Fire. Scorching over his skin, blacking his hands. The flames lick his arm and their tongues are gentle, soothing. Smooth as silken bed sheets. He's swathed in flames and they don't hurt. He can't feel them at all but he sees them, golden tendrils flickering red and smoky brown, wrapped around him. He is in the flames, part of them or are they part of him or does it matter at all? Does any of it matter when the whole world is burning?
It starts with an explosion, deep in his shoulder. He hears the crack, the snapping splintering of bone, sees the blood come trickling slowly forth. The flames hiss as they meet it and still he doesn't feel anything. Still it's numb. He'd shrug it off, only his shoulder won't move. Why won't his shoulder move? Shoulders are supposed to move. He knows that; he learnt it in medical school, but he knew it anyway. It's one of those things you just know.
The skin on his arm flakes off beneath the flames, from powdery white to glistening red, one stream of blood snaking along. A river photographed from above, the hues tampered with on a computer, deepened and inverted. The things people can do these days, and he can barely manage a blog!
The flames tickle, tingling beneath the skin, worming their way in. Irritating as a feather ghosted over a wrist, the twisting tingling that won't go away until you scratch it out, nails sharpened to claws tinged in blood. Biting and maddening and he wishes he could tear it off, shred his skin from his bones but the flames won't let him, they tear the flesh from his hands instead and all he can see are glistening white bones, slim and elegant as they powder into dust.
His eyes snap open, sweat beaded across his skin, cold and shivering. But he is warm, too, wrapped tight and pulled so close he can hear his heart beating, that familiar sharp face framed with curled, the harsh angles softened with worry.
That's not his heart, it's too calm and his is racing through his chest even though he's not on fire any more.
"You're all right, John." The voice is soft, a soothing baritone that eases the trembling in his limbs. "You're all right."
John swallows, and it's so much easier to breathe now, Sherlock's hand gripping his own, which is definitely a real hand and not a skeleton hand. And there's no stinging, burning pain, no shattered shoulder, no fire eating through the world. Just Sherlock, who hasn't slept, and Baker Street.
And right now, there's nothing more that he could want.