There are three different nightmares which haunt John Watson. Though each is different, there are certain commonalities and each is grounded in fact, roots buried deep in the history his past and how he's become the man he is today. And all three are equally horrifying.
The first is the oldest. Hot desert sun beating down, frying sand and skin alike, boiling spilled blood painting the landscape. Rhythmic noise of gunfire mingling with adrenaline coursing through - thankfully sealed - blood vessels. The terror clamped down on to maintain a calm facade even as bloodied bodies fall to the ground. Shouts and names intermingled with the sounds of war, soaking into the air. Memories born into reality again late at night in the quiet of a sleeping city.
The second is more recent, left a legacy lasting years only to be revealed as a lie. Body cutting through air in a relentless fall to the ground off a hospital roof, coat like wings, imprinted on the sky, splayed wide in the breeze. Head cracked on pavement, neck snapped, ribs crushed on impact. Staring eyes and streams of blood on alabaster skin, absent pulse under praying fingers. The shaking wakes him every time, hollowness of grief no less painful though there was nothing to grieve after all.
And the most recent, in some ways the most painful. A great betrayal wrapped in lies and falsities. The images present themselves as if he had been there to witness it all - the pistol, the would-be assassin, the witness that had to be removed, the bullet piercing white cloth and pale skin to bury itself in the vena cava. Falling, again, though this time not too far and hitting the floor, spread-eagled as if offered for sacrifice to the gods of secrecy. Almost lost, again and this time there would be no clever ruse. In truth, it's the knowledge of who caused it that fuels the nightmare so intensely. (It would only have been another near-miss in their crime-hunting lives otherwise.)
Lurching awake from his armchair, John looks over at the sleeping form sprawled on the couch, one hand hanging off the side, knuckles grazing the carpeted floor. And though he can see the slow rise and fall of the still somewhat sore chest, he stands up and presses two fingers to the pale throat, feels the reassuring beat of a pulse. In spite of the memories and the nightmares and the low thrum of nauseating fear still lingering, John knows that somehow, everything will be alright. (Maybe.)