Warnings: character death (sort of), disturbing images.

A/N: John's and Sherlock's dreams and thoughts are in italics.

And finally, a huge THANKS to my wonderful beta, Pilikia18!

Being strangled to death in your own bed was an extremely unpleasant experience, Sherlock decided. Especially because it was the first night of decent sleep he had gotten after an exceptionally complex and difficult case. He clawed furiously at the rope, which was slowly suffocating him, in order to loosen it a bit. But that proved to be totally futile, because the rope was too thin for Sherlock to get his fingers under.

Usually, Sherlock's sleep was very fitful, and catching the detective off guard was nearly impossible. Not this time, though. When he finally got home in the evening, John, glancing briefly in his direction, immediately shifted into his "doctor mode" and declared that Sherlock needed a decent meal and a full-night's sleep. After that John proceeded to practically spoon-feed him, managing to talk him into taking some sleeping pills in the process ('Just so I'm sure that you'll sleep well', John said). Sherlock hated pills, but, seeing John's genuinely worried face, couldn't find the power to decline. The stuff proved to be exceptionally strong, and Sherlock praised himself on being wise enough not to take it during his dinner, otherwise he would've fallen asleep right there at the table, and his flatmate would have been faced with the laborious task of dragging his completely unresponsive and uncooperative body towards the coach. But on the other hand, considering this night's turn of events, maybe that would have been better.

Sherlock was dizzy from the lack of oxygen, his lungs burned with the necessity to draw breath and his vision was greying, but he still continued struggling. He had no illusions about his fate, but he definitely wasn't going down without a fight. In fact, he was almost amazed by the fact that he was still conscious and able to think. If anything, his thought processes seemed to be only increasing. But maybe he was so used to depriving himself of the most essential things like sleep and food, that the oxygen deprivation was just another step up the ladder?

He tried flailing his limbs wildly in order to throw something on the floor and make a noise. He realised that it probably wouldn't do for him much good, because John was away on a night shift, and it was highly doubtful that Mrs Hudson would hear him from downstairs, but still he had to try. His assassin grunted painfully when Sherlock managed to kick him, and proceeded to flip the detective onto his stomach, pressing Sherlock's face into the pillow and effectively cutting off the meagre amount of precious air the younger man was left with. After that the rope around his neck tightened even more, his body started to shudder violently, he felt a painful sensation inside his head, as if his brain suddenly swelled and now threatened to explode, then a bright white flash blinded him – that must've been his neurons dying – and finally darkness claimed him. His last fleeting thought was that maybe he shouldn't have disabled Mycroft's surveillance devices yesterday…

Awareness returned to him gradually, and that in itself was strange. Sherlock had always favoured logic and cold facts, and therefore for him assuming that there was something after death would be a complete nonsense. His body had died, physically, he felt it. The brain couldn't possibly continue to function without the body, and, more importantly, the brain couldn't function without oxygen. Those were the facts. But despite them, Sherlock's consciousness continued to exist. More than that, without being burdened by his own body, Sherlock became aware of himself as the almost crystallised rationality.

The vast amount of space, in which he found himself, was very disorienting, and he desperately wished for something even remotely familiar. As if having heard him, the space began shifting, transforming, and finally morphed into the living room on Baker Street 221b. Sherlock's spirit immediately gravitated towards the apparition of his favourite armchair and managed to somehow settle there.

A wave of tranquillity washed over him, leaving him strangely content and peaceful. Right after that, a voice followed – deep, rich and mesmerising.

"Greetings, Curious One. We've been waiting for you."

"Well, you've chosen a strange way of arranging our meeting," the still remaining rational part of Sherlock commented sarcastically. "Personally, I prefer the less painful invitation."

"It wasn't our doing," there was sadness in the voice now. "Your path had been wronged. It was decided to allow the continuation of your journey."

"You know, as much as I love charades and riddles, that one is way over the top," the detective's spirit grumbled. "And, by the way, I usually prefer seeing the person with whom I'm talking."

The space above the opposite armchair seemed to thicken, and then gradually coalesced into something resembling the human figure.

"Close enough," Sherlock agreed. "Now, you were saying..."

The voice changed also, becoming more real and straightforward.

"Your life was ended prematurely, and therefore you have one more chance. Use it wisely."

"You mean you're going to bring me back. But that's impossible, I was dead way too long, the brain functions..."

"You're aware of the concept of a clinical death?" the voice interrupted.

"Of course, that's close to my area of expertise."

"Time is relative."

