The room is quiet.
John Watson is sitting, staring in front of him.
His gaze isn't fixed on something in particular; he just looks lost, empty, almost on the verge of sleep.
There's silence all around him, a heavy one, but it almost makes a sound.
His vision is getting blurry.
Have you ever felt like you're paralyzed, unable to move, but your mind is screaming and your brain is yelling at you "GO, STAND UP, I'M COUNTING TO THREE, THEN YOU'LL STAND UP, STAND UP!"?
John Watson is experiencing one of those moments. Although, to be honest, he's not completely motionless: his left index finger is twitching while his hand is resting carelessly on his knees.
He is used to this, but these sensations usually came right before waking up, some sort of lucid rigor mortis, something he became accustomed to, almost a blessing if it meant not waking up sweating and screaming.
It was either this, or that.
Minutes pass as if they're weeks.
He starts to hear voices and noises in the distance, like kids playing in the street or maybe neighbors talking out loud? He doesn't know, he doesn't care and he just hopes they're not talking to him.
A tentative hand reaches his shoulder.
Am I felling this? Is this real? Is there someone here with me? WAKE UP.
Suddenly his eyes are focusing in front of him, sharp and responsive, he can see the dust floating through a ray of sunshine coming from the window.
- John?
I can't talk. I can't move my mouth. Is this a bad thing?
- John, are you with us?
I never noticed that chip in the wood on the mantelpiece. Wonder how he did it.
- John, you're scaring me. Do you want tea?
You're scared and you ask me if I want tea? That's very British of you. Whoever you are.
His mouth twitches and in a second it's like a wave of consciousness shakes him from the inside, like a retch but without puking: his brain takes in hours of information in an instant, like a computer rebooting trying to figure out what you did moments before everything shut down. What did you save last?
A funeral.