Pain. Blackness. A mind adrift in a sea of nothingness.
He recognized the feeling somehow. As a kid he fell off a tree while playing pirates, he was knocked unconscious for three days; he could hear his mother's sobs coming from his bedside, but he was just unable to open his eyes and tell her he was fine.
Only his brother Mycroft was smart enough to understand him as he tapped his fingers in Morse code.
History was repeating itself, it seemed. If only he could remember what had happened this time.
'Sherlock, can you hear me?'
John. That was John's voice, though he wasn't entirely sure whether it was just in his head.
The cab, there was a cab speeding down the street. And he'd jumped in front of it, to save John.
He needed to know that John was fine, that he wasn't simply imagining it. Slowly, painfully, he strove to regain some control over his body.
His hand – someone was holding his hand, he could feel it. John.
That was when his finger started to move of its own accord.
Dot, dash, dash, dash.
Dash, dash, dash.
Dot, dot, dot, dot.
Dash, dot.
John knew Morse code, he would understand. He had to.
'Yes, it's me. It's John.'
He was almost sure he'd ever been so relieved before.