Warnings: Mild language, bullying, drug use, (apparent) major character death, and the like.

A/N: Just an idea I had one sleepless night. It's also my first published fanfic :)

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. A tip of the hat to ACD, and many thanks to one beth193 on deviantart for the title picture.

Dedication: I'd like to acknowledge star-eye for her edits, comments, support, inspiration. Thank you!

Sherlock never slept if he could help it. When asked, he'd claim it was "boring" or "only needed for transport". Both were valid reasons, of course. Sleeping wasted valuable time. But it wasn't the truth. No one, not Mycroft with his snooping spying ways, or John, forever awakening the emotions a sociopath wasn't supposed to have, knew the truth.

John would understand, if he told him, he knew. John had problems sleeping for the same reason.

But Sherlock doesn't tell, because it is too painful. And unnecessary. He had found the solution (he always finds the solution eventually) to his … problem: if he didn't sleep until he was completely, bone-crushingly, mind-numbingly exhausted, he didn't dream. And if he didn't dream, he couldn't have nightmares. Problem solved. Sort of.

They wouldn't be so bad if they weren't true. He had been eventually able to reason the fear out of his mind during the Baskerville case because he knew it couldn't be real. But you can't reason the fear out of your own, very real, past.

His father looms over him. It always starts with his father. "Why are you crying, weakling?" he mocks. "Shameful, a Holmes who can't control himself. A sentimental fool. Worse than an infant. Pathetic. Idiot. Now Mycroft, now there is a real Holmes. Something to be proud of," He says, wrapping his arms proudly around his 'perfect' boy. "Get out of my sight, you miserable thing." Sherlock runs…

…straight into a waiting fist. He falls, only to scramble to his feet, his own fists raised bravely. "What? Freak's gonna fight me! What a joke! What's he gonna do, the skinny shrimp, 'think' me to death?" The muscle-bound jock laughs, casually knocking Sherlock down again. His head hits the pavement, hard. "Weirdo has no mummy. Weirdo has no friends. Weirdo makes the teachers angry," the schoolboys chant, kicking him around their circle like a ball. Sherlock curls in on himself, trying to protect the organs he knows that the other boys don't even realize exist. Pain. He can deal with pain. He curls up tighter, trying to ignore the blood pooling around him. Blood. So much blood. Trying not to think of the verbal abuse, worse in many ways, that he'll get when (if) he gets home. He wishes it would stop. He wants it to stop.

He needs it to stop. He needs to stop thinking. All the time, a million questions, answers, deductions, all whirling and fighting for attention in his head. It's exhausting. It must be nice to be normal. He spits out the word in his head. Normal. What do normal people do? Drugs. An unbidden voice in his head. He follows the advice. After all, his brain is never wrong.

It's ridiculously easy to make cocaine. He flits around his laboratory, perfectly happy among his glassware and chemicals. He likes this part of the nightmare. Until the jars of livers and eyeballs in formaldehyde become the heads of the people he cares about but pretends he doesn't. Mrs. Hudson, with her I'm-not-your-landlady look. Lestrade, face forever fixed in his what-on-earth-have-you-done-now-Sherlock expression. Molly, a picture of unexpected and complete betrayal. John, just … dead. No emotion, no expression. Which is much, much, worse than any other expression that he could possibly make. The heads begin to move, Mycroft picking up the jars, stacking them this way and that. "Stop it!" Sherlock yells but Mycroft just titters and keeps playing. Donovan storms in. "Freak. Look what you've done. Murderer. Psychopath." "Know-it-all. Heartless. Idiot." Anderson adds as they join Mycroft in his game. "Leave them alone!" Sherlock shouts again, dashing the jars from Mycroft's hands, glass breaking, scattering everywhere. Flames dance in the shards.

