The blonde left the building. He heard heavy machinery passing and bombs hitting the ground, glass splintered, people were screaming. All around him were destroyed barracks, car wrecks – there was debris everywhere. John looked around. Everything felt strangely familiar. A grenade hit the ground not very far away from him and exploded with a loud noise. Startled, he eyed the crater created by the impact; he started running, away from there, fast. Where? Didn't matter, just away, as far as his feet would carry him.
Something hit his shoulder. Was it debris or a bullet? His shoulder started aching again. It had taken a while until it was fully healed and he was able to put strain on it again. Now everything started all over again. In front of him, a comrade went down. The doctor ran over and kneeled next to him. Opened the straps of the helmet and saw his comrade's face. He flinched – it wasn't possible. It was Sherlock. He now noticed the blue scarf.
Blood ran down Sherlock's forehead. It was the same scene… The scene that hat burned into John's memory. The expressionless, pale, frozen eyes, the cranial bones, deformed by the impact.
The blonde retreated further, wanted to run away – just away.
John woke up drenched in sweat, breathing frantically and erratically. After having gained back his breath, he screamed his head off. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs. Again, he had dreamed about his flatmate. Again, he had seen him dead. It was one thing dreaming about the war, but a completely different one seeing a friend, someone so important to him, die. He tried to calm down, but didn't succeed. Too shaken was he by that dream.
He fell back into his bed. His breath steadied. "Sherlock…" he whispered, covering his eyes with his hands.