The leaves were changing. Autumn had hit Baker Street faster than expected for John. It had been a dull summer, though they worked through more cases than he could count. When he wasn't helping Sherlock, he was at the surgery, caring for his patients.
"Sarah, I'll be heading home now." he said as his shift ended, shrugging on his brown coat.
"Alright." she replied. John walked out of the building. He hailed a cab and entered it. He told the cabbie the address; "221B Baker Street." The cabbie drove to the apartment.
"Sherlock, I'm home." he called up, walking into the living room. Sherlock wasn't home. Something caught his eye; someone in the chair. It wasn't Sherlock.
"John..." his voice was low and raspy.
John took out his pistol. The figure stood up, his eyes had deceived him; it was Sherlock, but he was different...
"Sh-Sherlock..." he said, trying to keep his voice calm and steady. His face was paler than usual, of pasty white splotches. He seemed not to be breathing at all in fact. As he advanced towards the soldier, he was limping, dragging his left leg, which was bloody and bony, on the floor.
"John..." he repeated.
"Sherlock...you're scaring me..." John began to become worried. The closer he came the more scared he was. This was not the Sherlock Holmes he knew and loved.
"John..." he came closer. He could feel his breath on him. His hair was matted with sweat and blood, his eyes were bloodshot.
"Sherlock..." he reached out to him but by then it was too late. The door was broken down. John turned to the door, which was now busted off his hinges.
"John!" a voice called. Immediately he snapped awake.
"Sherlock?" he called out. He looked around. He wasn't there. "Sherlock?" he called out once more. It was just a dream. He was alone again once more.