So, it appears to be Sherlock updating week, so I decided to have in on the fun! This is gonna be a pretty angsty chappie, so just... Bare with me, yeah?

Shoutout to l91margaret and her guest friend, the first and last of my fifteen reviewers. There's your honorable mention for ya. To everyone else who reviewed/favorited/followed, thanks! You guys are awesome!

I'm aiming for 25 reviews before I update, mainly because I need time to write. ;-). But I think you guys can do it! You guys are amazing. As always, first to review gets an honorable mention! Go, go, go!

If you actually read what is turning out to be the longest AN ever, thanks! I really don't know how you put up with me. To all those who just skipped it... Oh, whatever. I know where Sherlock keeps the guns, after all. MWAH HAH HAH HAH!

Now, on with the story! As always, I don't own!

-Leo


Previously: This was the mans last thought, and Sherlock Holmes descended into a fitful and anxious sleep.


Flesh is burning

You can smell it in the air

Cause men like you have

Such an easy soul to steal (steal)

So stand in line while

They ink numbers in your head

You're now a slave

Until the end of time here

Nothing stops the madness,

Turning, haunting, yearning

Pull the trigger

You should have known

The price of evil

And it hurts to know

That you belong here, yeah

Ooh, it's your fuckin' nightmare


He knew it was a dream, but somehow that made it even worse. Sherlock stood in the middle of a sandy desert- he'd never actually been to Afghanistan, but his subconscious seemed to know what it was doing. Sadly. All around him, Sherlock could hear the blast of gunfire and the babble of voices echoing around him.

No, not him. Them.

For standing not-to-far from Sherlock, running towards him like there was Hell on his heels, was a man. A man with sandy yellow hair and light blue eyes. John Watson was running towards Sherlock Holmes, and for once, Sherlock didn't have a care in the world. Nothing but one, and that one care was running towards him like his life depended on it.

But then, the dream seemed to slow down, as the man stopped, stumbled, and began to fall.

By the time Sherlock reached John, his John, John was struggling to breathe, a crimson flower staining the front of his shirt.

It was all so real. Too real, as John struggled to speak.

"S-Shlk?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock whispered. "I am right here- John?! John!" Sherlocks voice rose to a panicky shout as he watched the only man he'd ever loved struggle for breath.

"Shlk..."

"Yes, John. Please, focus on breathing. Do not talk, just breath." Sherlock said, beginning to ramble, trying to keep the tremor of fear from his voice. John's eyes were glassy. He he took a deep, shuddering breath, murmured something, and then- nothing. The man Sherlock had loved with all his heart was no more.

"John! John, please-"

Sherlock let the tears fall, no longer caring that the others in this horror of a nightmare could see, glowering in the background. For he and he alone had heard the last words of John Hamish Watson.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I love you."

"John!"


"John!"

Sherlock woke with a cry, the dream still fresh in his mind. His body trembled and his shirt clung to his thin frame.

"John..."

He clung to the name like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him adrift in this stormy sea of emotion. Fresh tears replaced dry ones as Sherlock curled into a ball, body still shaking like a leaf. 'Oh, John...' He thought hopelessly. 'Dear, dearest John- do you even see what you do to me?'

Sherlock entered his mind palace, sprinting towards the well-polished black door with a single label. He stroked it for just a second, then pushed his way inside.

The John-room, cluttered with memories and pictures and smells and the taste of John's lips and the sound of his laughter- the most beloved of all rooms in this place. It was here that Sherlock kept everything he held dear.

Far away, he could hear his name being called, but it wasn't John calling, so he didn't care. He descended deeper into his mind, pulling out memories- small, insignificant memories that were so important now.

His name was still being called- he knew that voice. Lestrade.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I need- Sherlock!"


And enter Lestrade! Wow. I always did imagine Lestrade as a kind of father figure for Sherlock... Guess we'll have to see where this takes us.

Personally, I am FREAKING OUT! Less than 24 hours to the supernatural season finale! If they kill Cas, I swear...

As always, please leave a review!

-Leo