"John. John. John." This voice hits him the hardest. It sounds like guilt and shock and sorrow, and looks like the color of a winter morning or frozen lake and reminds him of adrenaline and delight and home and friendship.
"Sherlock. Come now. Dr. Watson will recover. At the least, go to your home and rest before you have all the nurses in this hospital quitting by nightfall."This voice is familiar, also, but nothing like the earlier voice. It sounds like anger and concern and regret and looks like the color of winter's tree bark, or a rainy sky and reminds him of exasperation and amusement and uneasiness and resignation.
"Your brother's right, Sherlock. He'll be fine. Don't worry." This voice is more familiar than the previous. It sounds like weariness and concern and vague surprise and looks like the color of amber gems, or the harvest moon, and reminds him of ambition and hope and frustration and shared laughter.
It's as if John can sense the Voice leaving. Suddenly, he's doused in the memory of a voice.
"I will burn the heart out of you."This voice is smothering him, strangling him. It sounds like viciousness and delight and madness, and looks like the color of blood and pool water mixed together and reminds him of fear and rage and protectiveness and determination.
He's screaming. Not in pain, or fear for his life. Screaming for his flatmate-his friend. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock!
"John! John, it's all right!" the Voice is crying. Long-fingered hands curl around his biceps.
"No-no-don't touch him, I'll kill you if you touch him, I'll set off the bomb-LET HIM GO!" the new voice snarls. This voice doesn't need to be familiar. It's his. It sounds like fury and love and regret and looks like the color of just-baked brownies or hot cocoa, and reminds him of longing and the hunt and safety and war.
"I'll murder you. I'll kill you. You hurt Him and you'll wish you've never been born. Knives and guns and bombs and blood and torture-
"Dr. Watson!" His hands are wrapped tight around someone's neck but it doesn't sound like the mad Voice so he loosens up.
"He's hysterical. He's never lost control like this."
The familiar long fingers grip his wrists and hold them to a face. He can feel deep-set eyes and an up-turned nose and high cheekbones. His fingers brush curls and suddenly he relaxes.
Sherlock.
John can relax. Because even if Moriarty isn't dead, Sherlock is there, and safe.
And for now, that's enough.