Author's note: Obviously I don't own Warehouse 13 or Sherlock despite my best efforts (Moffat and Gatiss still haven't written me back about that one). Hope you enjoy this and if you do, review!

Sherlock detested getting the mail; there was really no point to it. Sherlock knew there would be bills (There always were) and junk-mail. The only time the mail was worth checking was when Sherlock was expecting a package, and he wasn't. So why was he checking the mail? Sherlock sighed irritably as he scooped up the envelopes and meandered back into the living room where he plopped down onto the couch. He was about to throw the useless heap of mail on the coffee table when one of the letters caught his attention. He sat up on the couch, suddenly interested he tossed aside the other letters which fluttered to various places on the floor while Sherlock examined the envelope of the letter in question. It was thick parchment, with little flowery designs in the corners and on the back. Oddly enough there was no address or return address, so whoever it was from must've hand delivered it; it also had a slight bulge in the lower left-hand corner. Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him and he opened it carefully, hoping it wasn't booby-trapped. Sherlock finished opening it and pulled out a piece of paper with a short message typed onto it.

A gift

That was all the letter said and Sherlock set it aside with a frown, reaching inside for the more interesting object that had been sealed within the envelope along with the letter. He pulled it out and frowned even more.
It was a ring, not even an interesting ring. Just a ring, a thin band of silver with a small onyx protruding from the top, there were no initials on it, no designs or inscriptions that told of the previous owner. Sherlock turned it in between his fingers and held it up to the light. He could deduce little from it aside from the fact that the original owner had been male and was most-likely quite fat. That was the only explanation for the size of the ring, it was far too large for Sherlock's thin, elegant, violin-playing fingers but Sherlock slipped it on anyway just to see. The moment the ring was on his finger Sherlock could smell the distinct scent of fudge wafting through the air. He pinned the smell on Mrs. Hudson and continued to examine the ring. It hung off his finger and if Sherlock allowed his arm to drop to his side, the ring would undoubtedly fall off.

"Anything interesting in the mail?" John asked cheerily as he walked into the living room, Sherlock just humphed in response. John smiled warmly and disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes to make himself a cup of tea. John emerged with a steaming cup of Earl Grey in his hands and when he caught sight of the ring he cocked his head in confusion.

"What's that?" He asked and Sherlock stopped staring at it to answer John.

"Don't be dense John, it's obviously a ring." Sherlock went back to staring at the ring and John began to walk towards him.

"Yeah, but where-" John was cut off by the sound of shattering glass and Sherlock's head snapped away from the ring to look at the window, or rather the empty space where the window had been. It took Sherlock a moment to register the look of frozen surprise on John's face.

"John?" Sherlock took a step towards him. John stood there for a second, and then he dropped his mug which shattered, sending chips of ceramic and hot tea flying in all directions. Time seemed to slow down as John's eyes glazed over and he began to fall to the floor, bright crimson blood spreading from his chest. Sherlock managed to catch John before he hit the ground but it didn't help as John was dead before Sherlock could even stop the blood that was pouring from the wound in his chest. Sherlock knew what had happened moments too late, John had been shot through the window by some unseen sniper. Sherlock knew that he was holding a corpse in his arms, but that didn't stop him from screaming. That didn't stop the tears as they streamed down his face. That didn't stop him trying to wake up the lifeless body of John Watson that was cradled in his arms. Sherlock refused to believe that John was going to die, it couldn't happen, it just couldn't. Sherlock screamed John's name and began sobbing into warm woolen fabric of the sweater that was quickly turning a terrifying shade of scarlet. Sherlock just cried, hoping that the ambulances Mycroft had inevitably called would be there soon. Sherlock had never told John how much he needed him, not even after he had returned from being "dead". Now he just wanted a chance to do so, just one last chance. Sherlock knew he didn't deserve it for everything he'd done, especially where John was concerned, but he needed a second chance. He was begging some higher force to give him the chance to tell John just how much he meant to Sherlock, that Sherlock needed him...

