The dream is the same every time.
Every time John steps out of the taxi, Sherlock is there – a black smudge of angles against a pure blue sky.
There is no searing heat, no rain of bullets, shouted commands and blinding pain in his shoulder. No blood pouring out from wounds he cannot stop, cannot heal, cannot tourniquet in time. There is just the silence of indrawn breath at the end of the telephone line. A tenuous connection through the air that separates them. The haze of sky and backlit brightness of the sun behind Sherlock's back.
There are just the words – over and over and over and over again.
"This is my note. That's what people do isn't it? Leave a note."
It doesn't matter what John says in return, Sherlock's words are always the same. Inflections, half strung breaths, the hitch of fear caught between the words 'my' and 'note'.
There is nothing but silence and the pounding of John's heart as he stands there, watching, waiting, screaming inside until it feels as though he might break into three uneven pieces. If Sherlock moves, if he keeps talking, throws the phone aside and steps off the edge, coat billowing, arms pin wheeling for friction against the air – then John will irreversibly break into three.
Before Sherlock. With Sherlock. And this.
This moment where nothing he says or does will change anything. He can never run fast enough, never scream loud enough, and Sherlock's blood will always race to meet him across the dark grey sea of tarmac stretching out between them.
And if he breaks, the pieces will never fit back together again. He'll be left clutching ragged edges and blood stained clothes and a body that used to be Sherlock but is now nothing but a caved in skull and dark curls slick with blood and those sightless, colourless eyes staring back at John accusingly.
Because he left. He wasn't there. He didn't see through this final trick and stand by him on that rooftop. Because he wasn't fast enough, wasn't persuasive enough. Wasn't enough. Enough to stop Sherlock from taking that last step without him.
John has dogged Sherlock's steps. Has run with him no matter where he led. Breathless half laughs and adrenaline fuelled chases across rooftops and back alleys. John has counted, marked, felt and logged every step. And if Sherlock had to take this final step – if there was no way that John could have ever stopped him, then he should never have had to take it alone.
John can hear the fear; taste the horror at the back of his throat. Feel the vibrations of Sherlock's desperation in the air between them as he stretches out his hand, desperately reaching, searching, seeking that touch of fingertips and reassurance.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me."
Always Sherlock. Always.
Some nights John runs, desperately trying to break Sherlock's fall before it reaches its conclusion.
Some nights he stays in place and watches, long beyond when the paramedics have wheeled the body away. His eyes never leave that spot, because Sherlock asked him to, and there is always a reason behind any request Sherlock makes.
But some nights, when he has had one drink too many and fallen asleep wrapped in Sherlock's bed sheets and the dream has found him there, John shuts his eyes instead.
If he does not watch, does not see that final step, then Sherlock will remain alive, poised at the cusp of the edge of sight and sound and falling. And John will stay there with him.
Stay and wait and listen to those final love stroked whispers as Sherlock says his name.
John. John. John. John.
Stay and wait for consciousness and tear soaked pillows as he tries to sink back into the dream again. If he cannot have Sherlock any other way, he will wait there every night and listen as Sherlock calls his name.