Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters from BBC Sherlock series, they belong to BBC

Prologue - about the nightmares

John stood there by the intersection, phone in hand, he looked up; Sherlock is standing on the rooftop of the hospital.

Sherlock's voice came through the phone, shaking slightly, "Keep your eyes fixed on me." Like he was begging him.

John felt weird; this is not the usual Sherlock's voice, especially not the usual way he talks. Oh, what would Sherlock usually say? He will shoot you from head to toe with his machine gun like speaking pattern, hitting every inch of your body, digging out every single secret of yours, in his self-confident way. And just when you find that you can't handle anymore, and is about to fly into a rage, he will turn to face you with that aren't-I-brilliant smile, his gray-blue eyes expecting of a praise, John felt like he could see the tail under Sherlock's nightgown, held high and shaking.

At this time, John couldn't help but wanting to laugh, but to ensure that Sherlock won't do the same thing again, he had to try his best to keep the curve of his mouth flat, using the most serious voice he could manage to say "Sherlock, shut up."

Then John would pretend to be reading the paper, but he couldn't help himself but look at Sherlock sitting in his black sofa, muttering, "Oh, my brain, it's like a high speed engine, oh, John, how much I envy you!"

At this time, John can always feel his smile growing bigger and bigger.

How nostalgic those times are.

Nostalgic? Why is it nostalgic?

John don't understand why his brain pin pointed on the word 'nostalgic', but right now Sherlock is still on the roof. John is worried "Hey Sherlock, if you have anything to say just come down—"

Before he could finish, Sherlock like a black bird, he jumped off the rooftop without another thought.

"God!"

John couldn't believe his eyes; his cell phone fell out of his hand. He began to ran, trying to catch Sherlock the moment he reach the ground.

Then a bike crashed him to the ground.

The world turns and shakes, and when his eyes fixed on the ground once more, John couldn't believe what he is seeing. Sherlock laying on the ground helplessly, the blood under his body is so red that John felt like his retina is burning.

John wants to stand up, he want to ran over.

But he found that he couldn't move, at all, like his body was nailed to the ground.

"NO—" John couldn't believe that Sherlock would commit suicide, this must be a trick. He needs to go and check for himself. And when he reaches him, Sherlock will stand up from the ground, dusting the dirt from his coat, then say with his bored expression "John, don't worry. I'm just experimenting how high a height suicide by jumping would require."

Oh, that's right, he had already experimented about the problem of saliva of the dead, and the problem of cigarette ash, and the problem of thumbs. This time it must also be a 'problem'.

John thought about all the experiments Sherlock had committed that could scare a normal person to death, his heart finally set.

He walked forward, but the scenery changed.

It's a dark and wet underground factory, Mycroft is playing with the umbrella in his hand.

John felt weird, he was sure he was just standing in the middle of the street, and Sherlock jumped off a building for an experiment. How did he get to this factory by just taking a few steps?

"Mycroft, what's happening?" John asked.

Mycroft kept on playing with the umbrella not answering John's question, "I mean, I just saw Sherlock jump off a 5 story building, nearly scaring me to death, this time you have to tell me to stop making these jokes."

"Just?" Mycroft's voice was low.

"Yes, just, one minute ago to be exact."

"John." Mycroft looked at him with a twisted expression, "I know you are sad, but you have to accept this reality."

John couldn't understand what Mycroft was saying, "accept what?"

"Sherlock is dead," Mycroft's expression a mixture of pain and contradiction, his eyes fixed on John with a slight sign of hatred, "for you."

"No!" John retorted almost immediately. But there was a voice in his heart that said: Sherlock is already dead. John looked at Mycroft, his expression doesn't look fake, the pain of losing his beloved brother is almost blinding on the face that's always smiling, "This is not real, tell me! This is not real!"

John kneeled on the ground, hand against his chest. He doesn't need Mycroft's answer, he remembered.

Yes, his best friend Sherlock Holmes is dead. He even went to see him at the grave yard with Mrs Hudson.

John felt pain, like he was tortured by an incurable illness. He couldn't accept the fact that Sherlock died for him.

It's him, John, Sherlock's best friend, which killed him.

John couldn't accept this fact, he felt shameful, and no word can describe how much pain and sorrow he is in. Every breath he takes in this world was given to him by Sherlock. Every time he walked on the street, the glances from people seemed to say "Look, it's the John that killed his best friend."

He is very, very miserable. Tears couldn't help but fall out of his eyes.

Don't know since when, but now there is only darkness surrounding John.

Moonlights came through the window, shining on John's face, his body curled up, fists held firm, tears on his cheeks, sorrow can be felt on the lips that were held firmly closed.

Only at night can one see fragility, it's yet another night of nightmares.