Chapter 1: Nightmare

Blood.

It was everywhere. The floor, the walls, the beeping monitors. Sherlock was choking on the smell. He cautiously crept toward the bed, slogging through the red puddles on the floor. He knew full well what he would see there, but also that it was futile to try and back away.

Staring off at the wall, he managed to grab the metal rail. He was not going to look. He was not going to look, but suddenly his head was pointing down and he couldn't breathe.

Dead, hollow eyes stared back amid the red pools and broken bones. He screamed…

…and fell off the side of his bed in a tangle of sheets. He lay there for a few minutes clutching the carpet, heart pounding, half expecting to sit up and see her laying above him on the mattress leaking blood and tears over the side like waterfalls. Counting silently, he willed the vision back into its cubicle in his mind palace, locking the door behind it.

It had been a long time since he'd dreamed of her. He had hoped it would have stopped altogether, after all these years, but apparently some memories don't die easily.

John burst into his room in a cacophony of thumps and bleary swearing. Sherlock hauled himself into a sitting position and tried to look as dignified as possible. He quickly deduced, given his flatmate's general demeanor, that his scream had not been entirely imaginary.

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you doing in here?" John said. "It's two in the morning!" His eyes danced quickly around the blankets on the floor. "I swear, if you're using again…"

"I'm not." Sherlock cut him off gruffly. "I just…had a bad dream, that's all." He reached over to the side of his bed to pull himself off the floor.

Suddenly, he froze. His stupid transport's heart pounded in his ears and tears came to its eyes. The dream came back in crashing waves as he stared at his bare left wrist. It was gone.

Forgoing all traces of dignity, he threw himself back into the sheets, digging through them in a panic. No, no, no, it couldn't be gone, it just couldn't, what if he lost it…A heavy weight collapsed on top of him, pushing him once more into the carpet. He fought against it fiercely before realizing it was John.

"Sherlock," John cried, compassion and fear shaking his voice, "calm down before you hurt yourself! It was just a dream! It's over now…"

"No, no it'll never be over where is it I can't find it, "Sherlock took a huge breath, his heart beating too fast for him to hear, and kept pawing at the ground. "Oh please don't let her be gone please where is it I can't fail again…"

"What in the world has gotten into the two of you?" Mrs. Hudson had arrived, her eyes groggy and her hair in mint green curlers. "Do you know what time it is? Some of us have to work in the morning…"

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Hudson, he's just had a nightmare..."

Sherlock twisted violently and shoved John in the chest at the same time, dislodging the former army doctor's viselike grip. Ignoring the shout of pain, he ran to his landlady and grabbed her shoulders. "Mrs. Hudson my bracelet is gone have you seen it oh please I need it back!"

"Bracelet? What bracelet?" John pulled himself up from the floor, holding the side of his face where he had banged into the bedside table. Sherlock paused in his panic to throw him a dark look. Really, John should be more observant. He noticed everything about his flatmate from the way he liked his tea to what color socks he wore on what day of the week; you would think John would notice what he wore every day. He turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson. "Please, have you seen it?" he said through labored breathing.

"Oh, you mean those wooden beads?" The dazed woman gestured toward the stairs. "I found them in your trouser pocket at the Laundromat, dear, I put them in the key bowl when I came home."

He was perfectly aware that, in his haste to reach the stairwell, he had knocked her over, but he knew John would catch her. Besides, there were more pressing matters to think of. He ran down the stairs two at a time, reaching the door of the house in a record time that he would have recorded had he not been in such a state. He upended the key bowl and there they were.

Suddenly exhausted, he sat with his back against the door and slipped the worn brown beads onto his wrist where they belonged. "Put them in my trousers…stupid…be more careful." He turned the round beads slowly around his wrist, like he always did when he got out of control. They were the only reminder he had of her, and of what could have been. And unlike the nightmare, which could go away whenever he wanted, if he lost these beads his work would be done; he would lose sight of why he had started this crusade in the first place. That would never happen. He would not allow it.

His heartbeat finally falling to a normal level, sleep washed over him in full force. By the time John ran down the stairs, he was asleep on the doormat in the fetal position, all worry forgotten.

…

He awoke the next morning, two hours after he normally got up, in his own bed. He sat bolt upright, hoping that the incident last night had been another crazy dream. A quick check of his wrist confirmed the beads were still there, and he allowed himself a smile. He then sealed off all his emotions to prepare for the coming day; as Mycroft had always said, "Caring is not an advantage. It will not help your victims, nor anyone around you." He was right, of course.

Sherlock dressed for the day and went out to the kitchen for his morning cup of tea. John, already up and dressed, was sitting at the table with the paper and his own mug. Barely looking up from the page, he mumbled a "morning". Sherlock didn't respond. He merely poured a cup of tea, went to the couch and lay down to drink. Okay, what was on today's agenda? There were some fresh eyeballs in the fridge, from Molly at the morgue, just begging to be coated with acid; that would be fun. Who knew, maybe a case would pop up. It wouldn't be very interesting, they never were…

"So…last night."

