A/N; Okay, I'm hoping to make this long. And it's going to be angsty, to the best of my abilities. I kind of love angst now. I know.
So, enjoy! Or, you know, don't..

The photo for this picture is not mine, I found it on Tumblr by the wonderful Taikova. :)

It's dark. It's cold. It's too quiet. But I'm not scared. I can see you, Sherlock, and that keeps me breathing steadily, keeps my feet from falling out from beneath me as I run faster than I thought I ever could. Keeps me brave.

You turn around, you shout something, I can't hear. You hold out your hand. I'm not running fast enough. I reach out to grasp your fingers, but I fall short. I run faster, but every time I try to grab your hand, it recedes further. I frown, why can't I reach you?

I speed up, my breaths laboured, I jump, I think I've caught you, but your body disintegrates beneath my fingertips into sand, and I'm in Afghanistan again, cold gun metal pressing into my side. I don't have time to wonder how I got here. War is action.

I hear a shot, dive for cover, pull out my gun.

I look at my surroundings. Tall dry grass. I hear a noise, turn around. I see a body, a silhouette against the harsh sun. A male, sitting up, facing me, but I can't see his face. I approach wearily, gun held out.

The glare clears, and I can see again. It's you, Sherlock. What are you doing here?

I hear more gunfire. Now is not the time for questions. I duck again, and try to shout for you to get down, too, but it's too loud. The assault of bullets continues, and suddenly you stiffen, your eyes widen and your features contort into a picture of agony as a patch of brilliant red blooms across your chest, staining the crisp white of your shirt. You fall backwards, slowly, graceful even in death.

I lean over your body, heart pounding. I have seen this happen many times during the war, yet it never gets easier. With you, it's worse.

The scene morphs, and I'm hovering over your body in a different place, a street full of noisy traffic and uncaring civilians. The blood is streaked across your face instead of pouring from your heart, but you have the same dead look in your eyes, the same vacancy that convinces me that it's over. That you're gone.

I wake with a gasp and a strangled scream caught in my throat. My cheeks are lined with tears, and I'm covered in a cold sweat. I look around, and it takes me a second to remember not to expect the surroundings of 221b, but a small, dismal flat instead.

I go through to the dingy bathroom with a pronounced limp. That's right, it came back after you died. You were my ticket to danger, to the war zone, but now I've lost you. You'd probably laugh. Tell me that it's all in my head. I'm better than this. But I'm not.

I splash cold water on my face and look up into the mirror. Thin face, weathered skin, dark shadows under my eyes, no hint of a smile.

This is what you've done to me, this is what you've reduced me to.
Even when you're dead, you can still manipulate my emotions, still haunt my dreams.

You're dead, Sherlock. Why is that? Why do you have to be dead? You can't be. You wouldn't leave me here like this. Then again, you always were selfish. I forgive you though, I always do.

I sigh. Forgiving you won't bring you back. You aren't ever coming back. It's been a month. I need to accept it. I try to, everyday, but I don't know if I can.

You had no idea, the effect that you had on people. Well, that's a lie. Of course you knew. You knew, and you used it as an advantage to get people to do whatever you wanted them to. I'd like to say that I didn't fall for it, but I did, at times. Because I trusted- because I trust- you.

Deep breaths. I get up from where I've sunk to the bathroom floor and limp back to my bedroom. I try to laugh. You'd be laughing.