Gun shots. Bombs. Screaming—GET DOWN, JOHN! LEAVE THE BLOODY KID—Death. Blood. And pain. So much pain. All hell breaking loose.
"We have to help them!" BOOM.
"No, we have to GO—" Explosion. Sand flying everywhere. More screams. "Now!"
"His family is trapped in there! We can't just leave them!"
"John, stop! We have to!"
Helicopter flying overhead.
"Their house is about to explode—we have to get them out!"
"I will not let you go back in th—"
Gunshot.
"NO!"
Thud. More dust. More blood. The wounded child staring at the corpse. With those eyes. Those poor, sad, scared, innocent eyes.
"I'll save you, I'll save you… I promise… I'll save you…"
The helicopter landing.
"John! JOHN! Get over here!"
"I can't leave him!"
"You have to!"
"NO! I won't! I can save him!"
"No, you can't!"
Arms pulling. Must resist. Child left on the ground. Staring with those eyes.
"Yes—I—CAN!"
Explosion. House is in flames. Heat gushing out, debris flying everywhere.
"LET'S MOVE!"
A shower of gunshots from behind. Dust being kicked up from each bullet. Coming closer…closer…
"NOW, JOHN!"
Those eyes.
"I'm sorry."
Eyes.
Running to the helicopter. Not looking back. Bullets zipping past. Nearly there—
The child's scream. No—his scream.
"JOHN!"
Pain.
It stings. It hurts. It burns.
Dear God, let me live.
John Watson thrashed violently under the duvet, the eyes of the child he was unable to save haunting his nightmares. The eyes were brown. Chocolate brown. Full of warmth. And so, so sad.
But now as the eyes bored into him, the sadness in them was shifting. Melting into something else entirely. Was it…resentment? Yes…and the child began to grin. An evil, twisted, malicious smile—
No.
—And his skin began to turn fair—
No.
—And he began to laugh. That cruel, iniquitous laugh that made John's hair stand on end.
Please, no.
"Oh, Johnny boy…" The Irish voice lilted, dragging out the words and sounding everywhere at once.
Stop it.
"Come and play, Johnny boy. I've got no one else now that Sherlock is—"
STOP IT NOW.
"Oh, it seems I've touched a nerve. You really are his little pet, aren't you? That's adorable."
Shut up.
"My, my, Doctor Watson. Aren't you the defensive one today? Now, tell me this: if you are so protective, then why couldn't you save them? Why did you let them both burn?"
Just shut up.
"The kid really did burn, didn't he? He went up in flames with the rest of his family because you were just too selfish to carry him. And Sherlock? Well, we both know what happened to him…"
"Goodbye, John."
"SHERLOCK!"
John jolted upright in bed. His heart was racing, and cold sweat was streaming down his face. Instinctively he touched the scar on his shoulder from where the bullet had hit him. Decommissioned him. Bloody karma, he thought. I could have saved them. I could have saved that kid. I could have saved Sh— He took in a sharp breath; his leg was throbbing. The dull ache had come back after…the Fall.
Rays of moonlight shone down on John through the blinds of his window. As he lay back down, he covered his face with his hands and took several shaky breaths. A single tear leaked out of his eye and trickled down his face. He thought of the child's sad, brown eyes. He thought of Sherlock's icy blue ones.
"I should have never let you go."