His brain is on fire. He screams, but it doesn't help. It makes it worse, the illogical phantoms coming to harass him further. Half his mind is intent on producing things that make no sense, the other half trying to justify them. Absolute irrational torment. And then, suddenly, it's gone. And he wants, no, needs more. He doesn't know why and it scares him. But he just needs it. He reaches for the syringe…

BANG. He stumbles, clutching his abdomen. Blood. So much blood. Pain. He can deal with pain. Except this time, he can't. He's alone, and that's scarier than the blood and the overwhelming agony. His breath catches in his throat as he starts sobbing, drowning in tears that he can't wipe away. Drowning in the pool where Carl Powers died…

John. John is Moriarty. The betrayal hits him like a fist in the gut, stealing his breath and heart at the same time. How could he have been so wrong? No. No no no nooooooo…

No. It's much worse. Moriarty is insane and John is wearing a bomb and Moriarty is pressing the button and John goes up in flames and he's screaming and Sherlock's trying trying to run to him but his feet won't move and John's pleading for Sherlock to shoot him with his own gun just to make it stop please make it stop and Sherlock does it because John, dear John, has never asked for him to do anything in his life and he crumples oh it hurts it hurts and he's sobbing and his father is cursing him for being sentimental and the bullies are jeering 'freak' and Moriarty just laughs and laughs and laughs…

Sherlock sits bolt upright in his bed, shaking. He takes a shuddering breath. Then another and another until he can function. Sort of. His hands are quivering and he hopes John won't notice. John. His trembling fingers reflexively clutch the sheets. He reminds himself that John is fine, Moriarty has gone to ground and John is sleeping like a baby on the couch after watching crap telly all night. Not exploded, not burning, not shot. Perfectly fine.

Sherlock tries taking a shower. Not good. He's drowning in tears, drowning in the pool… He's hardly wet before he jumps out again.

He opens up his closet. Not good. The rows of suits and dress-shirts remind him of Mycroft, of their father… Pathetic. Can't even get dressed without becoming sentimental. Weakling. Ignoring the sardonic voice in his head, Sherlock throws on his dressing gown and walks to the kitchen.

Maybe he can get some experiments finished so he can clear the counter so John will stop whining… Not good. Jars of samples line the counter. Jars of scowling heads. No. They are just fingers from the morgue, Molly said he could borrow them… Molly. Betrayal.

Sherlock rushes from the kitchen, almost running into John. John. The heart he isn't supposed to have twists violently in his chest. Sherlock can't even look at him. Not right now. He dashes to the window and starts playing his violin like his life depends on it.

Why had he let John talk him into going to bed early last night? He knew he wasn't tired enough. He purposely forgets how lovely it was to snuggle up under the covers, how peaceful it was to drift off to sleep instead of crash-land into oblivion.

Oblivion. John, collapsing onto the tile, still burning, face peacefully oblivious to the bullet in his forehead. The one he asked for and Sherlock gave. His trembling fingers fumble a note and he feels John notice. Sherlock never fumbles notes. Not by accident, at least.

He lays down the violin. Can hardly even do that, he's in such a state. He's so angry at himself. Why can't he control this! He can stare serial killers in the eyes and laugh at gory crime scenes but give the great Sherlock Holmes a nightmare and he's reduced to a quivering mess! He growls, pacing the room. John's not exactly staring, but he is. It's annoying. Why can't people just leave him alone!

Alone. Bleeding to death in an alleyway. Sherlock stops pacing. No. He doesn't want to be alone. But he doesn't want to be with people either… Freak. Psychopath. Idiot. He throws himself into his chair and stares at the ceiling. Nothing threatening about a ceiling. Sherlock tries to escape in his mind palace. It doesn't work.

John walks over with a cup of tea. What is it with that man and tea? It's not the elixir of life or anything, it can't cure anything. Sherlock can't bring himself to look at his flat mate's face, but can tell by his posture that he's going to ask a question. He can't let that happen, because if jumper-wearing, weapon-bearing, oh-so-caring John asks the question Sherlock knows he'll ask, he won't be able to keep up the all-important façade. So, feigning disinterest, Sherlock moans "Bored," in the way he knows John hates, fidgeting in his chair to hide the tremors in his hands as John dumps the tea on the table.

What he really means is "Help me".