"Sherlock!" Sherlock looked up from John's limp body to see… John.
What?
No.
Not possible.
Sherlock looked down at John's dead body, except there was none. Sherlock's brain was trying so incredibly hard to understand what was going on. John wasn't dead… but Sherlock had seen him die, held him in his arms as John took in his final breaths. But the evidence was there, there was no body and the still living form of John Watson was standing next to the distinctly empty-armed Sherlock.
Bad dream.
That was the only explanation for everything that had occurred. Sherlock had dozed off while thinking (miraculously) and had experienced a nightmare, similar to the ones John often experienced, in which John died. It made sense, so Sherlock wiped the tears from his eyes and almost went back to thinking again but stopped in his tracks.

"John, I've never told you, but you are incredibly important to me. I may not be good at expressing it, but… I need you. You are my closest and only friend. I care about you more than I can ever say. Thank-you for being part of my life." Sherlock didn't look at John as he said this, but he could see the look of surprise on John's face in his peripheral vision. Sherlock knew there probably wasn't any higher power really, but he had followed through on his promise to tell John how much he cared, just in case.

"Sit down." John said and Sherlock looked up at him in confusion. "Sit. Down." John commanded and Sherlock obeyed, sitting down on the couch. John began to check Sherlock, taking his pulse, looking into Sherlock's eyes, having Sherlock follow John's finger with his eyes.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked while John tested his reflexes.

"Checking to see if you have a concussion." John said after smacking Sherlock's knees with a small hammer (Sherlock had no clue where that came from).

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Because there is no way you would ever say that if you didn't have some sort of brain injury." Sherlock chuckled and stopped John's hands as they continued to check Sherlock for signs of brain damage.

"I'm fine John; I just had a bad dream, that's all." John gave Sherlock a concerned look but Sherlock just stood up and gave John a reassuring pat on the shoulder. John sighed and stood up as well.

"Are you sure you're alright?" John asked and Sherlock nodded decisively. John let out another sigh and went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Sherlock walked up to the intact window and scanned every single window of the buildings across the street to check for snipers. Sherlock didn't even acknowledge the ring that was now lying on the carpet and he didn't notice the distinct smell of fudge as it slowly dissipated.

Ping

Ping

Ping

Ping

Ping

Artie sat straight up in his chair and adjusted his glasses which had fallen down to the tip of his nose while he was sleeping. He checked the computer, which had been pinging, indicating that there was artifact activity somewhere in the world. Oddly enough, when Artie clicked on the footage of the artifacty activity there was a message that accompanied it.

This situation is of a delicate nature as it is of personal interest to me. See that it is dealt with in a manner that does not expose the true nature of the situation between myself and those involved. I would also request that you yourself assist so there is less room for error. Do not allow this to get out of hand.
-MH

Artie swallowed the fear that rested in his throat, he recognized the initials. They belonged to a very high-ranking regent, and Artie knew that letting him down meant some very unhappy things. He watched the footage (wondering why on earth there were cameras in these people's apartment) and immediately saw the artifact that was causing the computer to ping. It was a ring that had come in the mail; the dark-haired man had put on the ring and then proceeded to carry out a conversation with someone who wasn't. Then the man broke down sobbing while cradling the air as though it were a body when suddenly another man came down the stairs. This man was shorter than the dark-haired man and had sandy blonde hair. Artie saw his expression shift to one of horror as the dark haired man screamed. There was sound on the video so Artie rewound it and turned the volume up and listened as the man repeatedly called out for someone by the name of John. Artie watched intently as the ring slipped off the man's finger and onto the carpet, the moment it did the sandy blonde finally got his attention by shouting his name. Sherlock, Artie continued watching and noted that the blonde man's name was John. So, it was a ring that was afflicting John and Sherlock. Trailer came up and licked Artie's hand, causing him to jump and whirl around in the chair.

"Good work trailer, you got him good." Pete said with a mischievous laugh. Myka walked in with Claudia and Steve trailing behind.

"We brought you food!" Claudia said, holding up the take-out bag triumphantly and Artie's stomach growled hungrily.

"Seems we were right on time too, the creature living in your stomach doesn't sound like it could've waited much longer." Pete said, giving Artie's stomach a pat. Claudia dug a box that smelled deliciously of pie out of the bag and presented it to Artie with a 'dun-du-du-daaa'. Artie took it gratefully but set it aside so he could tell everyone about the ping they'd just gotten.

"We got a ping." Artie said and everyone crowded around him, suddenly curious. Artie pointed out the ring to them and they all nodded in understanding, they had work to do.

"Wait a minute, those dudes had British accents. Are we going to go to England?" Pete asked after the video played again.

