Running. He was running, his feet barely touching the floor. Racing around corners and across roads. Hurtling past traffic and pedestrians. Trying to keep up.
But he was falling behind. He couldn't catch up. His friend was too fast. All that he could see of him was glimpses of the back of his long, black coat as it whipped around a corner, or his tall silhouette as he recklessly leaped over car bonnets.
John followed his friend down a long alleyway, seeing a dead end approaching and feeling relief flood over him. He wouldn't have to run for much longer. His friend would stop and John would be able to catch up to him.
But then, just as John was close enough to see the deep blue of the scarf that flapped around his neck, he started to climb. Climbing up a ladder on the side of a building. But John was still too far away. He had to reach him. He had to.
Just as he got to the base of the ladder, his friend was at the top. Standing tall, the wind sweeping his dark curls around his face. He paused for a moment, holding his impressive stance, before he moved out of John's sight. John grasped onto the cool metal rungs of the ladder and climbed.
His foot missed a bar and his heart missed a beat but he got to the top of the ladder and used the last of his energy to pull himself onto the roof of the building. The familiar figure was standing a few metres away, surveying the view of the city below him.
John forced himself to his feet, reaching his hand out, "Sherlock…" Finally. He was finally going to reach his friend. The man started to turn his head to face John. He was laughing. John started to smile but something wasn't right. That wasn't Sherlock's laugh. That wasn't the laugh that he had been longing to hear for so long. No. That was the laugh of –
The all too familiar Irish singsong voice pierced through John's head and through his heart: "Catch me if you can, Johnny-Boy!" And then the man was running again. He was running to the edge of the building. And then he was jumping and John was falling with him. The wind rushing past his ears wasn't loud enough to block out the gleeful taunts of "I got Sherlock Holmes!" and "All the king's horses and all the king's men will never put Sherly together again!" The maniacal laughing surrounded John, burrowing its way through his veins and around his head and taking over his thoughts until he couldn't breathe, and the ground was getting closer and closer and all he wanted was to see his friend one more time before he hit the ground.
His screaming woke him up. Fighting for breath he sat up, weakly attempting to untangle his limbs from his sheets. He had to get out. Get out of this bed. Get out of this endless torment.
Staggering down the stairs, he trailed his hand along the wall as he stumbled along, the rough wallpaper scratching his knuckles. But he didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything.
He got to the coat cupboard and took the heavy black coat down from its hook, causing the blue scarf to tumble down as well. He looped the scarf around his neck in the way he had seen his friend do so many times before and he put his arms through the sleeves of the coat. It was just that little bit too big. But that didn't bother John.
Sitting down on the floor, the army doctor hugged his knees up to his chest. He nestled his head into the scarf. The smell of Sherlock was still noticeable, comforting John and easing his mind, driving the nightmares away.