Author's Note: Trigger warning for character death. This piece is based on a dream of mine. How ironic. Anyway, it seemed perfectly clear in my head, but I'm not exactly sure if what happened was obvious enough, so I'll have another author's note at the end to explain.
The loss tears at his gut, leaving scars. A gaping hole plagues his heart. Constant emptiness courses through him.
Faces. He sees them, but he doesn't recognise them. People. They're speaking to him, but he can't understand. They're trying to tell him something. Something to do with the pain, the immense sadness that's slowly tearing him apart, threatening to-
John jolted upright in his bed, breathing heavily. When he looked around, noticing the familiar walls of his room in 221B, he realized it had only been a dream. With a shaking hand, he ran his fingers through his hair.
Something seemed off in this nightmare. Usually, his worst dreams were littered with scenes from Afghanistan. This one was completely different, and it left him with a strong sense of grief. A couple of deep breaths lowered John's heart rate back to a steady beat, but uneasiness lingered at the edge of his mind.
John glanced over to his alarm, which blinked out at him sadly. It was early, but John knew he wouldn't get back to sleep. He pushed back the rumpled sheets and rose to his feet. Quietly, so as not to wake Sherlock if he actually was sleeping, John completed his morning rituals, taking extra time to splash cool water on his face in the hope that it would wipe the dream from his mind.
Once finished, he traipsed down the stairs and into the kitchen. A good cup of tea would surely help him wash away the nagging feeling; for some reason, John felt like he was forgetting something important. As the kettle boiled, he moved about the room, gathering supplies for toast. He turned around to get the butter and jumped when he noticed Sherlock standing in the doorway.
"Morning." John eyed his flatmate warily. The detective examined him with sharp eyes, trapping John under his stare like bacteria under a microscope. He could surely see the remnants of John's battle in the night. "Would you like something to-"
"It was different last night," interrupted Sherlock. "Your hand doesn't tremble after an Afghanistan nightmare. It's shaking so bad you can barely hold the plate." John looked down at his left hand and saw that, indeed, his fingers were twitching violently. "So what was it?"
Throughout his deduction, Sherlock hadn't looked away from his flatmate. John debated over whether or not to tell Sherlock the truth, and eventually came to the conclusion that it wouldn't matter anyway. Sherlock could always tell when he was lying.
"I'm not exactly sure what the nightmare was about. I just felt very empty. Lonely, I guess. There was something missing. Something very important, and I don't know what it was. It was just wrong, and I didn't know what was happening..." He trailed off, unsure as to how to phrase it.
Sherlock seemed to be thinking. With a sudden shake of his head, he muttered, "Human emotions. Terribly complicated things." He walked past John and out into the living area, stalking over to the coat rack.
"Where are you heading?" John inquired, following him through the flat.
"Lestrade has a new case. Coming?"
Sighing, John rubbed his sleep deprived eyes. Maybe a murder would keep his mind off of things.
. . .
The faces are slightly more clear this time. They're familiar. He doesn't know where he is, unable to make out his surroundings. Still, the intense feeling of something wrong screams at him, begs him to listen. He tries. He really tries to focus, to figure out what had happened to leave him so distraught. It was lurking, taunting him, just at the edge of his mind-
It had been several days since his last nightmare, and John had all but forgotten about it, caught up in the whirlwind of Sherlock. This dream, however, bought all the terror crashing back down. Something was wrong, so terribly wrong that John couldn't bear it. He rose from his bed shakily, and he fumbled with his clothes. When he was finally able to pull on his most comfortable jumper and a pair of jeans, John hurried out of the flat. He needed fresh air.
John walked slowly down the concrete sidewalks, looking around him to clear his mind. He paid particular attention to the sky, bright blue that offered to swallow him up and hold him close, far away from any place where things weren't as they should be.
Before long, he came across an empty bench. Barely anyone was out and about; it was just after sunrise, and most people were curled up in their nice, warm beds. John took a seat, the hard wood pressed against his back grounding him.
He decided to stop sleeping. If Sherlock could go for days without rest, so could he. Sleep deprivation was better than the alternative. Anything was better than the alternative. The nightmares left an itching feeling in the back of John's mind, something that plagued him almost every waking second. He wanted to scratch the itch, make it go away, do something so he wasn't so distracted and disturbed, but John didn't know what to do.
With a sigh, he put his head in his hands. The cases with Sherlock effectively sidetracked him, and John found himself wishing, just like Sherlock, for a serial killer to show up.
. . .
Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Their features swim into view. They are speaking, repeating the same words over and over. Another man stands, familiar as well. Triggering his memory. Something...the twisting feeling in his gut. It is connected with the last person. Who is it?