He choked on his tea. John still hadn't looked at him, pretending that whatever was in the paper was more interesting than what he had just said. Come to think of it, John didn't have a bruise on his cheek yesterday, and that was right where he had gotten hit in the…it wasn't a dream.

He breathed slowly, trying to keep his heart rate down. "What about last night?"

"You know very well what. You screamed loud enough to wake half the neighborhood, had some kind of fit on your bedroom floor, knocked down Mrs. Hudson, and then fell asleep on our door mat. If this is normal…"

He sighed. John had only been living with him for two months now, and the dream had only resurfaced last night. "No, John, last night's…theatrics do not happen every night. I apologize, both to Mrs. Hudson and to you, for my abruptness. It won't happen again, I'm sure."

"You said you had a nightmare." John finally looked away from the paper and at his flatmate with an impartial expression. "Care to talk about it?"

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Because whatever it was seemed to upset you."

Another sip of tea. "You know emotions aren't really my area, John."

"You were certainly feeling something last night. I would call it a panic attack if not for the nightmare."

"I am perfectly fine. Night terrors are not uncommon; they are mostly triggered by stress, or in my case boredom. Are there any new cases?"

"Don't change the subject." He rested his head on his hand in a thoughtful expression. "What was your dream about?"

"Irrelevant. I deleted it." If only that were true. "And since when are you a therapist, anyway?"

"Come off it, Sherlock, I'm concerned about you. It's what friends do."

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, John, when will you learn? Caring is not an advantage."

John stood up violently, nearly knocking his mug over. "Well maybe that's how the Holmes boy live, but the rest of the world takes great pride in protecting the people they care about. Christ, Sherlock, haven't you ever cared about anyone besides yourself?"

The silence could have been cut with a knife. Sherlock looked away from John's laser eyes, unconsciously twirling the beads around his wrist. The door had cracked at that last remark. His eyes closed. "Yes." He breathed.

Before John could respond, Sherlock's phone rang. He jumped to answer it. "Yes? Ah, Lestrade, what do you have for me? Oh?...Yes, you're quite right. Where?...The shipyard? Perfect. Ten minutes." He terminated the call and ran for the stairs. "We've got a case. Finish that on the run, we've got…"

"Yeah, I heard. Ten minutes." John was already chugging the last of his tea. The two grabbed their coats and Sherlock's scarf and rushed out onto the street to hail a cabby. "Just so you know, this conversation isn't over." John whispered as a cab pulled up to the curb.

"I'm sure." Sherlock whispered back. He decided to examine this case a bit longer than usual; delaying the inevitable wasn't his style, but in this particular case…He sighed as they got in the cab. Something told him this case would be different from the others. Something was stirring in London today. He could feel it.

…

Something was going to change today. She could feel it the second she woke up. It was strange; she hadn't really SEEN anything for a while now, ever since they had come to the city. But just getting up, she had felt her perception coming back. Yes, something was defiantly coming. Something big.

She stood by the window with a bit of toast from breakfast, watching the traffic wiz by. Maybe he would send her payment today. Oh, but that was ridiculous, she had only given him the finished work last night. That was nowhere near enough time. Sipping her tea, she rolled her shoulders and grimaced. The old battle wounds were acting up today. Maybe it had something to do with last night's dream. It had been THAT dream, of course. Even after all these years, nothing terrified her more than THAT dream. She had hoped it would fade over time. But it simply burrowed deeper into her mind, creeping to the surface when she least expected it.

Memories of blue eyes, pain, and blood.

AN: Hello, readers. Just a few standard notes here.

First of all, I don't own anything to do with the Sherlock TV show. All credit for it's creation belongs to BBC. If I did own them, my parents would not have mortgage payments and I would be typing this from my private villa in Italy. Ahh, if only...

Second, I know how many of these Sherlock x OC's exist in this enormous fandom, but I genuinely like the story I'm coming up with here and wanted to throw my hat into the ring. Over the course of this tale, if I have taken any of your ideas, I sincerely apologize.

Thirdly, because of my schedule (I'm nearing the end of high school), scatter-brain, and the fact that I'm still writing this, there won't be a regular update day. Sorry.

Fourthly, the quote in my summery can be found in The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, a collection of newly minted stories based off of (and occasionally making fun of) the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The exact credit, which I didn't have room to give in my summary, belongs to Barry Jones, author of the story entitled "The Two Footman". Wonderful book; any Sherlock Holmes enthusiast among you should give it a go.

And lastly, thank you for your interest, and hope you like what's to come. Please review! - Gavi