himself.
Never.
It's my fault.
Impossible.
John. Dead. My fault.
And Sherlock would be scared.
Scared, that his only friend was dead. That it was his fault. That John would never be seen again.
John. Dead. My fault.
And he would finally understand how John felt.