He still doesn't recognise the room. His eyes aren't working, his senses are dulled. It is almost as if someone has placed a wool blanket over his head. He fights, trying to understand-
The next dream happened at the surgery. After almost a week of avoiding his bedroom at all costs, John finally fell into a deep sleep during a small break around ten thirty. The third nightmare was also the first time he didn't wake himself up.
"John!" A voice cut through his visions. Sarah's hand found his shoulder. "Are you alright?" The worry was evident in her voice.
John responded, "I'm fine. Just a little tired." He knew it was a lie. There was no way Sarah could look at him, his bloodshot eyes, tousled hair, and rumpled clothes, and not realize that something was wrong.
She didn't push, didn't question, but she did say, "Maybe you should take the rest of your shift off."
Nodding, John gathered his belongings and hurried out the door without so much as a backwards glance. If he couldn't escape the nightmares, he would have to fight them. John was always a fighting kind of person, anyway.
His thoughts flicked back to his dream as he manoeuvred his way through the crowded streets of London at night. Who was the last man? It had to be someone important, didn't it? Why were Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson present in a nightmare? Unless they were being harmed, which John was sure they hadn't been, he didn't see how he could feel so upset at the sight of them. His dreams were set in a world where everything was topsy turvy.
Maybe Sherlock would have some insight about the situation, or some trick about how to ward off the jagged claws of sleep. Before he knew where his feet had taken him, John recognised the dark door of 221B Baker Street.
"Sherlock!" he called up the stairs. It had been a slow day for the criminal masterminds of England, so John only hoped that the flat he had come back to was still in one piece.
When no one replied, John exhaled sharply through his nose and trudged up the steps. He pushed open the door, only to find Sherlock sprawled out on the couch in what appeared to be an attempt to take up as much space as possible.
"Sherlock, do you have any way to-" John cut himself off when he noticed that the detective was sleeping soundly. For a moment, he envied his flatmate's peaceful slumber, but John wasn't one for excess jealousy. He took the second flight of stairs up to his own room and tucked himself into bed, praying that another nightmare wouldn't come.
. . .
This time, he still doesn't recognise the setting, but certain shapes stand out. Is that an armchair over there? A table? Mrs. Hudson was standing in a corner, along with Mycroft. The third man from the a while back was Mycroft. John feels a cold, searing anger at the pompous politician, but he can't quite recall why. Why is he angry? Why does he hate Mycroft? What happened? Something is wrong, something is missing. It irritates him-
No such luck. The nightmare comes again, and this time, John woke up in a cold sweat, so terribly livid at Mycroft for no apparent reason. The nightmares were getting progressively worse, the feeling of emptiness gradually growing. As usual, John dressed and washed himself before heading downstairs, trying to erase all the remnants of the previous night.
When he was about to walk in to make his tea, John noticed Sherlock bustling around the flat.
"Is it another death, then?" John asked, opening the refrigerator door.
Smirking, Sherlock answered, "Yes, and it's an odd one. Not boring in the slightest. It's a boy who jumped from a building, attempting suicide, but was shot on the way down. The odds of something like this happening are astronomically low. It's a statistical anomaly."
Something about that answer rubbed John the wrong way. He felt his hand wavering and clutched it to his chest. Nonetheless, he closed the door to the fridge and grabbed his coat.
"Hurry up," Sherlock called, already out the door.
Grumbling, John rushed out the door. He followed his flatmate as the man briskly set off down the street.
"It's nearby," Sherlock explained. "Lestrade didn't even bother starting on this case. As soon as he heard the phone call about the death, he texted. Said he knew his crew wouldn't be able to figure it out." He grinned, rubbing his hands together in the crisp morning air.
In no time, the pair of them came across a tall building, blocked off by police tape. The body was surrounded by police, a bullet wound in its chest and a caved- in skull plainly visible amidst a great deal of blood. John cringed slightly at the sight. It seemed so familiar, but he couldn't quite recall from where. He moved to step forward, and was surprised to find himself crumpling to the ground.
"Sherl-" he started to cry out, but before he could get the second syllable out, the world turned black.
. . .
The flat. That's where he is. He can hear them now, Mycroft and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but only in barely audible murmurs. What are they all doing? What do they need to tell him? He feels sick to his stomach, physically ailing in addition to the constant unbalance of his mind.
New people. Faces he doesn't recognise, certainly not. They remind him of himself. Clean. Doctors? Yes, certainly doctors. Why were doctors in the flat? They had no business-
"John!" Sherlock's shout woke him. "John, what happened?"
The doctor blinked hard, waiting for the world to come back into focus. When he could finally see clearly, John could make out Sherlock's slightly worried face hovering above him. A hand stretched out to sit him up.
"John?" Sherlock asked again, unsure this time. He wasn't paying any attention to the dead man lying fifteen feet away; instead, his focus was entirely on the one before him. "What happened?"
