"John?"

"What?"

"Bored."

"Oh, brilliant. Well, don't look at me, nothing I can do about it"

"Bored."

"Yes you said, &.do you think you could slouch anymore in that chair?"

His slouching increased. "Yes"

John laughed. "You're such a child"

"Am not"

"Are too."

"Not"

"Too"

"There must be something to do! Anything!"

"Well..we could play a board game?"

"Yes, no, I don't care!"

"Alright then" John stood and headed to his room and came back with Cluedo.

"What's that?"

"Clue-do"

"Never heard of it"

"Course you haven't." John set up the board, loosely explaining the rules.

"So you have to deduce who the killer is, what they killed the victim with and where?...Does seem all that hard.."

"No, it has to be the candlestick! Its the only thing that makes sense!"

"What do you mean its not Colonel Mustard? Don't be protecting him just because he's an officer, John"

"No, no no! It was the library, it has to be! This game is ridiculous!"

"Sherlock it can't be the victim"

"It's the only thing left that makes sense"

"It's not in the rules"

"Then the rules are wrong!"

"Sherlock? Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up from the board, his face and hair drenched in blood and the blood, dripping down his face.

"No..no! Oh God, no..please. Sherlock? Sherlock..."

"You killed me John"

"No...you jumped... you...Sher- " He gasped, backing away from the approaching figure.

"You failed me. You weren't there when I needed you, John"

"Sherlock.. please.. I wanted to be..please.."

The detective grabbed his shoulders, his hands as cold as ice, his face deathly white.

"Sherlock!...Im sorry. Im so sorry... please...Sherlock.."

"You killed me. You're the reason I'm dead. I...hate...you"

"No.."

"SHERLOCK!"

John sat up panting, quickly removing the covers and sitting over the side of the bed, running his hands through his hair and over his face. Several deep breaths were necessary to calm him down, but his heart took longer to slow back to its normal pace. Oh god, he hoped these nightmares would stop soon. Ella, his therapist said it would take time, and it would help if he stopped blaming himself. But that was unlikely to happen.

"John?"

Mary.. shit. "I'm fine.. just a nightmare" He tried to shrug it off but his hands were still shaking. He needed to get out, clear his head. He stood, limping towards his trousers and pulled them on, pulling his shirt over his head and his jacket around his shoulders. "Is everything ok?" He nodded, a wavering smile on his lips. "Yeah, just need to clear my head." She smiled, leaning over to pat his arm. "Was it the war again?" John nodded.

"Yeah... it was the war..."

He ventured outside into the cold, pulling his collar up in a way reminiscint of his best friend and pulled his arms close to his chest. It was dark but the fresh air seemed to help. As if it blew away all the bad memories that had surfaced from that nightmare. They'd be back later. They always were. But the night air did help.

When he returned home, and it felt strange to call this building home, he went to his own apartment instead of Mary's. He headed to the bookcase and pulled out a red, leather photo album. Mrs Hudson had made this for him. She had one planned for Sherlock too. Now it sat on his mantlepiece in Baker Street. John sat himself down in his arm chair. Not the same one as back in 221b and nowhere near as comfortable. He opened it up to the first page.

Here was John dozing in his chair.

Here was John poking Sherlock with his foot. He was slouching in his chair, with one foot extended and poking Sherlock, who was fast asleep. They'd had a client and John was too lazy to get up. Mrs Hudson always took strange pictures.

Here was Sherlock poking Anderson with his violin bow.

Another with Sherlock playing the violin. His eyes closed. Sherlock could wander around the whole flat playing his violin if the music was lively enough.

Another with the violin. He was standing on the desk, God knows why.

Here were the two of them together. John was making a funny face while Sherlock was looking at him perplexed.

Two seconds later was a proper photo, of them both genuinely smiling to please the photographer, Mrs Hudson.

John turned another page. Sherlock sat in his chair, his hands together in front of his face, deep in thought.

Here was Sherlock and Mycroft mid violin bow and umbrella dual. John had to be the medic after Sherlock had tumbled over a flask on the floor and ended up having glass embedded in his foot. It was a rare photo showing the playfulness that existed within the two brothers.

Another picture, John looking over Sherlock's shoulder as he wrote down different types of tobacco ash.

Here was John trying to get Sherlock to eat.

Here was Sherlock fast asleep on the couch, looking all of twelve years old.

Here was another, he was in his thinking position again, this time he was looking at the photographer, one eyebrow quirked up in confusion.

This was taken on a train, they had accompanied Mrs Hudson on a trip, because she have found a client for them. They had been siting next to each other and at some point, both had fall asleep. John's head lay on Sherlock's shoulder, while Sherlock's head lay against John's.

Here was the picture that always made him cry. One rare photograph of Sherlock laughing. Just genuinely laughing at something John had done. His hand was on John's Shoulder, his other against his stomach, John was laughing too.

A tear dropped onto the plastic sleeve containing the photo. John didn't bother wiping it away. This picture served as a reminder of what he'd lost. Of what other people never saw. John wished he could take this photo album and show the press, show anyone who ever doubted Sherlock, that this was Sherlock Holmes, not the lies they told, not the fraud they made up, not the body in that coffin. THIS, was Sherlock. But he couldn't who would listen anyway.

"John?"

He dropped the album. "M-mary?" He wiped his hand across his face trying to hide his tears. "Oh John, whats wrong?" He shook his head. "Nothing... just.. nothing" She picked up the fallen album and sat on the opposite chair. "No.. don't...give that back to me..please.." Mary smiled and patted his hand. "Let me see." She opened the album, smiling down at all the pictures.

"Is this him?" She asked, pointing to a picture of Sherlock, perched over his chemistry set in a green, leather apron, one flask of blue liquid held above his head. John moved his chair over to sit next to Mary. "Yeah.. that's him" She grined and squeezed John's cheek to make him smile. "Oooh, he's quite the cutie" John rolled his eyes. "Oh, John. I'm only teasing." John smiled back, still wiping his eyes. "I know"

"John..."

"Yeah?"

"You know you can tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"I know, John"

"I don't understand."

She held his hand tightly. "About Sherlock. I know he's gone" John almost let go. "H-how?" Mary turned the page with her free hand. "From the way you talk about him, the sad look you got in your eyes the first time I asked to meet him". John tried to smile, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. "You deduced it" She laughed. "Yes, I deduced it. I didn't want to say anything, because I could see how happy it made you to talk about him in the first person." John shook his head. Mary was something else.

"Tell me about him, John"

So he did. He told her about the experiments, the body parts left in the fridge. How he always woke him up in the morning with his violin. How his violin playing could bring you to tears but just as easily make you break out in laughter. He told her about his boredom, his habit of shooting holes in the wall and spraying smiley faces. He told her about the cigarettes in the turkish slipper by the fireplace, the look he got when he'd solved the case. All the running about London, all the inside jokes and the laughter. All of his quirks.

He told her everything. Everything he'd already said and everything he'd left out. "He sounded wonderful. Completely, completely impossible. But completely brilliant. I can see why you miss him so." John nodded, his eyes begging to tear up again. He took a breath and finally asked her something he'd wanted to for awhile now.

"Do you want to meet him?"