John Watson hated nights. Well he hated the nights where dreams plagued his subconscious. Which were most. Normal people dreamed of yearnings from deep within their soul, or kittens. But John had never been considered normal. Every time he closed his eyes, and let himself slip below the blurred line that separated reality from the world of our minds, he could feel the burning sun scorch his flesh as he ran through the writhing shroud of people, and the shimmering curtain of bullets to kneel at a faceless, fallen comrades side. Every night he would rifle through his med-bag, trying in vain to bandage the gory wounds, the man was dieing, his unknown friend was dieing. He could hear the cries of pain and fear as he begged for John to help him. John was unable to do anything. Then there was the loud crack of a gun fired nearby, paired with an excruciating white hot spiral of pain in his left shoulder and the pungent tang of blood. Needless to say, he woke screaming every night. Once the vivid flashbacks cleared his tormented mind, like mist in sunshine, he always heard sweet violin music drifting up through the flat. The next thing he knew the sun was streaming in trough his windowpane, and casting absent rainbows around the room. Sometimes his mind would be absent during sleep. It was a welcome break, the peace fluttered across his synapses like the wings of a rare butterfly. There was no violin music on these nights.
…
Two nights ago John dreamt of war. Of falling bodies ridden with bullets and blood sweeping the desert, his empty cry fading into a starless night. When he opened his eyes the room around him was a horrid dark unknown. His head began to spin and he felt an undeniable sense that someone's life was coming to an end… Most likely his. A few gentle strands of music from below lulled him into a blissful state, and he fell asleep to the wondrous melody flowing from his flatmate's violin. One night ago he was running through the streets of London hand in hand with a maniac, his maniac. He secretly loved it. If only he knew what would follow.
…
"SHERLOCK!" The cry went unrecieved.
"Goodbye John." Came the flat reply, void of any emotion. He felt himself running, his feet making hollow thuds on the pavement. Suddenly something snagged his foot and attempted to pull him down. From the ground came hands, thousands of bloody hands, cracked through the pavement like they were growing out of it. They grabbed at him, dragged him to the ground.
"NO!" He felt the air gush out of his lungs as he collided with the cement. The hands grasped him greedily, dead nails digging into his flesh gouging out welts of skin where fresh blood pooled. His cry of pain was lost in a burst of manic laughter and a sing-songey voice echoed from all around him.
"What's the rush Johnny boy?" He struggled harder, causing his wounds to deepen. He extended his hand to the dark figure perched on the ledge above him. Every wound John received soaked through the clothes on Sherlock's body, but he showed no signs, not even when the porcelain complexion of his face was marred. Bloody wounds bloomed all across it, drops falling like burning tears to splatter to the ground so many feet below. In his last moments he turned to look at John, his eyes held all of the emotions the rest of his body lacked, and also one John couldn't quite place. His pupils began to grow until they engulfed his entire eye. Lovely crystal blue turned into deep pits of unforgiving black. He extended one trembling hand out toward John; his coat billowing behind him in the nonexistent wind. Then he stepped off. Well it was more like he stepped forward, the ground ceased to exist below him, and gravity stole him away. As he fell the world behind him turned grey and lifeless. John never saw him hit the pavement. But he heard it. He would never forget that sound. It would haunt him for the rest of his life, no matter how short he wished that would be.
…
He screamed himself raw, he didn't even know when he had started. He screamed until he could taste blood. He wasn't sure if it was real or not, frankly he didn't care. His eyes were swollen from the tears that wouldn't cease, and his head was spinning and delusional from the lack of oxygen, he seemed to forget how to breathe. John body was wracked with involuntary spasms of pure sorrow.
"Sherlock." He whispered in agony.
"Sherlock?"
"SHERLOCK!" He could feel himself unravel when no response met his ears. His voice was hoarse and hitched as he cried into the dark, airless void, the name of the man he loved on his tongue. There was no violin music on this night.
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