The heart moving through a tunnel,

In it darkness, darkness, darkness

Like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,

As though we we were drowning inside our hearts,

As though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

The next day he is greeted by an absurdly excited young doctor. Dr. Trevalyan is positively bursting with joy when he enters and it takes a few moments to calm her down enough to explain, rather than flitting around the flat like a maniac, or Sherlock with a serial killer.

"I managed to get half a cup of tea in him!"

"Well, that's bloody fantastic! Has he said anything, moved around at all?"

With a glance to Sherlock, her eyes take on a certain gloominess as she shakes her head slowly.

"No, nothing. I was surprised he even took the tea. It didn't look like he had even heard me when I handed to him, but he took it and drank a bit, still with that look in his eyes. Wish I knew what was happening inside his head. He's just so empty, nothing like what I've read online. It's so sad."

"It's alright," he gives her a quick one armed hug,"I never know what's going on in his head! He's a total nutter, but he'll come out of it eventually. I'm sure of it. He might be crazy, but a stronger man you will never meet."

He releases her from his side and she lends a quick nod and a gentle smile in his direction before returning to the kitchen to make dinner. Lestrade takes up residence in Sherlock's chair like usual and just observes the detective. He has been changed and bathed, but his face remains unshaven and his curls are greasier than ever before. He winces just imagining how filthy Sherlock must feel before realizing that it is very likely Sherlock isn't even registering the filthiness of his head, so lost in whatever mental hell he is currently ensconced in. Lestrade watches as Sherlock's face loses some of its' tension, bit by bit as the minutes pass. Eventually his eyes flutter closed, and Sherlock falls into a light slumber on the sofa. Slowly, Lestrade lifts himself from his chair and creeps silently towards the soft, distant clattering of the kitchen where The doctor stands over the hob stirring a pot of what looks to be some kind of soup bubbles gently. The floor creaks and she turns to him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion; she prepares to speak before Greg puts a finger to his lips to quiet her. He creeps closer to her before whispering excitedly , "He's asleep!" into her ear.

The ladle in the pot drops forgotten as she turns her whole body towards him, practically vibrating with delight, a blazing grin on her face lighting up her features brighter than any sun. She quickly wraps her arms around him in a quick, ecstatic hug before releasing him and hopping up and down in delight and clapping her hands together before seeming to get a handle on herself and taking a deep breathe to calm herself. "Oh thank god!" She sighs in relief, the words barely registering in Greg's ears before she slumps into the chair nearest her at the table. Greg takes the other chair and they sit in silent for a few moments before the doctor, Grace, as Greg now knows her as, seems to remember the abandoned soup on the hob and reaches over to turn off the heat before slumping back and leaving the room in the same relieved, companionable silence as before.

Just as she completely settles into the hard backed wooden chair, they are shocked out of their relieved reverie by a deep, loud groan from the sitting room. They look to one another in shocked silence, the air now so tense it could be cut with a knife, waiting for another sound. Just as they begin to relax back into their chairs, a small whimper resounds in the air and they both shoot from the kitchen as quickly as possible to the sitting room where they are both stopped dead in their tracks by what they see. Sherlock's eyes are shut tightly, his body rigid with tense fear as he wriggles and whimpers quietly on the sofa. His grip on the Union Jack pillow has somehow gotten tighter with one hand while his other scrabbles at his chest near his heart, attempting to grab at something that isn't there and growing increasingly frantic when there is nothing there to grab except the loose fabric of his t-shirt. He groans even louder, the fear and sadness evident even through the depths of sleep and nightmare.

Dr. Trevelyan is the first to shake herself free from the shock and rushes to Sherlock's side, dropping to her knees as she slides on the rug and quickly grasps at his hands, pulling the one away from his chest and gripping it firmly. She speaks low and firm, muttering words that Greg cannot hear as he is released from the cold grip of shock and manages to drop beside her on the rug. He tunes out her words as he places a hand on Sherlock's upper arm and rubs soothingly, speaking in the same low tones as the doctor, assuring him that everything is fine, you're okay, you need to wake up now. Repeating over and over as The doctor backs away and allows Greg to take her place nearer to Sherlock's head.

