"You are worthless."
The hissing voice is as smooth as glass, cutting through the air to slip gently into his ears. It coils deep into his mind leaving a cold trail, ice floods his systems and he shivers.
"He doesn't care for you."
The voice draws in echoing from the darkness, vibrating off the walls. Its pitch and cold, not a glimmer of light can pierce the black.
"You know people can be sentimental about their pets."
A thick sense of hopelessness compresses the air. Movement is impossible; everything is so heavy it feels closed in almost claustrophobic. Even breathing is weighted and each draw for oxygen is squeezed through his lungs painfully yet no noise comes from it.
"Such a precious little solider, still fighting to be a captain. A captain of what?"
That whispering, taunting voice wavers in and out but it has no weight as if it comes from the air itself. There is no other body to explain it, no other life present.
"You are disposable, a toy, a pet nothing of worth. Only a beating heart next to a brain."
John's eyes open as the voice fades back into the blackness of his mind, nestling itself among the many sensory deprived dreams of late. He sits up rubbing at his eyes in irritation, worry, and all his other pressing emotions that never truly leave him be as of late. John wants them to be the usual dribble but it's impossible, when the feeling that follows the dreams is unrelenting dread.
Since the first dream, months ago, these dreams have continued almost nightly. John's even experienced the few waking visions that stop him in his tracks. He never has a moment of peace and he never lets himself be lulled into one when disappointment is only a second behind. The visions are similar but never the same. Even then John understands they are trying to tell him something, telling him something is fast approaching and it's dangerous. He doesn't know when or who, he just knows it will be soon.
John sighs heavily pressing his forehead to his knees that are drawn to his chest and pulling at his hair, the slight discomfort is grounding. A shuffling sound draws his attention, the bedroom door is slightly ajar with a faint light drifting in that shifts as a shadow passes through. The doctor glares letting out a heated breath in frustration.
That man, that genius of a man is too stubborn for his own good. John brings the visions up to Sherlock but the man doesn't seem too bothered by the impending doom that the dreams per-tell.
"We are safe John," The man had said with a bored tone, "Until something happens there's nothing we can do." Giving John a look of annoyance before he continued working on his current experiment or ongoing case that had his attention.
That response irritates John to no end. The man who gets bored if he goes a minute without a case telling John to wait, it's preposterous! But John doesn't push, he just lets the emotions simmer quietly and watching his dreams grow more intense. Though in all the pent up feelings there is one thing that brings him some relief; those few domestic moments with Sherlock.
Memories of their brief moments of true intimacy cool John's glare and he looks away from the door. He leans back against the headboard of the bed with his eyes closed.
Since becoming a couple they had been moving at a snail's pace mostly because John is uncertain and also he doesn't want to rush anything, he's spent so much time being alone that he didn't want anything to jeopardize it. He knows that Sherlock despise the slowness and tries to push things along but John is relentless. It's difficult of course but in the end his worry and stress deters him.
The floor creaks outside the door and the light shift from the kitchen again, Sherlock must be working on an experiment, doing everything he can to ignore anything he deems boring.
John sighs again, throwing himself back onto his pillow; he just wants to sleep without his dreams assaulting him. He just wants Sherlock to understand, he just wants them to be alright. There are so many other things that he wants but with blood on the horizon it seems that is the least likely occurrence in the future. Closing his eyes John lets himself drift back into the darkness, prayer that the next thing he sees will be the morning light.