Blood.
So much blood. Blood, all around, dripping, Sherlock's blood, Sherlock on the ground, by the pool, blood, so much blood, tangy iron scent layered over the sterilizing chlorine in the air. Blood dripping over the side of the pool, mixing with the clear blue water, so much like an awful macabre version of that experiment with water and food coloring. Sherlock would love this one, John thinks, would love to see how the chlorine and iron reacted to each other, except it's Sherlock's own blood and he's on the floor, it's draining out from a gaping wound in his chest, blood, so much blood, and John can't move, can't breathe, can only watch as the blood burbles up and spills out and flows and mixes and drips and drains drains drains, beautiful and horrible and terrible and probably just how Sherlock would have wanted to go, only John'll never know for certain now, never get to ask, because the beautiful face is paling, the light slowly dimming from the ever-curious eyes and SherlockSherlockSHERLOCK-
John wakes up, gasping. His eyes dart about the room, lighting on various objects: nightstand, desk, wardrobe, lamp, book. Home. Room. Bedroom. Ok. Safe now. Rest.
He slumps back on the pillows. There was no screaming when he woke up this time, at least. He supposes that's something to be thankful about, but then, Sherlock normally comes up to check on him when he hears the screaming. Neither of them have really gotten over the pool incident, he suspects. Sherlock keeps a closer eye on him when he remembers to (which is surprisingly frequent these days), and John endeavors to keep both eyes on Sherlock, as often as he can spare them. Downstairs, the sound of bow scraping across taut strings, plaintive, soulful notes filling the air; Sherlock at the violin. John considers debating with himself, but it really isn't worth the effort; he knows he's going to end up downstairs anyways. Any attempt at rationalizing the decision is more a waste of time than anything. John shrugs on his robe and trudges downstairs.
Sherlock is, as always, a sight to behold, Gothic to the extreme, dressing robe hanging off him at odd angles as he lifts the bow to the instrument and plays a quick triplet of notes. John takes a moment at the door to enjoy this rare moment of unfettered observation, no piercing glances splitting him open like a rotted peach. Sherlock's eyes are closed, and he gives himself over fully to the music. John feels strange, embarrassed, intrusive as he watches the detective swirl about the room slowly, entirely lost in a world of his own making, of soaring vibratos and swooping notes, plucked staccato rhythms and notes held so long that even John can see the strain, the terrible strain in Sherlock to keep the note going. John holds his breath as Sherlock reaches a crescendo, then abruptly pivots the music right into another by sheer force of will, grappling with the music as he does with all other things, shaping it, molding it, pounding it into submission, firey spirit versus fire itself.
He turns, then, towards John, and John can see him fully now, absurd dressing robe (one of his, how did Sherlock manage to get a hold of that?) flapping about, the cool long lines of his body being tugged incontrovertibly towards the focal point of the violin. It's… beautiful. Terrible. Wondrous.
Then John sees the blood.
It's only a bit; small, really, in comparison to what he encountered in his dreams. He's a doctor; he's seen blood far too many times for it to leave an impression, and Sherlock's blood in particular many more times over that. He wouldn't have even noticed it, the thick red liquid sluggishly flowing down the neck of the violin as Sherlock manhandled the music upwards, had not the bow glanced across the strings in exactly the right way to reflect off the viscous fluid and highlight the blazing red color, erroneous against the silky-smooth wood of the violin. The terror of the nightmare hits him, shocks him with its intensity once more, that Sherlock could bleed, that someone could make him bleed, that John could do nothing to help, nothing, nothing-
"Sherlock!" The cry bursts forth from his lips.
Quiet-sky eyes open hazily, focus on John. See the slight trembling, the wide eyes, the clear alarm written on the man's face. Sherlock lowers the bow.
"John?"
The voice, deep and dark and mysterious; a nymph, woken from a thousand-year slumber in the arms of Morpheus. It's different from what he's used to, the quick, clear, strong voice quiet and peaceful from the lingering effects of the music. It fails to comfort him in the slightest. Sherlock walks over to him, violin and bow still dangling loosely from his hands.
"John." He stands before him, head lowered, mercurial eyes searching his. John grabs at the hand holding the violin; the hand still dripping blood.
"You're bleeding." Such a short sentence; such a large meaning. Can he feel it, the detective who claims to have no heart? Feel the fingers, trembling, pressing against his fingertips, trying desperately to staunch the flow of red? Feel the quiet terror in the man before him as he gasps, short of breath, trying to fool the great Sherlock Holmes into thinking nothing is wrong? Feel the pressing need of the doctor to care, to take care of him, to reassure himself that Sherlock is alright, that this can be healed, that John can fix it, that Sherlock is alive?
The bow drops to the floor.
A hand reaches around John Watson, clasps him to the consulting detective.
"Sherlock," John groans, hands rising to fist themselves in the fabric of his dressing robe. Sherlock presses his face into the doctor's hair and says nothing. John takes a moment for himself against the detective's chest, breathing in, out, in, out, slowly, following the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. Finally, John steps back, hand still grabbing at Sherlock's, grasp slightly slippery with blood.
"You'll need to wash that off, you know," he says, leading him into the bathroom. Sherlock does as he's told quietly, barely wincing when John applies the rubbing alcohol to his stinging fingers. When it's done, John smiles up at him.
"All better," he jokes, voice forcedly hearty. "Off you go, then. You've got… experiments or something on, I'm sure."
"John." Important. Something important, Sherlock can't remember. Why can't he remember? Oh. Feelings. Dreams. John is having dreams again. Of him. And blood. Not good. Not good at all. John looks up at him.
The silence stretches on.
"Good night."
John lifts a still-bloody hand to his face, strokes it gently. His gaze softens.
"Good night."
o.O.o
A/N: Nothing has changed. I do not own the BBC Sherlock or characters therein. I was kind of disappointed by the lack of post-pool angst. So here's a bit for you! Thanks for reading; please review!