I’m working on a second chapter to that angsty thing I posted yesterday. Yes it’s a bit more then six:
But Greg cleared out his spare bedroom and a few nights a week John would show up on his doorstep. Sometimes Mycroft was there, more often he was not. They would sit on the sofa and watch telly until John couldn’t stay awake any longer, then go off to their separate beds.
John hardly slept, didn’t want the meds. Now instead of sand and desert his dreams were haunted by the terrible fall. If only he’d got there sooner. If only he’d said something different. Sometimes he dreamed it was Sherlock who pulled the trigger, put the bullet in his shoulder.