"Yes Pete, you, me, and Myka are all going to go to London." Claudia awwed in disappointment and Steve patted her on the back. Pete on the other hand gave Artie a confused look.

"You're coming too?" He asked and Artie nodded, he really didn't want to get on the regents bad side and he had a feeling that John and Sherlock were very important to this particular regent. Artie decided the best way to prevent Myka and Pete from revealing any unwanted information was to keep them in the dark about everything, Artie would only give them the details if they found out on their own.

"Well we better go pack; we have a long flight tomorrow." Artie said and Pete headed off to Leena's but Myka stepped over to Artie.

"What about the artifact? It can't be safe to just leave it on the floor." Micah said and Artie patted her arm.

"Don't worry about it, it's not as if he ring is going to get up and walk away." Artie couldn't have been more wrong.

At 221B Baker Street the ring was hiding underneath the couch, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

John had absolutely no clue what had happened to Sherlock. If he didn't know better he would say Sherlock had suffered a PTSD attack similar to the ones John experienced, but Sherlock didn't have any past trauma that John knew of. At least not any of that kind of intensity. John was also curious as to why Sherlock had shouted his name while trapped in the nightmare, but John also knew that he couldn't pry that information from Sherlock; he would have to wait for Sherlock to tell him in his own time. John was still very ill at ease because of the events of that day and it was making sleep impossible. Finally he decided to go downstairs and get a glass of water. He yanked himself out of bed and was descending the stairs when he stepped on something small that sent a sharp pain shooting up his leg. He winced and stepped off it, crouching down to get a better look in the dark. It was a ring, a simple silver band with an onyx protruding from the top. John picked it up and examined it, he couldn't recall a ring like this in the flat before, and he was pretty sure there wasn't anyone who'd been there recently that had a finger large enough to fit it. John wasn't sure why, but curiosity caused him to slip the ring onto his thumb as that was the only finger large enough to keep the ring firmly in place. As he did he sniffed the air and was surprised to smell something that could best be described as… fudge. Then the smell disappeared and John was affronted by a plethora of other, unwelcome yet familiar smells. The smell of the sun baked desert being the strongest amongst them, it was accompanied by the smell of smoke, sweat, and an unidentifiable scent that could only be described as the scent of death. John could hear the familiar sounds of war rage around him and struggled to push them away.

"No no no, it's not real." John chanted to himself, willing the shadows of enemies and allies to disappear. John opened his eyes and was terrified to not see Baker Street any longer, but rather the endless desert stretching out in every direction, only interrupted by the occasional building and the figures of people running for cover behind the small walls that littered the small village in which John now stood. He tried once more to recall where he was but his senses told him that he was in midst of battle and there were people who needed his help. John was set in motion by the ear-shattering sounds of guns going off all around him. He saw one of the lower ranking soldiers that had been with him go down and in a moment John was at his side. John struggled to bandage the wound in the man's torso as he cried out in pain. John barely had time to pull a bandage out of his pack when he felt red hot pain burst through his shoulder. John screamed and his hand flew to his shoulder which was already bleeding quite a bit. John turned to face his attacker who was standing behind John with a gun pointed at John's heart. John positioned himself so he was over the top of the young soldier behind him, shielding him from any harm the enemy soldier may wish to inflict. John raised his arms to show his surrender but the man just continued to point the gun straight at him, not doing anything but standing there. John had never been more afraid than right at that moment, his life rested in the hands of someone who didn't even know John and probably believed with every fiber of his being that John was scum which deserved to die in the worst way possible. John didn't want to die, he still had a life that he wanted to live, he didn't want to end right there in the middle of that horrible desert. Then the man spoke in perfect English and the deep baritone of his voice triggered something in John.

"John?" The desert disappeared and was replaced by the looming buildings and bustling streets of London. The figure before John vanished and John stood up. He looked around and the phone that was in his pocket rung. He put it up to his ear and the voice on the other side turned his blood to ice.

"John." It was Sherlock. John spun around and his eyes immediately fell upon the dark silhouette of Sherlock Holmes standing on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

"Sherlock?" John tried not to panic as Sherlock's coat billowed out behind him in the wind; he was too close to the edge. John barely heard what Sherlock was saying, it was something about being a fraud but John knew that Sherlock was lying to him, but he was still too close to the edge. John tried to say something but Sherlock cut him off.

