Blind

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He was having nightmares.

Always the same nightmares. Time and time again. There was just no way around it. This personal hell his drug-induced brain had created for him. He was sure it was drugs. Some sort of liquid pumping through his veins to ease whatever suffrage he faced.

The side effects weren't agreeable in the least.

It would start out a dream. Always her soft hand being gentle and gliding against his porcelain skin. No scar, no cut, no mar was laid to rest against such alabaster perfection as she coddled him.

Of course, the dream slowly twisted and turned into a puzzle. A puzzle he would have to force himself to solve, regardless of whatever state he was in. He lurched over quickly and began to cough, groaning against the cold washcloth pressing against his heated forehead. There was no more strength left within his lean body—yet, he managed to open his eyes.

Her flaming hair was what he noticed first. It was brighter—No! Vibrant than usual. Something like an obnoxious beam against the stark white of light bursting through the room. He finally recognized where he was. Soft sheets, broad sleeping space, and a familiar scent.

He was in his bedroom.

"Why am I here?" his voice was hoarse. It was weak. It was frightened.

Molly had such an unreadable expression on her face as she placed her hand on his bare chest. Sherlock began to panic and he scrambled away from his wife before she grabbed his wrist gently... coaxing him to stay—to him—she was coaxing him to be vulnerable.

"Where is John?!" Sherlock exclaimed and he looked around, heavily breathing, and reeling from the nausea and dizziness overcoming him. He suddenly felt suffocated and open. Too open.

"You collapsed."

Sherlock finally stilled and he brought his downcast eyes up to his frail wife's face. Yes, she was frail. She had gotten far too thin. She had gotten far too unrecognizable. What had happened?

He was afraid to touch her, but just as afraid to fight back. There was such... such... a poor and desolate feeling surrounding her. The feeling he recognized. Molly was lonely. Molly was lonely, again...

"What can I do?" she asked brokenly.

In this nightmare he would always say the same thing over and over again. It was always the truth.

"Leave me alone. I don't need you." I'm scared of you. I'm scared of what you're offering me. I'm scared of what you're willing to give. I'm scared of—everything.

It was if time stood still and there was a conflict. Something lurched inside of him and he realized that those dreaded consequences he heard of so many times were rearing their ugly heads around the corner. With all that, the surrounding ambient noise quieted and he was left with himself. Molly was no where in sight and from what was white and bright and vivid had turned into utter dark solitude.

Solace or Solitude?

Sherlock wanted one, but dreaded the other.

Which was it?

It was hard keeping his emotions at bay. It was hard keeping resolve. It was hard controlling himself.

What was happening to him?

"It's called love, Sherlock." this nightmare of his had progressed. It always did. Everything was fast paced and blurring lines of his rationality and sanity. There was always a voice. Sometimes it felt as if there were more.

"You're really fighting it... why?" it was a whimsical sounding question. He would amuse what ever was hiding in the shadows of his room. The shadows of his mind.

"It? Pray tell, what is it exactly?" he knew what it was. He always knew. He could just never stomach it.Just couldn't accept it.

The voice would taunt him sometimes. I suppose it depended on how much drugs were being given to him.

"You don't hate her. You hate something, just not her." the voice was merely inches from his ear. He felt the chill.

"Vulnerability. Suffocation. Release." the words slowly came spilling out of Sherlock's mouth. He had faced the truth now.

"Human..." the voice sympathized with him. "A human, being afraid of being... human."

Sherlock's reply was simple, "Yes."

For Sherlock, even he was confused as to why he was afraid of letting go and releasing a hold from himself. He was only holding himself back. No one ever did that, but—himself. Sherlock's own mortality was an ugly truth about himself. He wished he could kill and bury it.

"Loneliness misses its friend." the voice wasn't talking about Sherlock. It was talking about Molly. "You're always being selfish, Sherlock. Keeping her all to yourself." the voice creeped closer and it softened significantly. Dreams. They never made sense to him.

"Why not let her save you? The price is your pride. Not so much when you realize what hangs in the balance. If you ever do realize, that is."

Unbeknownst to Sherlock that on the other end his wife and his friend John were taking care of him. Concern glued itself onto their faces as they tried their best to help the man get through an ordeal. John would come and minister drugs to his unconscious friend whenever he could. Molly would do her job by making sure he was comfortable in his own bed and watching him night and day. She was quite happy in her choice to call in sick to take care of her husband. This was as close as any of them could get without things being awkward.

For Sherlock however, catching the flu was not on his agenda nor was being found passed out on the couch in the first place ideal.

The double life had taken its toll on the poor detective's body. The constant switching between Hamish and Sherlock caused a taxing consequence on the male. He was far too engrossed with it all that if he had paid much more closer attention to himself—he would have been able to avoid the embarrassment.

Lately, he was slipping up more than usual.

One day, the detective had confessed his unfortunate ordeal to John with the fact that he had forgotten to put in his contacts a number amount of times. John had asked about his well-being when he noticed just how paler his friend had gotten but of course that didn't matter to the other male.

"Blue eyes, John! I had forgotten again today! Curse it all!" Sherlock paced back-and-forth in his friend's flat and chewed on his lip. Something that was new and utterly not Sherlock Holmes. A certain type of panic and ridiculousness that John hadn't ever seen in his friend before.

The detective managed in the end. It was a simple cover up though. Molly had believed her friend Hamish's excuse that his honey colored eyes were actually—contacts. A gift his wife had given him. And merely to humor the silly girl he would wear the contacts now-and-then. However, due to the colder weather his eyes had gotten quite sensitive, and he chose to wear them less, and less often, nearly without at times. A simple lie to cover up his mistakes.

Molly found the excuse strange but her relationship with Hamish had become so familiar and honest that she let the weird feeling pass. Hamish would never lie about something so ridiculous. He was much more than that. Hamish was a man of integrity and respect. Hamish had proved himself to be a wonderful ally of Molly's. Why in the world would she have doubts about him now?

This entire situation with Molly was a risk! Everything up to this point was an horrible risk. Sherlock knew this truth. He could have avoided them all completely but the game was much too fun a challenge. He was stupid, as John swiftly commented.

So, he paid the price.

One measly little flu.

"One day, Sherlock, this will all come back!" John's warning rang true and loud.

At the time, he had merely scoffed and said, "Then let us pray that karma is oblivious to the fact of my step ahead."

Well, perhaps karma wasn't that oblivious, Sherlock.

Hello friends :) It's been quite awhile, yes? I do apologize! Things have gotten a bit crazy on my end! I hope this pleases you until further updates ;) Please review, comment, leave C.C.'s and flaming marshmallows :D

Thank you very much and enjoy this chapter as I go type away into the night for the next installment!