A/N: Btw I realised I probably have the whole timeline wrong. He died in June not January. But, meh. I'll go by present time. Too lazy to go back and change it now. Also the name of Mrs Hudson came from the Good Old Index. A Martha Hudson is named as Sherlock's landlady so..barring it's her sister...it's going to be her first name now.

The flat was empty, not a living soul amongst it's walls. Familiar furniture and mess covered every inch but it was dark, cold, lifeless, soul-less. Martha wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed them, trying to bring back the warmth. The whole placed screamed her son's name. Sherlock. Sherlock. She picked up a dark coat lying over John's chair, brining it to her face and sobbing into it. Oh my darling boy.

A thud emitted from the room behind. Martha grabbed the frying pan from its place on the stove and crept towards her Sherlock's room. A body lay prone on the floor, blood pooling around it. Dark curly hair, blue scarf, purple shirt. It could be only one person. No, not here. How could he be here? Oh Sherlock! He was more paler than ever, and as she knelt beside him she noticed a second body, a gun in his hand, blood dripping from the back of his head. John had shot himself.

She pulled them both close and held them against her chest and cried. Her boys, oh her beautiful boys. They'd left her all alone.

Mrs Hudson bolted upright, panting and brushed the sweat from her brow. She grabbed her pink handkerchief from it's place beneath her pillow and sobbed into it. Just a dream. Except one of her boys really had left her. Her beautiful son that had put away her abusive husband, that had brought back happiness in her life. Why did he have to be taken? It wasn't fair, he was so young, so full of energy.

Oh my darling detective boy.

She ran down the twisting alleyways. Footsteps pounded behind her. She removed her gun from it's holster and made sure the safety was off. She could hear yelling, shouting from behind her but she dare not stop, for fear they would catch up. She turned left and found herself at a dead end. Shadows crept around the corner, she was trapped. They morphed from three people to one person.

Sherlock.

Dressed as always in his dark coat and blue scarf he limped towards her, his face devoid of emotion. Blood streamed down his face from the large wound on the side of his head. His skin was grey, his lips were blue, his eyes were hollow, dead. Seeing nothing. As he grew closer he lifted up one blood soaked hand towards Sally. She hastily lifted her weapon, her back resting against the brick wall. No, no stay away, please no. She couldn't bring herself to shoot him.

"You killed me"

"No, no, it was an accident. I didn't mean for it to happen. Im sorry, I'm so sorry"

"You played his game, you killed me Sally Donavon."

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. Please believe me" Tears fell across her cheeks, she slid down the wall until she sat on the cold pavement, her gun held in front of her. Please I'm sorry, forgive me. I'm so sorry Sherlock. Oh god.

"You hated me. You wanted me dead Sally"

"No, no I didn't, I never did. Please, oh god, don't hurt me."

"Freak."

Oh my god Sherlock. Forgive me. Please. I can't forgive myself. I never should have doubted you.

I never should have played his game. His hand reached closer to her head, closing around her hair. She screamed.

Sally woke up crying. Oh god. She had these so often after he first jumped. Now they still happened but very rarely. She still blamed herself. Even though he had killed himself to save others. The guilt would never leave her. She was sorry. She really was. But nothing could bring him back.

Lestrade flicked through the channels, reality show, Coronation Street, Merlin, commercial, commercial, commercial, dull, boring. He switched it off, picking up a fresh can of beer from the six pack. A shadow appeared across the screen, someone was behind him. He leapt from his seat, gun drawn.

"Who's there? Show yourself!" He wished he hadn't asked.

The detective slipped out from the shadows, drenched in blood. Lestrade shook his head. No, not again. Not now. Oh shit son. Why? Stop haunting me! "Look, just go away, please mate. Please, just don't do this. Just go. Oh fuck" The corpse stood there watching him with curiosity. "Why are you here?"

"You doubted me, arrested me. It's your fault Moriarty won. Your fault I jumped. I jumped for you and you still doubted me. Did I mean that little to you?" No, oh god Sherlock, you meant a lot to me. Please, I blame myself, the last words I said, the last time I saw your alive, I arrested you. The next minute you were dead. Please I blame myself ok? Just stop haunting me.

"No, no I always believed"

"Liar. You're happy I'm dead, moved on, got yourself a girlfriend, got her pregnant. Going to have a son. How marvellous. Don't kill this one Lestrade."

And then he was gone and Lestrade fell to his knees, his head in his hands, tears slipping through his fingers.

Shit, shit, shit! Greg threw the glass of half drunk scotch at the wall, grateful his fiance was visiting her sister to give her to good news in person. Damn it. After all this time, when would the nightmares stop? If he felt this bad, how did John feel? Or Mycroft? Dream Sherlock was right, it was his fault. Sherlock had told him it was a game and he didn't listen, he doubted his kid, his detective and the boy ended up paying the ultimate price. He had played for the lives of his friends and won but the payment was his own upon the pavement.

