I sat, perched on my stool in the lab with my eyes dancing around a slide. Molly buzzed around, nervous as usual. She fidgeted constantly in my presence, always shaky and shy. Her lipstick was a subtle brown today. The slide contained a small amount of blood from a crime scene. The sample was depressingly predictable. Middle aged woman, forty-two years old, overweight and recovering cancer patient experiencing menopause. Dull. My nose wrinkled with distaste. Surely, Molly had something more interesting for me to pursue.

"Sherlock?" she asked, her voice soft and timid as always, "We've gotten a new body in the morgue. A suicide." A darkness tinged her voice. I was curious, something interesting finally. Rising from my stool, I straightened and buttoned my jacket. A flashback hit me as went to pick up my coat.

I was falling again and I could see John's face contort as I hit the ground, my side and legs taking the brunt of the collision. Pain seared through me as ribs cracked and my shoulder popped. There was no time to lose over mere pain, I had to be gone. A bike hit John, as was part of the plan. I hated to see him pushed down like that and hurt but it was for his own safety. I took the cue and made my efficient escape, or as efficient as my damn body would allow me to be. I was limping at the fastest pace I could muster, my body screeching at me to stop, till I was behind St. Bart's and in Molly's car, which had been cleaned earlier that week judging by the distinct scent of cleaning products and vanilla air freshener. I was holding my side and my arm was limp on my lap.

"Are you alright?" Molly asked, distracting me from my me to focus back into life and my current situation. Right. There's a body in the morgue. Suicide.

"Oh, yes, fine. Perfectly fine," I replied quickly grabbing my coat. Pain shot through me as my shoulder protested from the sudden movement. I couldn't help but to grimace as my body began to throb. I couldn't help but to grimace. Molly noticed.

"Maybe you should stay behind this time," Molly gestured. I shook my head, slightly annoyed despite her offer being well intended. The last thing I needed was to sit behind while I was already bored to tears.

"I am fine, Miss Hooper," I reiterated tersely. A grim smile crossed her lips but she did not protest my decision further. Without another word, we were traveling. A sense of excitement coursed through me. Suicides were always the best, because half of the time, they weren't real suicides, they were murders made to look like suicides and then that's when the best of the chases come in. And even if they are suicides, getting into their heads to find out why can be most intriguing.

A quiet bounce illuminated my steps as I tossed around possibilities. He or she? Method? Poison? Hanging? My pace quickened and Molly sighed from behind me. I ignored it and continued my trek, letting myself into the exam room. A black body bag layed on the table, hiding the deceased within its opaque womb. Molly came to stand beside me and sighed dismally.

"Suicide's are always the worst," she mumbled.

"Quite the contrary," I replied, "They are the most fascinating." Shaking her head, Molly simply stepped forward to look at her clipboard. Her face darkened with disbelief as she dove for the zipper and yanked it down to reveal the face of the corpse. Her hands came to her mouth and tears rolled from her eyes. I couldn't help but look at her confusedly. Someone she knew, well.

"Sherlock, look," she managed with a shocked whisper, pointing down into the bag. I came forward, my curiosity peaked. I pulled edge of the bag down so I could peer in without getting too close. The moment my eyes made contact with the body, my world crashed around me. I felt myself crumple within and the tears came to me without hesitation.

"John," I breathed, forcing back the powerful wave of emotion that threatened to kill me. A bullet hole was centered in his left temple and his face was oddly calm. The face of death. I couldn't handle this, it was far too much. Rushing from the room, I searched frantically for a place to hide, desperate to get away.

"Oh Sherlock Holmes, you make this too easy," an all too familiar voice stated from behind me. I turned on my heel to see a grinning Moriarty pointing a handgun at me.

"You are boring."

With that, he pulled the trigger.

My eyes flashed open as I sprang to a sitting position. I cried dumbly, creating a cracking sound in my throat as my body screamed in pain. My shoulder and ribs burned angrily. Clutching myself, my chest heaved and my hands shook. I closed my eyes and allowed tears to leak from them. I hoped to whatever God there could be that I wasn't screaming in my sleep. Damn my brain. I thought bitterly. Slowing my breath the best I could, I climbed out of bed. My housecoat was shrugged over my shoulders and I made my way to the kitchen. The image of John on the gurney was still blazing in my head. I tried fervently to delete the images with no avail.

Reaching into the cupboard, I extracted a mug and mulled over the tea bags. Something simple. I plucked up a bag of Earl Gray and dropped it lazily into the cup. I put the kettle on before stumbling to the window where my violin rested. I resisted the urge to pick it up for fear of my shoulder resisting. I was in enough pain as it was, I didn't need to compound that.

London was peaceful tonight. Few cars drove the streets and the sky was clear. The orange light of streetlamps and pollution gave the city a warm glow. I sighed and carefully brought my hands to my lips with deep thought.

What is wrong with me? These nightmares must stop. I am Sherlock Holmes dammit, I do not do this. And what if I wake up John if I suddenly begin yelling? I can't allow that to happen...

A distinct scream pulled me from my mind palace. It was hoarse and throaty. I wasn't the only resident of 221B having this wretched dreams.

"John," I gasped as my heart sank sorrowfully. Not you too. I thought. I paced to his room and stopped short of his cracked door. His silhouette contrasted harshly from the moonlit window. He was sitting up in the same position I had been in not five minutes ago, face buried in his hands and breath heavy. I looked upon him, his shirtless frame was convulsing with violent sobs. A hard lump formed in my throat as unease washed over me. I wanted to help but had no idea how to approach him. In my discomfort, I fled to my room and collapsed onto my sheets. I am such a coward. I won't even help my friend because I'm too afraid. A small whimper escaped me.

I knew I wouldn't sleep and cursed the darkness. As my eyes closed, the kettle cried out. Oh, right. Tea. Forcing myself from the security of my bed, I fumbled my way to the kitchen in order to fulfill my need for caffeine; a drug that would be most welcome in the coming hours. As I left my room, I pulled three patches from their box and instinctively began to roll up my sleeve.