I wrote this a few days ago after my friend told me about a weird dream she had about a psych ward and paint falling off of the wall to form words, and got a decent response. So I put it on hereeeee. Ily you guys.
John Watson stood, swaying slightly, at the cold walls of his cell at the psychiatric ward, watching as little chips of metal and paint flicked off of it and fluttered to the ground around his bare feet. The reason he was in here? He didn't know any more, but the images of Sherlock Holmes's death plagued his nightmares. Blood splattered across the walls of his imagination and dripping slowly into his concious mind. He stared up at the wall, the paint flecks were gone, but his fingers still trembled as he raised them to the wall, tracing said fingers over the scratches. 'He will fall' John made an audible gasp as the words filled with the blood, the blood on the pavement. Dark red and glistening and flowing, dripping down the wall. He gripped the side of his bed tightly, his knuckles going white.
Please can you do this for me?
The color drained from his face when he looked up at the figure standing right in front of him. Blood covered one side of it's head and it's hair was curly and dark. A sob suddenly escaped his throat and he collapsed to the ground.He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't look up. He didn't want to, in case this wasn't real. It felt real, it felt so real. He looked around, seeing nothing standing next to him. The hand disappeared. Emotion crushed him and he doubled over, hiding his face in his hands as a low whine whistled between his teeth. Not again, not again. His chest tightened, constricting his breathing. He felt sick and clammy and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"Sherlock!" a name heard almost every night, echoing through the halls, accompanied by sobbing and followed by a night in the safe room.
Sherlock leaned down to him, his face void of emotion, his eyes empty and lifeless. But John relished in his presence, no matter how dead he may be. Sherlock placed one hand on John's trembling shoulder and lifted his chin with the other hand. John looked into Sherlock's eyes, his vision blurred with tears.
"Sherlock, y-you came…" his voice was tight and sore.
"I always come for you," Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John's forehead enticing a shiver from the smaller man and stabilizing his breathing. "Be strong for me, John. Can you do that for me?"
John nodded and took Sherlock's hand. Entwining their fingers together and pulling Sherlock in closer. Suddenly, and without warning, the image of Sherlock disappeared. John's hand clutched around open air, spiralling him back into a panic attack.
I dedicate this to all the people who've reviewed all my other stories C:
never-to-see
timeywimey27
akisura12
Sky Writes
And a few more anons. Msg me if I forgot you!