John shook his head a bit, and he responded, "Not exactly sure. I must have fainted. I had another one of those nightmares again." The last part was spoken much quieter than the beginning. The two of them had drawn a bit of a crowd.
"Do you want to go home?"
Obviously, John knew Sherlock was really interested in the case before them, and if they didn't get started on it now, a murderer could walk free. John picked himself up off the ground. "No, it's fine."
Still a bit uncertain, Sherlock nodded and walked over to the corpse. John didn't even bother trying to follow the man's rapid fire deductions. He simply paid attention to the major details. He learned that the victim had been shot by a man on the third floor while the window was open, and the poor dead bloke was probably a resident of the same apartment.
John, dazed and distracted, followed along as Sherlock and Lestrade questioned all the inhabitants of the building and eventually picked out the man with the gun, a Mr. Peter Calrowski. In about five minutes of brutal examination, John's flatmate was able to work out that the shot had been an accident, and Calrowski was simply cleaning his gun.
The whole thing was written up as a suicide, for that had been the victim's original intent, and Mr. Calrowski got off scot free. Something was a little off with this reasoning, but John didn't really care at the moment. He just wanted to sit down.
He leaned up against the wall, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Little by little, John sunk down the wall until he was sitting on the ground. His head still wasn't working properly.
Sherlock took a seat beside him. "Are you feeling any better?" he questioned, uncharacteristically kind.
"Not really," John answered honestly. "I feel like I'm going to black out again."
"You should get home." Sherlock started to help him up, but before he could stand, John found the world spinning around him again.
. . .
Finally, he can make out some of the words. Maybe they would give him a clue, tell him why he felt as if the world was crumbling around him. Snippets of sentences, short fragments, that is all he hears.
John. Gone. Please. Snap out. Fault. Therapy. Test. Please. John. John. John.
The words, instead of helping, made his head turn faster and faster, until he couldn't even think-
"Lestrade, call for an ambulance," Sherlock ordered sharply. He crouched down beside his friend and felt his wrist for a pulse. "John, did you eat something different, or hurt yourself, or-"
"I'm fine. Stop fussing," John responded, eyes still closed. Sherlock didn't usually fret over him. He must really look bad.
Within moments, John felt himself being shifted by long, skinny arms. Of course it was Sherlock; who else was only skin and bones?
He didn't expect to find those arms wrapped around him and hugging him tight, but John didn't object. It was funny, really. Sherlock disliked physical contact. Sherlock never let anyone touch him. He wouldn't start now.
Opening his eyes slightly, John was able to make out the only consulting detective in the world peering down at him. Something was off. It was that same feeling he got when he saw the body, the same feeling he got when he heard about the crime.
He knew that feeling from somewhere else, didn't he? It was the feeling he got in his nightmares.
John snaps back into his dream world. The forgetfulness, the wrongness, the I-need-to-make-this-better-ness is still tugging at his heart, but for the first time, he can actually concentrate on what they are saying.
Mrs. Hudson grasps his hands in hers. "John, please listen to them, love."
"He wouldn't want you like this," interjects Lestrade. "It's not your fault, mate, but you need to pull yourself together." The man swallows, nervously looking around. "You're going mad. Come on, John, listen."
He feels his tongue trying to form words, but his head is still a bit too fuzzy. One thought manages to penetrate his mind. This is just a nightmare. He would awake tomorrow. "Dream..."
Mycroft takes a deep breath. "No, John. It's not a dream. This is real. This is real, and you have to listen."
John lets the buzzing of his head and the throbbing of his heart drown the man out. Wake up, he tells himself. Wake up, and you can go back to Sherlock.
He frowns. That's odd. Where is Sherlock? The detective usually cropped up in his dreams, even the nightmare. Not able to form a coherent sentence, John turns to Mycroft, conveying his thoughts through facial expressions.
The older Holmes brother sends a swift, almost heartbroken glance to the other two. "He's dead, John. Don't you remember?" Mycroft meets John's eyes. "He jumped off a building to save you. Are you listening? Do you remember?"
He closes his eyes. What is Mycroft going on about? Why would Sherlock be dead in a dream? That doesn't make sense. Wake up, he tells himself. He wants to see Sherlock. Wake up. "Wake up."
He tries desperately to believe, to shake himself out of the dream, but even muttering the two words over and over to himself cannot drown out Mycroft's next words.
"You are awake, John."
Author's Note: I like to toy with the idea of Sherlock actually dying in the fall. In case you couldn't tell, the "nightmares" are actually the real world, while the "real world" was John's dreams. Or hallucinations, whichever you prefer. You've listened to me ramble long enough. Constructive criticicism is welcome!