It was a cloudy day. No, in fact it was that cloudy day, that day two years ago. Jim was in front of him, shaking his hand. It was happening again, he knew what the criminal was about to do this time but he couldn't move, he couldn't stop him from killing himself. It was like he was forced to live that moment again but without being able to change a thing.

"NO!" he shouted watching the body of the other man fall dead to the floor.

Everything was blurry.

Now he was at the edge of the building preparing to fall. Only this time he really was going to fall, to die.

He then felt a touch on his back and he turned around. Jim was there, alive. Again.

Sherlock stepped out of the edge when Jim stretched out his hand to him and when they were face to face he leaned in closer to the taller one and murmured in his ear:

"I don´t want you dead"

He felt a shiver so strong that it traveled through all his body and woke him up.

When he opened his eyes the feeling was still there. So vivid it felt awfully real.

He sleepily gazed over the bedroom to prove that he was in fact alone.

Groaning and sulking he got up of bed. It was more of an instinctive action, there were no reasons for him to get up, what he really wanted was to wash away the images of that dream out of his head before he could process them all.

Dragging his feet he went to the bathroom and got himself into a more than enough hot shower. He closed his eyes when the water had soaked and dropped his hair on his forehead, supporting himself with his arms on the walls, like he needed to hold himself from falling to the floor. These last five days since the encounter with Jim had brought with them new feelings to him, he was feeling extremely vulnerable.

The glory that had been beating the criminal two years ago never existed, it was a failure, a fraud, Sherlock tried to hold onto that last line of thought because it was rather much preferable than the other one that invaded not only his mind, but also his heart. He had missed him, needed him. Hiding this from himself was harder every time and now even Jim knew.

Ten minutes had passed when he realized he had not moved an inch from where he was. He closed the shower rapidly, got dried, got dressed and got out of the bathroom, emotionless-faced, even though nobody was there to see him. At least he had to try.

The last two years Jim could have escaped from London, he had done it all there, he should be bored by now. He didn't though, he remained there even though his entire essence cried to him to leave. Because it really was supposed to be boring by now. Right?

Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was the reason for everything in his life. Nothing could ever change that. Sherlock was his true greatest weakness. The only man who could understand him, who could get a lot close to beating him.

Never in his life had he felt this about somebody. He hated it. He hated him. Or at least he insisted on thinking that. But deep down he knew that such a strong emotion as love was possible for him after all.

He wanted to destroy him, to kill him for making him feel this way. But he was utterly sure he could not live in a world without Sherlock Holmes.

Jim was in his house –a rather regular house not a mansion like he wanted, but he couldn't afford to seek so much attention after his appearance-, standing heavy breathing. Big part of his bedroom was upside down, a broken mirror, a lot of his things on the floor and even his expensive clothes.

Thinking about Sherlock had this effect on him. Violence, occasional self-harming.

He wanted to hate him.

Life was so much easier before the consulting detective.

Notes: Sorry it's a very short chapter, I've been a little stuck with the plot, but now I'm back in the business :3