I'm sorry son. I failed you.

The body he held in his arms was alive, but dead. It's heart beated, it's lungs breathed, it functioned, but it's mind did not. It's soul had vacated it's body. All that was left was an empty shell that just happened to resemble Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft picked it up in his arms, it was so thin, so light and carried it out of it's cell, it's arms falling limply to the side, it's head lolling against his chest, eyes open, seeing nothing. Never again.

He took care of the shell. Kept it warm, kept it well fed, treated it's wounds, told it stories. He couldn't bring himself to think of it as his brother. That would hurt too much. Make things too real. He was a man who held a tight grip, an iron fist around his emotions. Perhaps one day the mind would return, the soul would again take up residence. Until then he would look after it's home.

Months flew by and the mind and soul didn't return. The body refused to move from it's place on the window seat unless nature called or Mycroft steered it away to bed or to eat. It never acknowledged the man who claimed brotherhood over it's owner. It never spoke, it never looked at him. It just remained empty. Eventually it no longer ate of it's own violation. It became weak, bedridden, force fed through a tube. It began to waste away despite all it's doctor's efforts. But still Mycroft didn't cry.

He continued to look after it. He still read it stories, still talked to it day and night. Told him, it, about it's friends. Still clinging to that little bit of hope that it's owner would return. A fools hope. Another month went by and he, it, was barely clinging to life. The doctor's told him the body didnt have much longer to live. Mycroft held himself into check until that fateful night. He sat by the bod-.. his brother's side, clutching his limp hand tightly in his own. Praying. Just one miracle, just one please. Take me, leave him. Bring him back. Please. Give him back to me.

And then he was gone. His brother left him. Now Mycroft cried. He cried an avalanche of tears. Everything he held back poured out. He'd failed his only family. He'd failed his baby brother. The child he raised. The boy who shared his gifts. Mycroft had caused him to fake his death, run after a masterminds web only to be caught in it. Mycroft had failed to rescue his blood and his blood payed dearly. Not with his body but with his beautiful mind. Nothing could ever bring him back.

And one day he had to make a phone call, several phone calls. To tell those who his sibling had considered family that he was once alive and now was dead and it was all his brother's fault.

Forgive me Lockie.

Mycroft awoke shivering on the couch, he sat suddenly, wrapping the blankets around him. Sweat poured down his cheeks. A dream, just a dream. But it could have soon easily been reality. But it wasn't, it had been a nightmare. Stop thinking about it, it's not logical to dwell upon it Mycroft Holmes. But still.. he had to check. He stood up and made his way around the couch to the body asleep in bed. He breathed, one fist clenched against his lips. Sherlock was ok, he was alive. Deep breaths Mycroft. Deep breaths.

This was not going to happen again. Sherlock will be safe and alive as long as Mycroft kept close watch. He'd failed him twice now, it was not going to happen again.

John kissed his beautiful wife on the lips and wished her goodnight, he had to finish up his writing before her followed her. Just another wonderful night at the Watson household. Beautiful wife, two amazing children. Life couldn't be any better could it? Footsteps crept towards him. John laughed and turned, a question for his spouse upon his lips. But it fell. It wasn't Mary, it was Sherlock.

Looking as he always did, a fresh, bleeding corpse. John sighed. "Do we have to keep doing this?" The corpse rested his hands on his shoulder, John shivered, it was like ice. "You forgot me. You hate me John Watson"

"What? I could never hate you."

"You got married, you didn't wait"

"You died. What was I supposed to wait for? Your return? You dived off a building, I fucking buried you. Your body is in a coffin Sherlock." The corpse sprayed blood as it shook it's head. Skin was beginning to peel off it's knuckles it's cheekbones. John felt fresh emotion surge up into his throat. "You're dead ok?"

"I didn't die"

"Yes you fucking did!"

"I faked my death! I did it for you! But then I got killed by Moriarty's men. And you didn't care, you just moved on! I tried to contact you but you were getting married! I waited for you! But you were late!" John shook his head, backing away. No, no he was dead. This wasn't true, he can't have been waiting. No. No.

"No"

"Yes. I waited. You didn't come. You didn't care and now I'm dead. I was coming back but you were already all to happy to move on. Thanks John, nice to know I was right all along. I don't have friends. Not even one"

He disappeared and John fell to the floor gasping. He grabbed his phone calling Mycroft. Oh god. It was true. Oh Sherlock, please forgive me I didn't know. I didn't fucking know! Please come back.

I'm sorry Sherlock.

