A/N I know it's been a while since I've written anything on this site but I'm hoping to get more stories up soon. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this :) Yet another idea that refused to go away. As always, any feedback is welcome.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A small part of Sherlock's mind, one that was barely audible but had somehow managed to niggle its way into the back of his head, told him that the sickening motion of falling should be enough to wake him. That he could escape this twisted version of reality and transport himself to one just as twisted but infinitely more real.

He ignored it. To many other sensations fought their way to the forefront of his mind for the silent reminder to be paid any attention; the icy wind that sliced through his body as he plunged to the pavement below, the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, the anguish buried in John's final cry that still rang in his ears despite the wailing of the wind. And then, for several blissful moments, there was nothing.

The landing had been softer than one may expect, as Sherlock had arranged, but was still enough to knock the air from his lungs and transform his vision to a blinding white. The blood rushing through his ears reassured him that he'd survived the fall at least but that was the only comfort he would receive. His vision had barely allowed him to make out shapes again before he heard the one thing that never failed to make dread claw at his heart.

A gunshot. A single gunshot that continued to impose menacingly on the surrounding silence moments after it had been fired. Sherlock was brought out of his stupor immediately, curling up instinctively and ignoring the childish nature of such an action for the moment. However the pain he'd expected never struck him, nor was it ever likely to come forth. After all, he hadn't been the target.

This sickening realisation had him struggling to his feet – injuries from the fall be damned – and he began to run on trembling legs, heart pounding painfully in his chest while he silently prayed to a god he didn't believe in. He ignored Molly's protests, which in this state were distorted anyway, and continued his silent pleading, finding himself wishing that his mind was still dazed.

All the while the gunshot continued to bounce around in his head, and he could swear that two impossibly distant shots had joined it. 'Illogical, completely stupid,' he seethed under his breath, but to no avail. He knew, deep down, that in the process of faking his death he must have made some grave error. And now his friends were paying for it... no, he refused to accept that. Not yet.

He got his wish as he finally rounded the corner; the sight that greeted him was enough to silence his frenzied mind. For a moment he stood frozen, breath hitching in his chest, but the spell ended far too quickly. Cautiously, he approached the still figure on the ground, which he could see was surrounded by an ever-growing pool of deep crimson. Sherlock refused to believe the figure was John. The sniper had evidently made a mistake and hit some random, unnamed civilian instead. Surely John, his John, was safe?

The denial was crushed before it had truly made itself at home in Sherlock's head. How couldn't it have been, when Sherlock was finally able to note the glassy blue eyes, once so warm and inviting, now completely devoid of the life they once held? He'd be fooling himself to ignore the deep wound that marred the smaller man's chest, nor could he avoid noticing John's outstretched arm, still searching for a hand that could no longer offer him any comfort.

The warmth of the blood soaking through his trousers was the only indication to Sherlock that his legs had collapsed from underneath him but he could no longer bring himself to care. His trembling hands ghosted over John's unmoving chest, his lips moving to utter John's name but producing no sound, still clinging to the hope that he could do something.

He never got the chance to try. As always, another gunshot tore through the air, this time mercifully burying itself in the back of Sherlock's skull and silencing his already lost mind for good. In this version of reality the silence came only as a blissful relief.

In another he was brutally jerked back to consciousness.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at the sound of his own strangled cry before he silently berated himself for that single act of weakness and buried his head in the damp pillow. As usual, he refused to note the tear stains that had trailed down his face and the sweat that clung to his trembling form and focused only on dragging his consciousness back into reality. A quick glance at the clock on the wall opposite told him that he'd managed to steal three hours of sleep but the nightmare had drained him, his body's reactions to the aftermath of the dream and the silent sobs that occasionally ripped free from his chest wearing him out all over again. It took a while for him to properly regain awareness of his surroundings and his current situation; the image of his best friend lying dead in a pool of his own blood refusing to be erased from his mind so easily. Even the gunshot continued to ring in his ears. With a frustrated groan he was finally able to force himself into a seated position and free himself from the sweat slicked sheets and rough blankets.

Sherlock despised this. Two years had passed since he'd faked his death and yet his morning ritual still consisted of recovering from whatever tortures his mind had thrown his way while he slept. He couldn't begin to tell how many times he'd had to convince himself that his friends were safe and not buried under six feet of soil. It was as if his mind was intent on punishing him for allowing himself to get trapped in this mess. Nightmares disturbed the only hours of rest he managed to obtain – often after collapsing from sheer exhaustion – and seemed to take great pleasure in terrorising him until he was reduced to a pathetic mess.

Perhaps he deserved it. After all, he'd seen first-hand the damage his actions had caused, had heard the horror stories of John's grief from a watchful Mycroft. If his mind's constant torture was his penance then perhaps he should just grit his teeth and bear it.

On the other hand, maybe it'd be better to never sleep again.

Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold wall, placing a trembling hand over his chest and feeling the heart beat frantically beneath his ribs. He tried to clear his mind for the moment, focussing only on his shuddering breaths while he quietly willed his body to calm down. He succeeded in producing a few deep, measured breaths as a well- rehearsed mantra repeated over and over in his head.

'John is safe. Lestrade is safe. Mrs Hudson is safe. John is safe…'

Each time he neglected to mention that he himself had never been in greater peril but even if he had he doubted he'd be able to care. For once in his life it seemed the wellbeing of others concerned him more than his own life.

He smiled weakly as he felt his heart slow to a comfortable pace and his chest rise and fall at even intervals. The panic was over, for this morning at least. He didn't dare open his eyes and attempt to get up quite yet; past experience taught him that he was incredibly shaky on his feet after experiencing these dreams. He'd grant himself a further ten minutes of rest, after which he'd have to begin moving. The number of associates that Moriarty had had lurking in this area of Berlin was so plentiful that the fact that he'd managed to find a safe place to sleep had been miraculous.

Sherlock quickly shooed such a thought away. None of that mattered for now, least of all any mention of Moriarty. All that mattered in those precious ten minutes were the comforting thoughts of John. Brave, wonderful John who had been able to see past the freak and accept him as a friend, who'd saved his life in more ways than he cared to mention and who, regardless of what his dreams suggested, was currently in London, alive and finally moving on as he should.

Sherlock took a final deep breath before opening his eyes and nodding quietly to himself, finally satisfied. John was safe and well and, if Sherlock was very lucky, he'd be able to see him again one day.

If only he knew how to convince his sleeping mind of that.