"Dull. Why did I even bother to talk to you? For all I know you could be the figment of my dying mind's imagination!"

There was a sliver of light, and something SLAMMED into the detective, practically paralysing him.

"Still... doesn't prove... anything... Could be... the terminal seizure..."

The space shifted again, and now they were in Sherlock's bedroom. He saw John, huddled in the corner of the room, and himself laying on the bed. The view wasn't pretty. John seemed to be crying, but there was no sound, only a picture.

"Okay, stop it," Sherlock was torn between sorrow and suspicion. The vision stayed on. "I said, stop it! Enough!"

The image of John wavered and started to disappear, leaving Sherlock with the nauseating picture of his own corpse. Furious, his spirit whirled around and launched itself at his torturer. Another sliver of light – and he found himself falling. It felt as if something was tearing him apart, shred by shred.

"Alright, alright, I give up!" he screamed. "Just stop this, please! Please!"

Everything stilled abruptly, and then shifted again, and now he was on the street near his front door.

"You will continue your journey, but for that, a price should be paid. You will never be the same. You will bear the burden of a gift, Curious One. But fear not, you wouldn't bear it alone. You should find The Quiet One, he will become your guide and your guardian. Now go. And hurry, the time's running short."

"Go where?" the detective asked perplexedly. "How do I get back?"

The voice was silent.

"Well, thanks a lot," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "Riddles and charades all over again."

There was something akin a soft breeze near his ear, transforming into "Heeereee" and the image of his home wavered slightly. The detective collected himself and stepped through the apparition of his own front door...

John glanced nervously at his watch, mentally urging the car to go faster. He was consulting a patient, when the sharp pain in his head almost blinded him. Collapsing onto his knees, the blond-haired doctor found himself gasping for breath frantically. Something was terribly, awfully wrong with his chest, and John started clawing at the collar of his shirt, trying to tear it away. His patient, the young woman, with whom John was talking mere moments ago, backed away from him in fear and yelled for the nurse. A second later the door swung open, and John struggled to pull himself upright, using the table for leverage. There was a red mist obscuring his vision, and he managed weakly:

"Please... I need to go home... something... I can't... Help me, please..."

He had no recollection of getting into a cab, so somebody must've helped him. During the ride his head seemed to clear a bit, but the nagging, uncomfortable feeling remained. John drummed his fingers on the seat impatiently, and when the taxi stopped, he was out in a flash. He paid the cabbie and unlocked the front door hurriedly.

There was an eerie silence inside their flat, and a chill went down his spine. The place was quiet, too quiet for his liking, and John went carefully around the flat, room by room, his senses on a high alert. When John finally got into Sherlock's bedroom, his world shattered.

He didn't want to remember turning his friend over, trying not to look at that horrible mask into which Sherlock's face was transformed, swallowing convulsively against the bile in his throat, and barely managing to get the rope off Sherlock's neck – his hands were shaking so badly...

He vaguely recalls dialling 999 and struggling to explain his emergency to the operator, although he begins to realise that all his efforts are already meaningless...

He doesn't remember how many times he tried to shock Sherlock back to life with the portable defibrillator, stubbornly refusing to believe that his friend was gone for good…

Finally he gave up. He collapsed on the floor helplessly, huddled himself against the wall and wept...

When his tears subsided, he was finally able to think rationally. There was only one thing to do. He slowly pulled out his phone and dialled Mycroft's number.

The elder Holmes picked up after the first ring.

"Mycroft..." John's voice sounded hollow.

"I already know, John," there was sadness in the politician's voice, sadness and compassion.

"You do? But how..."

"It took quite an effort to re-establish the surveillance system, and when it finally came online, it was already too late. But I have information on Sherlock's assassin, and tracking him down is just a matter of time. Unfortunately, it doesn't change the fact..."

Mycroft faltered, and John's mind obediently filled in the gap. He briefly wondered if it was the reason the older Holmes hesitated to make an appearance.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

"It's the least I can do, John."

There was a long pause.

"Mycroft..."

"Yes, John?"

"I can't... deal with it... alone..."

"I'll be over shortly. Just stay calm, John. We'll get everything sorted."

"Okay. I'll be waiting," and John clicked the connection off.

But when Mycroft Holmes crossed the threshold of his brother's bedroom and the two men stepped towards the bed, there was a strange gurgling sound in Sherlock's chest, then his body started to seize: one, two, three times, and the dark-haired man drew a shuddering breath.

And, from that moment, bit by bit, John's world started to rebuild itself anew.