"Goodbye John." Sherlock tossed aside the phone and spread his arms like an angel with coal black wings. John tried to run forward but invisible arms grabbed hold of him and held him in place. Sherlock leaned forward and John screamed his name as he fell, his arms whirling in the air like a fledgling bird that just couldn't figure out how to fly.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock could barely suppress the horror he felt when he saw John kneeling and clutching his shoulder in agony. Sherlock was about to move towards John but John whirled to face him with an expression of fear that Sherlock had never seen. Why on earth be afraid of Sherlock? In the next moment John raised his arms in a gesture of surrender and Sherlock understood. John was having a PTSD attack, he didn't see Sherlock, he saw an enemy who was most likely aiming a gun right at John if his actions were any indication. Sherlock stood, unsure of what to do for a moment then he said John's name and for a moment it looked as though John had been released from the horrible waking nightmare that had him trapped, but the moment passed. John looked around as though he wasn't sure where he was and then grabbed something out of his pocket and held the nonexistent object up to his ear.

"Sherlock?" John muttered into the phone and Sherlock's stomach felt like it had been turned to stone. John seemed to be looking up at something but Sherlock didn't have the slightest clue as to what because it wasn't actually there. Suddenly John's expression changed to one of terror and he started to run in the direction of the window. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him back. John struggled against Sherlock's grasp and continued to gaze up at whatever he was seeing. Then John screamed.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock's stomach petrified inside of his body as John collapsed into a heap on the floor of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock tried to retrieve John from his nightmarish hallucination by shaking him and calling his name but John was not cooperating. Sherlock had figured out by that time that John was reliving Sherlock's faked suicide from the roof of Saint Bart's and it caused guilt to eat at Sherlock's insides. John had curled into a ball and when he looked up at Sherlock it was with an expression that Sherlock did not expect to see. Guilt. Guilt to mirror Sherlock's own, and then John began to whisper to himself. John had begun to cry but was trying desperately not to so the stifled tears collected in his eyelashes.

"All my fault… I should've… I'm so sorry Sherlock." This was the side of John that Sherlock hadn't seen after he funeral, the side that John only revealed when he was alone and the weight of grief was crushing his body and soul.

"No John, it's not your fault. Please, it's alright." Sherlock's own words surprised him, both the soothing tone in which he said them and the way he asked John politely. Sherlock never asked politely. Sherlock didn't know what was wrong with John but whatever had instigated this attack of PTSD was causing it to last much longer than Sherlock thought was healthy. Then John's eyes glazed over and he became limp in Sherlock's arms. After quickly checking John's pulse Sherlock finally decided it would be wise to get John some help so he dragged John off to his bedroom where he tucked the covers around John's body, taking note of the sudden feverish symptoms that John was exhibiting. Sherlock whispered some gentle words to John and headed down the stairs to call Lestrade.

"Sherlock it's bloody three o' clock in the morning. What on earth could you possibly want that's so important?"

"Lestrade, John's having some sort of PTSD attack and it isn't passing. I need you to get down here with anyone you think can help." Sherlock said hurriedly into the phone.

"Christ, that sounds important enough, I'm on my way." Sherlock hung up and after the phone call he returned upstairs to see John curled into a ball; his eyes squeezed shut and shaking violently from head to toe. Sherlock wasn't sure what was wrong with John but it was escalating quickly. Sherlock wasn't able to sit still for the ten minutes it took Lestrade to get to Baker Street. He was constantly up and pacing or getting a fresh towel for John's forehead. Finally Lestrade ascended the stairs, behind him were two people who were clearly government agents, yet unusual ones. They carried guns that Sherlock didn't recognize and they had clearly just gotten off of a very long flight. One was a woman with dark curly hair and the other was a well-built man with short hair that informed Sherlock that he was ex-military.

"Sherlock, these are some agents from the American secret service, they say they can help." Lestrade said and Sherlock would have guffawed at the obvious falseness of the statement had it been a different situation. It didn't matter who they were as long as they could help John.

"He's upstairs." Sherlock said and all four of them bounded up the steps. The woman knelt down next to John and began to put on a pair of bright purple gloves as she checked his person for something.

"Where is it?" The man asked and Sherlock turned to him with a confused expression.

"Where is what?" Sherlock asked and the woman answered him.

