Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock. Please don't sue me.

Nightmares are not something you get used to, no matter how much or how loudly you say, "I'm fine."

Memories doubly so.

The nice thing about nightmares, of course, is that you wake up. The sun rises, and the guns drop and bombs disintegrate.

I can remember the first time my dreams were peaceful, after the war. I had just killed a man I'd never met for a man I barely knew. They didn't stay that way for long, but it was a sharp improvement that my therapist could never hope to achieve. I would pay her much more if she did. The best thing she did for me was tell me to start a blog.

(I can't post this there. I've only just managed to stop Mrs Hudson coming over with biscuits, even though I live five tube stops away. It's nice here. Not so many memories, and Mycroft has kindly agreed to leave my bedroom unbugged.)

So I stuck around. I became his flatmate, and his best friend, and one of the few people on this planet who can tolerate him.

They try to tolerate me, but I don't blame them for the worried looks they try to hide away. I'm becoming worse than he ever was. I realize this. I know that it's been three years and I shouldn't still visit his grave every morning on the way to the clinic. I'm still late for work, every morning. I'm sure it's Mycroft's influence that they haven't laid me off, but he won't say a word.

I still had nightmares, when I lived in that flat with him. I'm quiet when I dream. Very few girlfriends noticed how tense I become when I sleep. How tight my grip becomes if I happen to (rarely) have my arms around them. Every time, I would wake up to violin music (the only time I didn't complain about his habitual violin playing at four in the morning).

I meet him for the first time, and he takes away my limp, my nightmares, and my ability to have a steady relationship. He dies, and the only thing I don't get back is my ability to have a steady relationship. Mrs Hudson and Molly are still certain that what I need is a little romance for me to get out of this funk. It didn't work the first thirty blind dates they forced me out on. They've even started to branch out - Mrs Hudson was asking the advice of her "married ones" last I've heard.

I liked my nightmares better when I was out of the army. I miss them, even.

I was in Afghanistan, crouching in the sand of the riverbed. Sand coated my teeth and the ground whenever I spoke to my team, detailing the plan for infiltrating the compound that was just barely visible from my position. The air was dry and still, heat coming off the earth in waves and a bright blue sky overhead. We were five men: Will, Ethan, Thomas, James and I. Each of us had been there for at least a year. James smiled at me, confident, then they opened fire. He ended up dying of his wounds in my arms once we retreated.

I was in Afghanistan, hot metal biting into my hand, and I made a mistake.

I was in Afghanistan, fresh out of medical school, and I was too late for the first time.

I was supposed to protect her (strong, smart, capable) and I failed.

Not easy, but simple. Predictable. All true stories, with some twist to make it even more monstrous.

"I hate you."

"Tell her I"

"Why won't you save me?"

They repeated themselves, so I found the motifs, discussed meanings with my therapist. Pointless. I knew what they meant: I was haunted by the war. Only not actually haunted, but missing the battlefield.

Lestrade used to call me when there was a case he couldn't figure out. "You know his methods," he'd say. "You're all we've got." I was wrong the first time, and the second. I was right the third time around. I asked Lestrade never to ask me to work on a case again.

I have nightmares every night. He comes back. He talks, he doesn't talk. He plays the violin, his hands shake so they cannot hold the bow. He smiles, alive at the thought of another murder. He goes insane, he fails. He dies (over and over I see that body on blood splattered pavement). He explained how he came back once. It was so clear, so perfect, that the next day I drove Molly Hooper to tears in St. Bart's.

It doesn't matter. For all intents and purposes, I cannot exist in my nightmares. It doesn't matter if I am awake or asleep. If I reach out, he fades before my touch. If I try to speak, he smiles and walks away. Sherlock Holmes is as inaccessible now as he always was.

They were worried that I would commit suicide. I was worried that I would commit suicide, scared that he would come back and find me dead. Terrified that he might be disappointed with me for taking the easy way out, for not trusting in his brilliant mind. At the start, I was confident that it was all some clever trick. Some way of protecting us (me) and that when it was over, he'd swoop back in and crow about his success. Or that he'd come back, bloody, beaten and scarred, and I would take care of him. Because I had this incredible that the great Sherlock Holmes needed me. Then the nightmares began in earnest, and I began to go insane. I would take huge amounts of sleeping pills so that I might see him again and hear his voice, even if I was powerless. At some point, I began to hallucinate, imagining that he was right there in the flat with me and I would watch this apparition for hours on end. I was terrified that if I took my eyes off of him, he would disappear.

Molly got ahold of Lestrade and they broke down the door. I hadn't left the flat, hadn't bathed or eaten or slept in days. I ended up staying in Lestrade's flat for nearly a month.

After that episode, and with the help of several different kinds of tablets I forced myself to swallow, I had to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock Holmes was dead. I got the job at the clinic. I went out to the pub with Lestrade and my old rugby mates. I went on an uncountable number of blind dates. I tried to live.

I have to move on. Sherlock Holmes is dead. He can only exist in my memories and in my nightmares. I have to know that Sherlock is dead. I have to believe that Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is dead and I am alive.

Tired, I finish the post and click save. After a few minutes, I hear the door click open, and Sherlock walks in.

Calm and sure, I pick up the gun. He knocks it out of my hand and I look up, into his blue-green eyes. My nightmares could never quite get that shade right.

"Goddamnit, Sherlock."

My nightmares have spilled over into reality.