Watson was standing still in the doorway, paralyzed in every sense of the word. A man stood before him at the top of the stairs, silhouetted against the darkness of the room. The sound of a downpour echoed throughout the stairwell as the man spoke in a voice like a leopard's growl.

"You let this happen, John."

Watson blinked and felt a warm tear slip down his cheek, willing himself not to fall back in amazed horror. As lightning flashed outside, the figure in front of him lit up. Ebony curls and a pastel blue scarf framed a face as pale as snow, and the man's black trench coat seemed to flow in to the darkness around him, making him appear to float off the ground.

"You let him win." He uttered. "And you let me die."

John felt himself lose control, and let it happen. "No. Sherlock please, I can help you. Let me help you." The last few words came out in pleading, guttural sobs as the staircase before him disappeared, turning in to a brick wall that grew to be seven stories high. "Sherlock, I can help you!"

He was in a panic now, as Sherlock tossed a mobile phone down to him, and he caught it in his hands. He glanced at the screen long enough to read "You let me die, John" then looked up, sobbing.

He was already falling. His trench coat trailed behind him like broken wings, and John caught a glimpse of a terrible smile that crossed his face only seconds before he hit the ground in an explosion of crimson red.

The phone buzzed in his hands again, and a picture of Moriarty appeared on the screen along with another short message.

"You loooosssse!"

John awoke screaming, and clutching his bad shoulder as it seared with a phantom pain. He heard footsteps rushing down from the floor above and a moment later Mrs. Hudson was standing in his doorway in a nightgown and slippers, Toby glued to her side with his tail up in alert. The little old lady looked frightened and sad. She pushed her sleeves up – a nervous habit – and spoke.

"Dear John, if it isn't another nightmare. I thought you were working on those with that nice doctor lady!"

"I am," he said, wincing with the fading pain in his old bullet wound. "It just takes some time. I can't imagine they'll last much longer. They'll probably fade out soon enough." It pained him to lie to an old woman that had been nothing but kind since they met, but he couldn't afford the psychologist any longer, and it hadn't been helping him anyways. And Mrs. Hudson didn't need to know that.

"They can bugger off any old time now, this is getting a bit old; you wake up screaming almost every night now, dear. I suppose you're getting quite tired of them too."

"Yes, I am." He didn't have to lie that time.

"And you look terrible too, dear. You need a shave in the worst way. And those clothes! How long have you had that jacket on this round, hmm? I should think you ought to be trying to find someone to maybe spend a bit more of your life with, but you're not going to pick up any girls with a nest growing off your face. No boys either, I should think. Oh and you smell like a pub after midnight! You really should stop all this drinking, it's not good for-"

"Mrs. Hudson, I've said it before and I'll say it again, I am not gay, and nor will I ever be." John muttered irritably. A headache had started again, reminding him that he was quite badly hung-over. "And I told you, I'm quite fine on my own, thanks. A little solitude never hurt anyone."

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "A little, maybe, but it's been more than a year, John. You need someone. You need to… as much as it hurts to say, you need to let him go. He isn't coming back."

She stopped talking and frowned upon seeing the look on Johns' face. He put his head in his hands and rubbed at his sore temples. A long silence passed before Mrs. Hudson suggested she put on some tea, since it was near sunrise anyway. John nodded at the offer, and asked her to throw a few biscuits on the plate while she was at it.

"Not your housekeeper, dear."

"Yes, we've heard that before, haven't we?"

There was no response. He didn't know whether to smile, or sob.