John awoke suddenly, gasping for air, tears running down his face. Oh god not another one. He placed his hand over his eyes taking deep breaths. This wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of Sherlock claiming he never died. But in some ways it hurt more than the others. The idea that his friend had faked his death to save him, only to be captured and call for John's help. And John not listening and Sherlock dying all alone without a single friend. It just fucking hurt. He wasn't happy his friend wasn't dead but he was glad he never died alone. John had been there to hold his hand, talk to him in his last moments.

He rested his head back down and fell into a dreamless sleep.

He wouldn't look at him. He saw right through him as if he wasn't there, as if he was a ghost. But others saw him. Mycroft saw him, Anthea saw him, so did Irene and Moriarty. Why didn't John? Why didn't Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. Why did they all ignore him? He was alive, he wasn't dead. Please look at me. I'm right here! Please! John, John I'm not dead. John. John! Don't cry, please don't cry, look at me. Look at my face! He waved a hand in front of his friends eyes. John please! I faked my death! Im alive! Im back home! I missed you so much! Why won't you answer me? Why won't you look at me John?

Please don't go to her. You don't need her. You only need me. Im right here. Im not a ghost, I'm not a hallucination. You don't need HER. You don't need a girlfriend when you have me. Look I'm sorry? Ok? I'm sorry I left, I'm sorry I lied to you. Please stop ignoring me. John..John! Please!

The first tear fell down his high cheekbones.

Why don't you visit the grave anymore? I know I'm not dead, but please don't forget me. I'm here John. By your side. Always by your side. I don't want you to forget me. Please remember. Please look at me. Please. I don't beg normally, but I'm begging you now. Please forgive me and stop ignoring me John...

I miss you.

The second tear falls.

Getting married? How ridiculous! Lestrade is best man. What about me? Yes I hate the idea of you getting married, it's stupid and selfish. But why didn't you invite me? Why do you still hate me? PLEASE JOHN! Just look at me! Please forgive me! Im sorry, I'm so sorry! Im not dead, let's have dinner. Let's be friends again. Fuck, John, please I need you.

More tears follow.

Sherlock followed John everywhere, every day, every night, begging forgiveness, begging him to listen. Begging him to not forget. Until one day John stopped in the middle of the street and punched him in the face.

"Stop following me! It's stupid. Go away"

John. John you can see me!

"Of course I can see you. Now sod off"

But, but I'm alive, I'm home..can't we still be friends?

"Why would I want to be friends with you? Why would anyone? You're a freak Sherlock Holmes, I don't want or need you"

You don't mean that John, you're just hurt and angry. You don't mean it.

John laughed. "So innocent aren't you? I forgot you. I don't miss you. I've moved on. We all have. Better that way. So just does us all a favour and just go away and play with your criminals. Go bother someone else to be your friend. Although, no one else will want to. No one likes you Sherlock. Besides, your damaged goods now. A broken man, who would want to befriend you now anyway? Ta-ta, gotta go see the wife."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped, tears flowed down his cheeks. His heart felt tight. John couldn't mean it, could he? John was his friend. His best friend. Why would he say these horrible things? Other people he expected this from but not his John. Not his best friend. Sherlock let his wall fall around John because he trusted him and now he'd punched him through the chest and torn out his heart. John, but you're my friend...you're my friend. Sherlock collapsed tp the ground and John laughed.

"Stupid Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock the Freak, the Fake, the Fraud. Go mess and break someone else's life. I'm done with you. You. Repel. Me"

Sherlock cried.

His best friend hated him, his soul was broken, he had nothing to live for anymore.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Wake up, please wake up!" Mycroft shook his brother, who was sobbing and tossing hard in his slumber. "Wake up Lockie!" His brother's eyes snapped open and searched for Mycrofts. "John...John" The detective's shoulders shook, tears free falling once more. Mycroft hugged his sibling. Sherlock clenched the fabric of his brother's pyjamas tightly. "John"

"It's ok, it was just a nightmare"

"No, he hates me. He hates me"

"No he doesn't. He absolutely doesn't"

"If he does, what point is there to living? I don't want to die, but I won't feel alive anymore"

"Now thats just foolishness. Look at me Sherlock Holmes. John Watson does not hate you. He has not forgotten you. He missed you terribly. I don't ever want to hear you say such nonsense again. Do you understand?" Sherlock nodded, wiping his tears with his sleeve. "You are not well, you have the beginning's of a very bad cold and it's fuelled your nightmares. Go back to sleep, you'll feel better in the morning." Sherlock nodded. The more he awoke, the more he realised the idiocy of his nightmare and comments. He wanted to live, he wasn't suicidal. But he didn't feel alive. Not right now. Not whilst broken. Maybe Dream John was right. Maybe there were better off without him though. He wasn't the same anymore. He wasn't Sherlock. He wanted to be.

He shook his head clear of these thoughts and lay his head back down and tried to drift off to sleep. Mycroft was right, things will seem better in the morning.