Sherlock Holmes was dreaming.
He was cold, so very cold, and he shivered as he fumbled through his wardrobe for something warm to wear. In his dream-reality, he could hear John loudly complaining about the freezing weather, and Sherlock wondered if it would be worth the humiliation to wear one of John's godawful sweaters. They did seem pretty warm, and Sherlock was so cold, his fingers were numb. Which was highly unacceptable.
He strode to John's room, without knocking, and grabbed the least embarrassing sweater he could find, pulling to over his head. The sleeves were a bit short, but it would do. Sherlock still felt cold, however.
He glanced at a clock that had never been on John's nightstand in the waking world, seeing that it was 11:39. That couldn't be right. John had just woken up, and he never slept late. Sherlock glanced at the clock again, but this time it was 12:42. He shrugged it off, and walked out of John's room.
When he passed through the doorway, he found himself at St Bart's, and it wasn't strange at all, but he was still shaking and his nose felt frozen. Sherlock brought his hands to his face, cupping them over his mouth and exhaling, hoping his warm breath would unthaw his fingers.
It didn't, and he nearly collided with Molly. She opened her mouth, like she was going to say something, but instead she just stared, lips parted slightly, and watched with a strangely keen and penetrating gaze. Sherlock looked around, trying to follow her gaze and find out what had captured her attention, but he found, with mild alarm, that she was looking at him with that indescribable look.
Sherlock was not one to be afraid often, and certainly not of something so plain as this. But something about the knowing look on Molly's face, made him feel dizzy and exposed, like she could see through his skin and into his very being.
Sherlock tried to speak, to say anything to stop her from looking at him like that, but he could make no sound, and all his lips would utter was a silent dream-rasp, communicating nothing. It only added to his sense of dread, and he felt on the verge of panic.
But then Molly's face relaxed, returning to the soft expression Sherlock was used to. Before Sherlock could feel relieved, she whispered, lowly and urgently, but Sherlock could not make out the words, and that scared him even more. He knew it was important. He leaned forward, desperate to catch even a single word, but he could not. Soon, Molly was shouting, and he still could not tell what she was saying, and suddenly she was screaming his name, looking into his eyes with a look of terror in its purest form.
Sherlock Holmes woke up.
He was cold, so very cold, and he shivered as he rolled over on the hard, sharp pavement. His back hurt and his neck was stiff, and his cheek stung.
He touched his face, pulling away red fingers. He shook himself to get rid of the cobwebs of sleep, and glanced down. A shard of broken glass, stained with vermillion blood, his blood, was under the place his head had rested. He swiped at his wound with the back of his wrist, cleaning most of the blood from his face.
Sherlock was miserable. He was not bored, he didn't have the time or energy to be bored, and he wasn't in unbearable pain. He knew he should be rather proud of himself for what he had managed to do so far, in one short yet infinite year. But he was not. He didn't feel much of anything inside. His heart felt just as numb as his fingers, and he didn't have the will to be upset over it.
With each passing day, Sherlock found himself thinking more and more about Baker Street, about John and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. About home. Yet he knew he could not go back yet.
Often, far too often, Sherlock felt himself wondering how John was coping. He knew it would be hard, unimaginably so, but he knew John was had more strength than he could possibly put words to. As much as he hoped John was alright, that he was taking care of himself and not hurting too badly, Sherlock was also terrified that John would forget about him, would find life to be easier and better without him, it worst of all, that John would refuse to forgive him. But Sherlock didn't want to think about that, not now, not yet.
As Sherlock picked himself up of the ground, feeling weary and worn and less rested than before he had slept, he wondered how much longer this would take, and how many more days of this he could bear before he couldn't do it anymore, before he broke entirely. He felt, right now, that he was already dangerously close to his limit. And he would remind himself, day after day, of those guns that had been pointed at the only people he had ever grown to care about, and he knew he could not stop until he saw this through.
And sometimes Sherlock wondered, dryly, whether or not anyone truly believed he had faked his detective work. Part of him, a very superficial part indeed, hoped they had not, that they, especially John, remembered him as he had really been, without the lies. And sometimes Sherlock would remember that he had told them to believe he was a fake, had told John to tell everyone who would listen that he had staged all of his cases. And sometimes he wished he hadn't, but he knew he had done what he had to. And he supposed it was good enough.
He wondered, often, if John ever visited his grave and what he said. Was he angry? Was he sad? Had he moved on? Or did he not even bother? Had he forgotten? Had he decided that it wasn't worth it, that Sherlock wasn't worth it?
He had heard John the first time, the only time, and it had pained him to hold back and say nothing, to pretend he didn't notice. And he knew that at the time, John was hurting, and the wounds had still been fresh. But now... well things can change over a year.
Sherlock just hoped that John thought of him as much as he though of John.
And what Sherlock wouldn't have give for a nice hot cup of tea right now. He might've even kissed Anderson for it, if he'd had the chance. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, and while that would not normally bother him, his hunger was to the point of it weakening his body and mind, and he was thinner than he had ever been in his life, and cold.
Sherlock decided that he didn't like being dead. It was boring, and, quite frankly, lonely. Maybe, once this was all over, he just wouldn't die. He would just refuse death and live forever, and hopefully he wouldn't become too bored.