"Sherlock—"

John pounded through the corridors of the empty school in search of his new flatmate. The man was a genius—in a few seconds, he could solve almost an entire crime scene-but John's battle-honed senses told him that Sherlock was in dire trouble.

Instead of giving up after finding empty room after empty room, John only ran faster. Sherlock had been right earlier. John's limp was psychosomatic; his leg didn't twinge at all as he slammed open the door to the next room.

"Empty. Damn you, Sherlock—"

-and then John looked through the window into the building opposite and felt his heart stop.

Sherlock stood across from the cabbie who had murdered all those people. The detective held the same pill that had killed them all directly over his own mouth.

"Sherlock!"

Instantly, John pulled out his gun and aimed. His body unconsciously shifted into the familiar position, feet apart, shoulders back, but even as John's bullet soared through the open window to hit its mark, Sherlock swallowed convulsively. "No—" –too late, John had been too late again, just like he had been in Afghanistan—"No, Sherlock—" –and another man would die because John had spoken too late—

"SHERLOCK!"


John was on his feet before his mind startled awake. He swayed for a moment, stunned, before he slowly sank to his knees beside his bed. 221B Baker Street. I'm here. I made the shot. Sherlock's—

"John?"

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John glanced up…and immediately wished he hadn't. "Sherlock," he ground out, "would you please put on clothes?"

"I'm not seeing anyone today. It doesn't matter."

"I can see you! It matters to me!"

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. John kept his eyes fixed on his bedspread while Sherlock wound the sheet he had dragged up to John's room around himself. Even once Sherlock looked halfway decent, John averted his eyes and pulled himself awkwardly back onto his bed. Although scraps of the dream-memory kept his mind whirling, John's body felt exhausted. Slowly, his eyes drifted closed. He had almost lost consciousness again when Sherlock spoke. "You said my name several times while you were asleep. Actually, you screamed it one of those times. Your hands shot up as if you were unlatching a window, and then you reached for where you usually keep your gun." John could picture Sherlock's frown. "John, why would you remember the cabbie while you were asleep? Why did you yell my name?"

Because you almost died, you idiot! Because I thought I hadn't pulled the trigger fast enough! Because you're a brilliant, amazing, genius of a flatmate, and I didn't want you to die!

I can't let anyone die on my account again.

Instead of voicing his thoughts, John threw an arm over his eyes to block out the light from the hallway. "Go away, Sherlock. I'm trying to sleep," he grumbled.

To John's surprise, Sherlock left. The doctor let his eyelids flutter open so he could watch the last of Sherlock's ridiculous sheet flicker out of view. Then, with the realization that Sherlock was alive and annoying as ever firm in his head, John rolled over and fell back asleep.