Disclaimer: I own nothing
I return to Baker Street.
Never left, actually. I never saw the point in leaving. 's taken care of me and I, her. I couldn't leave her. I couldn't leave the memories Sherlock left behind either.
I would remember everything about him whenever I walked into the flat from the bullet holes in the wall to the (now clear) kitchen table. But when I climb the stairs to the flat I feel nothing. I only feel shock and betrayal. The afore mentioned memories are now bitter and worthless.
I continue through the flat, not sure of what to do with myself.
After maybe two minutes of inane wandering about the flat I subconsciously trudge to my room and collapse on the bed. I barely manage to kick my shoes off before I'm dead asleep, hoping for a better tomorrow.
My dreams consist of Sherlock falling repeatedly from a random assortment buildings. Blood on the ground. On his face, in his hair...
Well fuck dreams and fuck sleep.
It's fucking 2:00am when I wake up, sprawled over the covers of my bed.
"Nngh." I groan into the pillow after getting a good look at the clock to make sure I hadn't read it wrong.
I look around my darkened bedroom. The window lets in a bit of light from the street lamp outside, but not enough for me to find a tangible reason for waking up. I suppose it was because of the damn dreams. The dreams hadn't been real. Reality hasn't even been real. I don't understand why that bothers me so much, it just does. Shouldn't I be happy that Sherlock is alive?
No. (Yes).
Of course I should be.
That doesn't mean that I am.
I stop looking around the room for something that isn't even there and drop my head on the pillow again. Before I can stop myself, or even realise why I'm doing it, a gross sob escapes my throat. Luckily the sound is muffled into the pillow, but just muffling my sobs is not enough to keep the emotions rushing through me. Repulsion, shame, betrayal, longing, and worst of all: hope. Hope that I can let him crawl back into my life like a helpless puppy. And that maybe I can do the same for him. It's disgusting. I mentally kick myself for even thinking about it. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.
"Yup," I sigh, "life's a bitch."
has told me several times that the walls are thin, but really I couldn't care less at the moment. She's asleep by now anyway.
"Mmgh-" I sit bolt upright in my bed, my heart pounding in my ears as I try to listen. All is deadly quiet. I listen and hear nothing more, but I'm still not convinced that it was nothing. I grab my gun from inside my bedside table and roll my legs off the bed onto the cold floor. I slide off the bed with little to no noise at all and duck down beside the bed. I creep around the room, as quietly as I can, checking every corner, every square inch of the room the noise could have come from.
But I find nothing. I stand, walk to my bed and put the gun back into its special drawer. I sigh as I lay back down again. It was nothing. Just... Nothing. My heart beat returns to normal as I calm myself. My eyes start to droop with new found exhaustion. My eyes shut and I fall asleep quickly.
After that, my sleep is undisturbed by dreams and/or noises.
Not even the sounds of a quick moving thing, or should I say person, chuckling gently in my own room that night.
A/N: Quit being such a creeper, Sherlock. Sheesh.