Here's chapter 47! By the way, the song Kiara is describing at the end is Pompeii by Bastille, you might want to check it out, it explains her mindset in the end quite well and besides, it's a great song. You could just youtube it, but there is also a link on my profile.

Now, enjoy!

It's still awkward between Mycroft and me a few days later. I knew from the beginning that in the unlikely event of him forgiving me it would take a long time to repair our relationship at least partially, but it seems my hopes were up anyway.

Locking the feeling away isn't hard, especially when Mycroft is nice to me again. I can't help the smile blossoming on my face when he says something nice to me, or when I find my favourite food on the table at lunch one day.

I would almost call it similar to a crush, but I know it isn't. I have had some crushes in my life. No, maybe it's more like a mixture of the feeling I got when Father praised me and when I beat Andy or David.

Strangely, I have more nightmares than ever. They are mostly surreal, and I know they aren't real as soon as I wake up, but there is one fixture that comes up in most of them – loss. Seldomly it's Andy or David or even Father, as my mind has probably realised it can't scare me with that any more. But more often it's Irene or Mel, or, nearly every night, Sherlock or Mycroft. I don't kow whether it's the fear that now, so shortly after Mycroft forgave me, it might all be destroyed. Maybe it's also the fact that we are getting closer to Moran, and the likelyhood of dying increases. It might also be a metaphor. If we do manage to kill Moran, Sherlock's going to leave. He'll go to Watson, and even though he might like me to visit now and then, he'd be mostly fine with it. And Mycroft? I could stay with him, but I am not sure how he'd react. How close we are going to get again.

And even staying with Mycroft wouldn't be satisfying. Just floating around in the time is nothing I can stand for longer than a few days, and the tediousness of a normal job is nothing I would like to experience. My aim used to be working for and with Father, maybe taking his network one day, but now that's impossible – even if we weren't completely destroying it in the moment, I'd be working against Sherlock and Mycroft, and they wouldn't let me.

I'm mostly quiet during those dreams, waking up when it gets to surreal or when somebody I care for dies. Mostly the realisation of where I am is enough to get back to the present, to shake off the nightmare, to forget the pictures in my head, at least for the moment.

It's those that are more realistic that I hate. When the dream ends with me being thrown onto a bed or sofa, it's hard to differentiate between dream and reality.

Sherlock is rarely asleep when I push open his door, just to see him breathing. Mostly I just sit down next to him, as he started doing his experiments. Mycroft finally gave in, supplying with the necessary equipment and materials, but with the demand that they "stay in the room and it's still habitable afterwards". He burnt a hole in my pyjama-bottoms once.

Sometimes, that's not enough. Sometimes I plug out the x-box from my room, take it over to his and play assassin's creed until it dawns. Sherlock called a "repetitive, dumb game" but I threatened his violin with acid he had just created and told me about. That shut him up.

Once, he played for me. I was tired but couldn't sleep, and the nightmare had shaken me, until I had lain down on his bed. He started playing different songs, lullabies and sonatas, symphonies and waltzes. When I woke up the next day he wasn't there, the violin safely in its case, a thin blanket covering me.

That's another thing Mycroft supplied. Watson still has Sherlock's, and I don't think Mycroft wants to be near him now – he seems to be still angry, judging by the creases in Mycroft's suit when he last visited the doctor.

I don't do that with Mycroft. Sometimes I sit in front of his room for more than an hour, listening to his quiet breathing. I don't dare to go inside just yet.

It's one of those nights. One in which I see Mycroft dying, in which I see him falling to the ground, Moran's smile is merciless, and I can't do anything, my hands bound.

I wake up, my blanket constricting me, tying me down. Well, that would explain why I dreamt that. I try to cling to this shred of rationality, hoping it can ground me, but I still need to check on Mycroft. The blanket doesn't comply, and I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate slightly. I stumble through my room, and nearly trip over some clothes, until I finally reach the door.

Sherlock's experiments are audible through his door, the light explosion tells me he is bored again. I feel my lips twitch slightly, as if I am amused. In the moment my worry is stronger than that.

Mycroft's door is open, the room is dark, the bed empty, messy.

My heart nearly misses a beat, then speeds up even more. Where is he? My dream was just that, not reality, wasn't it? This is impossible.

I turn around, raking through my hair once, twice, my brain trying to catch up with what is happening.

I shout his name, but no one replies. The next logical step is to ask Sherlock whether he knows anything, but he denies the hell is Mycroft?

Maybe he is in his study. He could have had a nightmare and got up – he rarely does that, but it's the only thing I can come up with.

"Mycroft? Mycroft!" I call, hoping he might answer this time, but the only reply is the silence of the big house. Everything is dark, but I mostly don't bother turning on the lights. I know my way around, and anybody who might be lurking in the shadows would attack me with lights on or not.

A cry of disappointment and worry and anger escapes my throat when I find his study empty and dark, just as we left it. Where else? Where can I look?

I run back upstairs, maybe Sherlock knows something else, some place Mycroft might go. But still, I dont stop calling.

Suddenly, when I round the corner, I nearly run into him. Mycroft is not yet dressed, still in his sleep-clothes, but looks at me curiously and with a hint of worry.

"Kiara?" He asks, but can't continue as I interrupt him.

"You're alright – oh thank god, My, you're alright!" I don't think while I do it. The only thing I feel is the huge relief that my dream isn't reality. Only a few seconds later I realise that I am hugging him and that my tears are soaking through the fine fabric of his shirt.

Stepping back, I wipe my eyes, and try to stop crying. It was just a dream, I am over-reacting, I need to calm down, for god's sake!

"Sorry," I say, suddenly realising how I must look – messy hair, red eyes from crying, probably quite pale with dark circles under my eyes.

"What did you dream about?"

I don't ask how he knows, and I don't question his sincerity, but I hesitate to answer. Can I just tell him? Tell him I see him or Sherlock dying nearly every other night?

I can't recall later what exactly happened after that. I don't know whether I told him about my dream or if he deduced it. But then again, I don't exactly try. Right now, I don't care. I feel the steady rise and fall of Mycroft's chest and smell the expensive fabric softener used only on his sheets and realise that it's been nearly two months since I have last been in Mycroft's room.

I can hear song-lyrics in my head, of a song I heard some time ago, lyric that somehow describe my situation pretty well.

But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
Nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
You've been here before?

It does. I close my eyes and can nearly imagine I never shot Sherlock, can nearly imagine it's still November.

In the few seconds before I fall asleep, lulled into calm peacefulness by the familiarity of lying here, my head on Mycroft's chest, of being there if he gets a nightmare, I realise my mistake. And then, that if he noticed, and I'm sure he did, that he didn't comment on it.

Just a litle hint for the next chapter: Did you notice Kiara's mistake?