I want to dream instead.
Prolouge of Anything, Anywhere, Anyone Else
Fandom: Sherlock, bbc. John/Sherlock
Author: ruelynian
Warnings: part one of a longer fic, regret and dealings with mental health issues
Word Count: 500
Summary: Haunted by regrets and past memories, John makes the most of his time with Sherlock, brain damaged from an encounter yet to be detailed. He works nonstop to make it better for himself, and the man he may learn to love.
… . … . …
SSSSssssshhh…..
SSSSSSSSSSssssssshhhhhhh…
The pleasant sounds of water breaking on the shore played a comforting ambience in the background of young John's activities. He was visiting the beach with his cousins and auntie; his favourite thing to do, in the summer of course. He loved it all; the gritty sand getting everywhere it wasn't supposed to be, the beating sunlight on his skin caking with mud, the waves.
He cast a look over his shoulder at the bay, and a face appears in the water. A huge, oppressive wave springs from the cold calm still, and peers down at John.
The face is angry, its features contorted.
He has to do something, he knows it. "John! You need to...you need to..."
… . … . …
The panicked voice of his auntie faded into the dream as John startled to wakefulness. Alert, he immediately turned to check on his ward. Good, good…all safe and snug.
John allowed himself a brief sigh of relief and wiped the clammy dew from his forehead. He hadn't had that dream in a while. A week now, he postulated? It was the thing; he had begun to have this dream since before the accident, and it had become more insistent lately. It was a common recurrent dream from his childhood, when he had still been living with his mother's sister for a time.
He remembered that frighteningly well. It was quite the upset, Harriet his sister had just come out after all, proclaiming to the world her thirteen-year-old sexuality and sending their parents into quite the fit. What a mess that had been. But that dream…
"What a thought, talking waves. Huh." A chuckle was needed to lift the mood he knew was already becoming onset. That heavy, humourless mood; the one that made Mrs. Hudson come twice a day to check on him. John could hear her mother hen voice now: "Oh dear, won't you have a bit to eat with us downstairs?" "Oh hun, take a break, won't you?" Kindly woman…no children. That probably accounted for a lot of her (welcome) behaviour. Without her, likely the flat would have degenerated into a great sty of medical equipment with carbonless notebooks for carpets.
The consistent beeping in the thin air seeped into John's thoughts. Sherlock, trapped up in a great mess of IV tubes and woolly pyjamas. The sight gave great pangs of pain to John.
No point wasting time further, he concluded. Fuelled by the few hours his body had snuck into him, John sat straight at his desk and straightened the pile of papers in front of him.
Patient update reports, required by London Health Services.
Request for resupply of long term care necessities.
Invitation to a luncheon with Sarah.
Another normal day in the new life of doctor Watson.
