Even Sherlock Holmes had nightmares.
The smell of burnt human flesh was never really that different from that on an animal. Considering that humans were technically animals, Sherlock knew it wasn't that surprising, but still, the similarity between the two startled him.
John.
Fire was a fascinating thing. Beautiful, in a strange, ethereal way, with its shades of orange, red and blue. Dangerous, obviously enough. It was uncontrollable chaos, a symbol of destruction, yes salvation, warmth. A contradiction.
John.
Sherlock had always found Guy Fawkes Day a ridiculous holiday, for idiots and patriots. He had come up with no less than 137 different ways the Gunpowder Plot could have been successful.
John.
It seemed time had slowed down in those few seconds, when the last text came through and one of the men in the crowd held a burning stick in his hand.
John.
What a Guy.
The pyre when up in flames a split second after everything clicked into place and the inanimate figure sitting on the top was engulfed in yellowy-orange tendrils of fire.
John.
Sherlock had heard the little girl scream as he threw the bike to the ground, abandoning all common sense. Pushing his way through the crowd, he felt the panic sear through his chest.
John.
Sherlock could hear John's cries and it was that that drove him to moving the bits of wood in his way, uncaring of the callouses forming on his hands.
John.
He could see John, the smaller man now quiet. Why was he quiet? Why was he limply lying there, with a face covered in soot?
John.
Reaching a hand forward, he caught John's collar, and with strength he didn't know he had, dragged him out of the pyre.
John.
He was too late.
John.
Not breathing.
John.
Completely silent.
John.
Dead.
"John!"
Sherlock jolted awake, sitting up in bed. With heavy breaths, he cast a glance next to him. John Watson- his John Watson- had his legs intertwined with his and had curled into Sherlock at some point in the night. He had only jostled the man with his outburst and Sherlock couldn't help but crack a tiny grin and the scowl on John's face. He settled back down, heartbeat still racing, but slowly, ever so slowly calming down.
John.
Still here.
John.
Still safe.
John.
Alive.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Ta-da! More Johnlock... Wasn't expecting this one. It came as a surprise, but here you go.