A/N: Takes place after Riding Job. Also, I'm sorry for this.


"Of all of the times," Greg coughs, a slender trail of blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth, "for you to remember my name," he gasps, "it had to be now." He pants hard, eyes flickering over Sherlock's face, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Sherlock makes a strangled sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. "It had to be sometime."

Greg groans as John leans down on the wound again. It's a futile effort – his hands and the shirt he's using to keep pressure on the bullet hole are slick with blood. And there's more coming pumping out, Greg's eyes fluttering closed though he's still breathing. Still breathing.

Sherlock looks as if he's about to faint, swaying on the spot, his own blood mixing with Greg's, eyes glazed and hollow, one hand still gripping the bloodied Marshal's badge that Greg pressed into it. John watches him, waiting for the moment when he has to forget Greg – dying under his hands – and catch Sherlock so he doesn't injure himself more.

And there's blood everywhere. Blood on his clothes, blood on his face, blood soaking the sand and dust beneath his knees. Greg gives a peculiar little shudder. A gasp, a sigh.

And it's done.

John gasps, eyes snapping open, the darkness of his bedroom pressing down on him. Sand and blood. Blood and sand. Blood and sand and the two of them mixing together to a background of harsh, rapid breaths. It's not real. It's not real.

It is real. This time his nightmares are real.

He swallows and sits up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. Sleep won't come again tonight. Every time he'll close his eyes he'll be confronted with hollow eyes and blood-stained clothes and his own utter helplessness. There was nothing that could be done, only watch.

He never wants to go through anything like that again.

He's still dressed, having been unable to bring himself to change his clothes. It makes it that much easier to shuffle out to the front room.

There's a fire on in the grate. Not an excellent fire, by any means, but a fire nonetheless. By rights it should have gone out hours ago, and then John sees why it's still alive – Sherlock, sitting in his chair staring into it, precisely where John left him earlier with orders to take a dose of laudanum and go to bed. He doesn't stir as John crosses the room and settles into his own chair.

The fire doesn't afford much light, but it is enough to see that Sherlock is still wearing the torn and bloodied shirt he's had on all day, his bandages visible under it. It was his ribs that saved him, the bullet scorched along the edge of one of them, cutting right through to the bone. If it had been over another little bit – well, then John would have had two bodies to bring back for burial. (He almost did. He wasn't able to bandage Sherlock while they were still out there – the wound was too deep and needed too many stitches for that, not to mention disinfecting. So he staunched the blood flow which was slowing by then anyway and tied Sherlock into the saddle – as well that he did, because he passed out halfway back and John had to lead both Redbeard and Greg's horse – with his body tied to it – home.)

The firelight glints off the corner of Greg's Marshal's badge, still clutched tightly in Sherlock's hand. I've no more use for it where I'm going he'd whispered as he pulled it off his shirt and passed it over to Sherlock, the words punctuated by coughs and hisses of pain. Later, Sherlock gripped it so tight while John was tending to his injuries that the edges sliced the palm of his hand open. He simply transferred it over to his other hand while John bandaged the injured one, the pain numbed slightly by the whisky that he'd drunk.

Now, that bandaged hand is wrapped around his half-empty whisky glass. A single tear – illuminated by the fire – clings to his eyelashes, and John's throat constricts at the sight of it. Of course Sherlock hasn't gone to bed – his dreams would be the same as the one that woke John, or worse. He already has plenty of fodder for his nightmares.

John sighs and stands, walking over to the liquor cabinet and fetching another glass and two more bottles of whisky. He won't be able to persuade Sherlock to go to bed, so he may stay up with him and at least make sure that he doesn't pass out in his chair. Perhaps Sherlock's right to be drinking tonight. It'll keep some of these memories at bay, for now.