Sherlock Holmes suddenly awoke in a pool of his own cold sweat, something very uncommon for him. He checked his pulse: his heart was beating fast. He looked down at his shirt; it was damp around the neck collar and the dampness tapered down towards his navel. His hair stuck to the back of his neck, indicating he had been sleeping in the perspiration for quite awhile. There were many explanations for this: andropause, menopause and illness. Sherlock quickly dispelled these, considering he was still a young man and was perfectly healthy. Which only lead to one plausible diagnosis: a nightmare.

He racked his brain for remnants of his dream, though he knew he would never get dream fully back. There was John Watson, a bomb, sniper scopes and Moriarty. He had been wrong, it wasn't a nightmare, it was a memory. Sherlock shook his head and dismissed the memory. It was a year ago, there was no sense in having nightmares now. He stepped into the shower and rubbed his eyes. The corners of his eyes stung from the sharp and painful tears that had dried while he slept. Crying, too, was uncommon for him. But, again he dismissed it.

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and toweled off, leaving the towel carelessly on the floor. He traipsed into his bedroom and changed into a slim black suit with a pastel blue collared dress shirt. It complemented his eyes, someone once told him. He returned to the bathroom where he looked into the mirror. His dark wavy hair had a mind it's own, it parted slightly to right and curled over his ears. He gave up years ago trying to style it, he figured it looked fine the way it was.

Sherlock stared at his bed with intensity, his arms crossed across his narrow chest.

"I'm not sleeping on those sheets ever again" he said to himself as he stripped his beds of sheets, throwing them to the left of his bed, a seemingly empty and unused area. As he grabbed a new set of sheets from the linen closet, in vain, he began to think that maybe stripping his sheets would strip his mind of the memories of that night, the night where he almost got him and his best friend killed.

It wasn't the thought of the danger that haunted Sherlock—that was a customary thing for John and him—it was the thought that his best friend, his only friend, was a hostage in a situation that had nothing to do with him. He couldn't imagine living in 221B without Dr. Watson. He couldn't imagine life without Dr. Watson, period.

John and him were friends, just friends, to the chagrin of others who viewed them as a "complementary couple". John had Sarah, who, whether or not Sherlock wanted to admit it, was a wonderful match for John. However, that didn't keep Sherlock from genuinely caring for his friend and wanting to protect him. But it also didn't hinder Sherlock's innate needs. Sherlock wanted companionship that friendship couldn't supply him. Someone who could suffice his brain and rid the boredom he suffered from when the police, for once, could handle a case. Sherlock Holmes wanted a woman-yes, a woman-in his life. John's happiness with Sarah inspired Sherlock's own needs for female companionship, though he would never admit it. Though not against women in any sense, Sherlock lacked a sort of compassion for them. He believed the womanly mind to be inscrutable as he often misinterpreted them. Even with the most brilliant mind on the planet, Sherlock Holmes couldn't decipher the mind of women. Women weren't his area of expertise and he was one to admit this. However, this inability to understand them drew Sherlock in. If there was one thing Sherlock loved it was surprises, and women were full of them.