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I'm in Magnussen's office.
I'm standing in front of a woman in black.
I know who she is.
I know how this ends.
Her ice gaze pierces my chest like a knife. Soon, it will be a bullet. My thoughts fly to John.
John.
John is in danger.
What have I done? I should have seen it coming. I should have prepared for this. I should never have asled John to help me. He's in danger. And it's all my fault.
My mouth is moving. I'm sure I'm speaking, but I can't hear any words. But I hear the silenced shot as she pulls the trigger.
I'm falling, falling, falling-
"It's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. You of all people should know that. It's the landing."
I can't breathe. I can't move. It feels like drowning.
John is bending over me. Why is he here? Go, John; be safe, I want to say.
He speaks first.
"Oh, Sherlock. How foolish you have been. You thought I cared. Looks like you were wrong for once."
The words sting worse than the bullet that pierced my chest. These words stabbed me in the heart.
It hurts. I can't breathe. I can't move. I'm dying.
No.
"NO!" I scream, gasping for air.
The glass-walled office is gone. The pain is gone. Mary is gone. John is gone.
Instead, I'm lying in my bed, hot and sticky with sweat, my legs tangled in the sheets. My breath comes in short, shallow breaths.
My heart is still beating. But it beats too fast. Much too fast.
My heart is broken.
I bury my face in my hands.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
I choke out a sob. I cannot help it.
This is the third time. John has only snarled those words at me three times. I don't want there to be a fourth time. This is why I refuse to sleep. If I don't let the night take me, then the darkness can never consume me. I was too weak to hold out for a few more days. I've eluded sleep for a mere two weeks. I would have made it to three if we hadn't had that case. It drained me too much. I couldn't stop my eyes from closing.
I wish I had been stronger. Stronger than my transport. Stronger than my heart. I wish it would stop beating for John. But at the same time, I wish it wouldn't.
How paradoxical. Just like John. So dark, yet he is my conductor of light. So hardened, yet so soft-hearted. He is so stupid, yet he is smarter than anyone expects. He hates as fiercely as he loves.
I just wish that it was me whom he loved.
But that can never happen. Not after what I did. He has never trusted me the same way.
He will never trust me with his heart.
_______________
The air is hot and arid around me. Sweat drips down my face. Distant gunfire echoes all around me. I'm bending over the body of a fallen soldier. He's young. Can't be more than 20. Poor soul. He's getting weaker and weaker as the life bleeds out of him.
Stay with me. Stay with me.
His eyes dull. My heart breaks for him. For the life he could have led if I had saved him.
Brown hair turns to raven-dark curls. The bronze of his skin to a pale tone. His cheekbones sharpen.
It's Sherlock.
I couldn't save Sherlock.
His lips move. They shouldn't be moving. He's dead. He's supposed to be dead. I realize I said that out loud.
"I'm sorry, John."
My heart breaks.
Bang.
Pain shoots through my shoulder.
I hear her voice. Mary's voice.
"Sorry, love."
Liar, I think. You never loved me. I never loved you. I thought I did. How wrong was I?
I'm falling to the ground.
I'm falling like he fell.
My body slams into the cement of the sidewalk. Sherlock lying next to me, his head smashed to pieces. Just like my heart, I think.
She bends over me. I stare down the barrel of her pistol.
"Time to finish this."
Bang.
I'm screaming Sherlock's name.
I'm trembling, I'm sweating all over, my heart won't stop pounding and it all keeps going on and on and on and I can't breathe and I'm drowning in my fear.
Soon, I'm drowning in my tears as well. My body shakes as the sobs grip my chest. I'm mumbling Sherlock's name to myself. I hope he doesn't hear. He sleeps right downstairs.
I wished I could have saved Sherlock the day he jumped. Only, he didn't need saving. The day he came back, I was more relieved than he ever knew. I finally could make up for what I didn't do. What I didn't do. I chose to let my anger and bitterness show instead. I really was angry. I hurt him. I opened up wounds. I tore stitches. He probably has been scarred for life because of me.
Ha. He did it to keep me safe. It is because he wanted me to live that he was tortured and hurt and endured pain. It is because of me that those stitches were torn. It is because of me that he has scars that wouldn't otherwise be there. He let an ungrateful nothing of a person like me live. He lied to me to let me live and I scarred him in return.
He lied to me, yet I want him to love me. How foolish it seems. No, it is more foolish to wish for a person that I hurt to love me. It is foolish to love Sherlock Holmes. But I don't care. I would gladly be a fool for him.
I hear screams from downstairs. Sherlock must be having a bad dream. He hasn't had any recently. Probably because he hasn't even been sleeping.
I get up from my bed and slip downstairs. I hear sobs from Sherlock's room. I hear him whimper my name.
I freeze.
_______________
"J-John..."
I can't even recognise my own voice as the tears fall down my face. I sound broken. I am broken.
I bark out a short, sharp laugh.
"I was so stupid. As always. He would never love me." I smile. John is smarter than that. John is too smart to choose someone like me.
"I do love you." A low voice fills the room.
No... He couldn't have heard me...
I spy blonde hair and bright blue eyes outside my door. He's blushing. He had never intended to eavesdrop and he's ashamed of invading my privacy.
That's so like him.
I sigh softly.
"You've had a nightmare as well?" I ask. I dodge the topic. He could never love me. I must have been hearing things.
John steps into my room. His eyes are tired, but glittering with... hope? I dismiss it as my imagination. He clearly hasn't slept well. It's one of those nights again, then.
"It was bad this time. Dying on the pavement outside Barts."
He's not telling all of it. He's rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he tries to lie to me.
"I died in Magnussen's office again." I murmur, shutting out the memories that I associate with that name. None of them are pretty at all.
John sighs softly.
"I don't think I'll be getting any more sleep tonight."
"Me, neither," I whisper in agreement, shifting on my bed to give him room to sit. He chooses a spot right next to me. I still feel miles away from him.
"You were wrong, you know," he says softly, his eyes tracing the wrinkles and folds of the sheets.
"About what?"
"About me never being able to love you."
My face pales. I hope desperately that he doesn't notice.
"I do love you, Sherlock."
_______________
Sherlock Holmes is in shock.
He's staring straight ahead, blinking periodically. His face is deathly pale.
"Y-you..." he stutters, never finishing his sentence.
"I love you, Sherlock. I always have." I reach my hand out slowly. "Is it ok if I take your hand?"
He nods. Barely.
I slip my hand into his, threading our fingers together. His fingers are beautiful, long and pale, and they slowly curl around my hand.
I can swear he's blushing. He's absolutely beautiful.
"I love you, John," he whispers, leaning his head on my shoulder.
I smile. Maybe it does pay to be a fool sometimes.
Our hands tighten around each other, squeezing gently. The touch seems to say I'm here for you, don't be afraid, I will keep you safe, I love you, I love you, I love you.
Sherlock pulls me down into bed next to him and lies with his head on my chest. I pull him close, wrapping my arms around him.
"Will you be sleeping?" he asks.
"I don't know," I whisper. "But if I do, at least I won't be alone."
Yes, we'll have each other, no matter what terrors the night conjures for us.