A minute later Sherlock's eyes snap open. Greg sees a shocking moment of clarity in Sherlock's grey eyes before the darkness takes them again. Greg glimpses his eyes glisten with tears, tears that do not fall, just stay trapped in the creases of his eyes before his head turns away towards the back of the sofa. He backs away and sits on the ground next to the doctor. There are no words to be said, just looks of concern to be shared before Greg hides his head in his hands and allows his despair to wash over him, helpless to help his friend dig himself out of whatever bottomless hellhole he's dug himself into. The doctor, Grace as he now knows her, pats him lightly on the shoulder, her hand lingering comfortingly before wrapping around her legs as she rests her chin on her knees, staring unblinking out the window and into the dusky evening sky. There they sit, unmoving, as stars rise well into the sky and the sun whisks away below the horizon.

Sherlock wakes to blinding morning sunlight streaming in through the windows between the open curtains. He blinks confusedly in the morning haze, caching his bearings when a soft rustle causes him to whisk his head around, expecting to see Mycroft staring smugly at him. His breath catches in his throat as he looks over to see, not thinning ginger hair on pale skin accompanied by an impeccably pressed 3 piece suit, but thick, golden locks on deeply tanned skin and a soft jumper. He meets John's glittering blue eyes and finds the edges wrinkled with amusement as John, his John, smiles down at him from his usual seat in the high backed chair to the left of the crackling fire in the grate.

He can only stare as John eases himself up and kneels beside Sherlock's head, giving him a light kiss on the forehead before looking down on him with a grin and a hand through his curls.

"You were talking in your sleep again, love. You have the most perplexing dreams sometimes. You really dreamt I was dead?" He chuckles lightly. "Are you okay?" Sherlock nuzzles into the hand gently brushing his scalp with calm, warm fingers, inhaling the scent of his beloved and relaxing into his chest where his heart beats soundly with a steady thump thump thump. He feels himself slowly pulled into John's embrace, arms wrapping around his shoulders and holding tightly. "It's okay. You're alright." The soft rumble of John's resonating tenor in his chest only soothing him further as he calms from the effects of his nightmare.

Just as the last of the fear gripping him releases its' hold on his chest, a deafening crash shatters the atmosphere, and apparently the window nearest him, as John crumples to the ground in a bloody, rasping heap. His shaking fingers scrabble at the growing circle of red appearing on the front of his jumper, blood pooling and quickly absorbing into the plush, trodden rug beneath his trembling figure, as his body falls quickly into shock. They are frozen for a moment before Sherlock can grasp what is occurring and flings himself from the sofa to crouch over John, one hand on the wound in an attempt to stop the profuse bleeding, an attempt he knows will be in vain as John trembles harder beneath him. John's eyes begin to glass over and he slaps him on the face, wincing as he does so, bringing him back in to focus on his face.

"John. John! You have to stay with me. You have to look at me! You're a doctor, YOU KNOW THIS! FOCUS!" His voice breathless and chest heaving in panic. John's eyes rise to meet his, his breaths turning short and gasping. "John. Look! Here! You have to stay alive for this, for us!"

His free hand reaches up to grasp the necklace he knows is lying there, except it isn't. It's gone. The one item he knows in his heart will keep John alive is gone, leaving a cool, sweaty, bare patch of skin where it usually lies. His hands scrabble frantically searching for it as John's go glassy again, his trembling weaker. John raises a bloody hand to his cheek and turns his head to look at him, a sad smile gracing his pale, quivering lips. Sherlock's hand still searches frantically but his eyes remain trained on John's as one last whisper floats through the air between them, John's hand dropping to the ground and head lolling back, eyes open, empty, and blank. It takes a moment for Sherlock to register the scene before John's final words to him finally reach his brain as his eyes flash open to reveal soft, brown ones.

"I'm sorry."