OH. MY. GOD. I AM SOOOOO SORRY! I AM SERIOUSLY SO SORRY FOR LEAVING THIS FOR SO LONG! I never meant to take this long, I've just been so busy with school and other writing stuff and I just forgot about this and god I am so sorry! Seriously, really really really sorry. But on the upside...this story has 90 followers...seriously! 90 followers in such a short amount of time is insane! INSANE! Okay, so I'm going a bit crazy right now, so I'll just let you guys get on with this... And I'm still sorry...

I didn't sleep well that night. The nightmares kept me up without fail. I would wake up out of breath, but never loud enough to wake Mary up. She was a deep sleeper, which I suppose was a good thing living with me.

Nightmares were a frequent occurrence. Tonight was the worst night in a long time though. I'd wake up gasping and she'd remain curled on her side of the bed, breathing deeply, and I would just lie there, trying to control myself. My head would hit the pillow once again and I'd just concentrate on matching our breathing patterns. I'd go back to sleep, only to repeat the process every few hours.

At least I never woke her up.

But they weren't normal nightmares, the ones about the war that'd kept me up screaming in the months after returning from Afghanistan and even now still. Not even horrible scenes that had invaded my nights after Sherlock's "suicide".

No, I didn't dream about the bloody-faced soldiers that died under my scalpel despite my best efforts or the beating, blindingly hot sun, nor did I dream of Sherlock standing on the damned roof.

But I did dream of flashing images just wouldn't stop, the same nightmare over and over and over again on a loop.

It was like when I'd walked into Baker Street, when I'd smelled that god forsaken smell of rotting meat and all those imagined circumstances filled my head, even though they should't have. It wasn't as if Sherlock had never experimented with mold and organs. I'd come home to smells like that before, however infrequently.

It was like my mind was convinced my best friend was gone, maybe even dead. It was like I was finally realizing that I'd been a horrible friend, that I'd left him alone and replaced him with Mary. I'd promised him, actually promised him that everything was going to be fine after I married her. I told him nothing was going to change, that he was still my best friend. Some friend I am.

But I still kept dreaming the same dream all night. I kept dreaming that he was gone, that he was missing and using again, that it was all my fault. That I'd let him down. That I was a horrible friend.

I kept dreaming about searching for him through foul-smelling alley and under bridges and in dingy crack houses, so many hell-holes that smelled of stale urine and festering wounds and body odor, all so much worse than Baker Street that one night. And each time I'd find him after walking down the same hallway with the peeling wallpaper and decrepit, creaking floor boards, collapsed on a stained mattress with a rusted needle sticking out of his arm.

And he'd always be just barely dead.

I would only be a few minutes too late. A few minutes after the overdose stopped his heart. A few minutes before he died.

I would always, always be too late to save him.

No matter how many time I dreamed that fucking dream, it would always start all over again.

Eventually, I just gave up on sleep, lying there next to my wife, who'd taken the place of Sherlock in his two year absence and filled the hole the infuriating man had left. But I couldn't just sit in bed, waiting. I had to do something. I carefully shifted out of bed, hoping to not wake Mary.

She still didn't know about any of this. I'd brushed my feelings under the rug when I'd gotten home, still to the point of trying to convince myself that Sherlock was okay. I didn't tell her what'd happened at Baker Street, I didn't share with her my worries or my guilt. And she never woke up to see my nightmares. So she didn't know.

Greg actually ended up calling me while I was about halfway through my third cup of coffee (a rapidly failing attempt at keeping myself awake). My heart jolted when I heard the ringing. Oh God, it was finally time to talk about this. I didn't want to.

I tried to convince myself that everything was fine. Greg was going to have good news. He was just calling to tell me that Sherlock was fine, that he was on some case in Scotland or something like that. No, Greg was calling to tell me that Sherlock was fine and safe, because he just had to be. He...he just had to be.

I took the phone call in silence, face set. I heard what Greg had to say and nothing more, I didn't speak, I couldn't. I hung up the phone just as he finished speaking and just as Mary was walking into the kitchen, yawning and stretching her arms over her head.

My face crumpled and my head folded into my hands. Oh god no.

Mary seemed to pick up on it immediately, her own brow creasing with worry. She knew something was wrong.

Because Greg's phone call did not bring the good news I'd hoped for.

Things were not okay.

Well...I hope you enjoyed that frankly uninteresting chapter. I just need to get back into this, and hopefully, I'll be able to update sooner.

Drop me a review and tell me what you think :)

(Also, I'm still really really really sorry)