"The ring." Sherlock recalled the ring that he had received in the mail two days ago. It made sense, Sherlock had completely disregarded the ring but after he had put it on he had experienced something similar to what John was experiencing now, although not quite as strongly. Mycroft may think that Sherlock was clueless about the strange world of inexplicable artifacts in which he was involved but Sherlock was not an idiot and had more than his fair share of encounters with the impossible objects.

"Never mind, I found it." The woman said and she grabbed hold of the onyx ring which was firmly attached to John's thumb. It didn't budge and the woman was pulling on it with enough strength to tear off John's thumb if she kept it up.

"It won't come off!" The woman shouted.

"Dunk his whole hand then." The man said as he carried a silver container that was filled with an unpleasant purple goo. They dipped John's hand into the substance and John began to scream in agony, his entire body tensing as pain rocketed through him. They quickly removed John's hand from the cylindrical case and backed away, completely unsure of what to do. Sherlock was standing by Lestrade and watching helplessly as John's breathing became more and more shallow.

"We need eggs." Came a voice from the doorway and Sherlock turned and saw a squat man with round glasses standing in the doorway. Sherlock didn't know why eggs would help but the man seemed to be the higher ranking agent of the two others so he probably knew what he was doing. Sherlock rushed down the stairs and flung open the door of the refrigerator. He shouted I frustration as he remembered that he had used the last of the eggs in an experiment.

"Do you have them?" The squat man asked and Sherlock shook his head. Before the man could say anything more though Sherlock had pulled his coat from its peg and was running full speed in the direction of Tesco's. He burst through the doors and ran down the aisles until he found the eggs. Only then did Sherlock realize that he didn't have any money, he grabbed two eggs out of a box of a dozen and shoved them carefully into his pockets. He sprinted out of the shop and ran as fast as he could back to Baker Street where Lestrade and the three agents were waiting for him.

"Did you get them?" The man with the glasses asked and Sherlock responded by pulling them out of his pockets. The man took them gingerly and went back to John's side. Much to Sherlock's horror John looked even worse than before, his breaths came in short gasps and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he struggled against the invisible monsters that were attacking him beneath his closed eyelids. The man then proceeded to crush one of the eggs all over John's hand and the ring. John screamed in agony again and Sherlock was instantly at his side, he grasped John's hand in his in an attempt to distract from the pain. There was a high-pitched squeal of protest but when the man crushed the second egg over the ring it fell off, causing a bright flash of light to come shooting from the tub of goo. John's breathing became normal and he stopped shaking. Sherlock nearly passed out from relief when John's eyes fluttered open and Lestrade put his face in his hands while letting out a relieved chuckle.

"Sherlock?" John asked groggily as he tried to sit up. Sherlock put his hand on his shoulder and said

"I'm here John." Sherlock said and John allowed his head to fall back onto his pillow.

"I had the worst nightmare."

Lestrade told Sherlock to be more careful for the umpteenth time before driving away into the night.

"So what was it?" Sherlock asked the squat man and the man gave Sherlock his best innocent look.

"Don't do that, despite what my brother thinks I know quite a bit about artifacts. So what was it?" Sherlock said and the man whispered the word 'brother' in surprise under his breath before answering.

"It was Alfred Hitchcock's ring." Sherlock gave him a confused look.

"The famous horror film director. The ring causes the wearer to have hallucinations of his worst fears. Your friend in there had enough fears that the ring latched onto him and attempted to trap him inside a mental world of fear." The man explained and Sherlock nodded in understanding, trying to push away the guilt that was threatening to overtake him.

"So why did the eggs help?" Sherlock asked after a short pause.

"Not many people know this, but Alfred Hitchcock had a fear of eggs." The man said and Sherlock nodded again. A cab pulled up and the two other agents climbed into it. The man nodded in farewell to Sherlock but before he could climb into the cab Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"Thank-you." Sherlock said and the man smiled in return. The three agents drove off into the distance and Sherlock turned to walk back into the flat and bumped right into John.

"So a ring that makes you have hallucinations of your greatest fears huh?" John said with a smile.

"Apparently." Sherlock said with a shrug.

"So your greatest fear is me dying?" John asked and Sherlock pursed his lips together indignantly.

"And your greatest fear is me dying." Sherlock countered.

"I guess that makes us even then." John said as they walked back into Baker Street for a night of hopefully nighmareless dreams.