Title: The Shadow of a Dream
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Moriarty, Moran, no pairings
Rating: K+
Word Count: 6031
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for TGG and TRF. Warnings for OOC John in dream sequences.
Summary: Five times Sherlock battled his daemons alone, and the one time he had help. Sherlock's dreams during the hiatus between TRF and EMPT.
Author's Note: Technically, this is AU since that is what dreams are! I haven't written ACD Holmes since I was a teenager 20 years ago, and have never written BBC Sherlock, so please be kind! Written for my sister-in-law, who's recent discovery of ACD and BBC Sherlock has drawn out her inner fangirl….love you, sis!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to BBC Sherlock except a massive desire to huggle Mofftiss and glomp Benedict.
VI.
He's standing on the rooftop, looking down at the stretch of grey pavement below, willing himself to take that step into nothingness, but unable to move. He knows somehow that it is imperative that he jump, but a reluctance to do so, to leave his friends, and his life, and that one life, behind is staying his feet. Something in his head, something he can't quite remember, is urging him forward, and his weight shifts to one foot, preparing to leap.
"If you go, I'm going with you," a voice, calm and familiar, sounds close to his ear. He looks to the side, and sees his flatmate on the ledge as well, staring not at the ground below, but watching his face.
"John!" he gasps, turning in confusion from the prostrate body on the rooftop, to his friend waiting at his side. This was wrong; John should be below, safely on the ground.
"Sherlock. You don't have to do this," the voice continues gently, coaxing him back from the edge.
"Yes….must….necessary," he manages in gasping breaths, fighting the panic, one hand running distractedly through the dark curls.
The head tilts to one side. "I'm not letting you do this alone, you know," his friend continues, sad, hazel eyes meeting his in determination.
His breath comes in a huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He should have known his John better. But he did not have time to argue, it was urgent that he finish what he had resolved to do. "John," he hesitates. "You don't understand – I have to do this!" His voice is rising with his stress, and he stops abruptly, ashamed at the vehemence.
The hazel eyes have never left his face, and are looking into his eyes calmly. "Well then, let's go." He feels his cold hand taken by a warm, steady one, and the ex-Army doctor steps up to the ledge beside him, leaning forward.
No, this was not part of the plan…"No!"…..
Sherlock sat up in bed, breath coming in gasps, his hair matted in sweat against his forehead. Shaking in terror, the man looked around the dark, unfamiliar room, before the realization set in. The guest room in Mycroft's home…. of course. The detective lay back against the damp pillows, the memories of the day flooding back in one sickening moment. Moriarty's suicide, the phone call, John's terrified voice (would he ever forget the sound of that last heart-rending cry?) and the fall, the sensation of being suspended between heaven and earth.
Sherlock rolled to one side, trembling, and not from the ghosts haunting his nightmares. His breath, steadier now, sighed softly. He would never see his friend again. In all probability, he would not survive the week out, if Moriarty's syndicate discovered his continued existence. And even if he did manage to survive, he would never be able to go back to his former life, would never be able to see his only friend again, and tell him that all was well. Eyes clenched tightly shut against the unfamiliar pain in his chest, he curled under the blanket, waiting for morning, trying not to think of the grief he knew John was experiencing. He could not remain hidden in Mycroft's home, and would need to disappear, but….not far. He would not travel far enough that he could not keep a watch on John and Mrs. Hudson's safety, and return in a moment should they need him.
V.
"You…it was a lie." Not accusatory, just a statement. "Everything you told me, every case we solved, was a lie." John's voice was beginning to shake, his mind working to comprehend what his friend was confessing.
He winces, unable to see the expression in John's face from that distance, but knowing exactly what was reflected in the doctor's eyes. Opening his mouth to speak, he is stopped by the voice coming through his mobile.
"You're a fraud… is that what you've been trying to tell me?" The voice wavers for a moment before continuing. "Sherlock, I trusted you! I –" John stops, his breath coming quickly as he tries to check his emotions. "I was strapped to semtex!" John's voice is quieting now to a deadly calm, a sign he recognizes that is not good. "You did all this to prove to the world how bloody brilliant you are?"
His eyes flutter closed briefly, unable to stop the tear that is staining his scarf. This was a necessary part of the Plan, but he had not anticipated that it would hurt so much. He opens his eyes again and stares down at the small figure below, unable to offer any explanation but a poorly muttered, "I'm…I'm sorry, John."
"You're – sorry?" His flatmate's voice echoes in disbelief. "Oh, well, it's all fine then, isn't it?" The anger and hurt comes through the connection clearly. "You know what, Sherlock? Jump. Or don't jump. This is probably just more manipulation anyway, isn't it?" His eyes avert away from the figure below, unable to listen to the betrayal In his friend's tone.
John's voice laughs mirthlessly. "I've been such a fool…." Shaking his head, the doctor turns to walk back towards the street.
"John," he murmurs quietly into the mobile, seconds before the disconnect dial tone sounds in his ear. He watches the retreating figure through blurred vision, aghast that Moriarty's plan had worked so well. Even beyond death, the criminal mastermind had managed to destroy the only thing that had truly mattered to the consulting detective. Burn his heart out, indeed. "John," he whispers again, illogically hoping the silent plea will somehow bring his friend back and reverse this terrible chain of events….
"John." Sherlock mumbled, and woke abruptly, his eyes flying open in startled confusion. An elderly man, bundled in a dirty blanket, glared from the opposite side of the enclosure at his interrupted slumber, then turned with a huff to face the tunnel's wall. Ignoring him, Sherlock shivered under his great Belstaff, angrily dashing away the tears that lingered on his face. His dreams had been less than pleasant since his stand-off with Moriarty three weeks ago, and his visit to the cemetery earlier that day to catch a glimpse of John, had been fresh fuel for his nightmares. He had known John would grieve, but could not have guessed the extent of sorrow he had witnessed at his own graveside that afternoon. His Great Brain, which could unravel problems and make the connections which Scotland Yard's finest inevitably missed, was completely perplexed by the idea that someone would care enough to mourn for him to that degree.
Pushing those reflections away (because that train of thought could only lead to conclusions impossible to bear), he lifted his head again slowly, surveying the group of homeless men and women he had been sharing camp with over the past few weeks. Sherlock was sure he had caught a glimpse of one of Moriarty's men as he returned from the cemetery, and was not quite certain the man had not recognized him. Seeing all was quiet, he wriggled down on his makeshift bed, drawing his legs up to add warmth against the unseasonably cool summer night.
He would have to be more careful. Although he was reluctant to leave London and the ability to look after his friends, his remaining in England would certainly end his life, and would most likely threaten the lives of his friends as well. John's safety was the dominating thought in this new, disordered world. He would see Mycroft tomorrow, and then start out for the Continent at once.
IV.
"Sorry, boys, I'm so changeable!" The words echo across the pool as his eyes stare in disbelief at the tiny laser dots dancing on his chest.
His senses are heightened, and the smell of chlorine is overwhelming. His brain races through scenarios, furiously discarding ideas as he searches for an answer. There must be one! His grey eyes dart over to seek reassurance from hazel ones. How was it possible, that in two short months, those eyes had become his anchor in all things? He blinks quickly, the random thought interrupting his mental processes. He will have to consider that later.
Right now, those eyes are looking at him with fear dulling their usually warm light, mixed with an unshakeable confidence in his ability to turn the situation and get them out unharmed. That unwavering trust is disconcerting, and his eyes dart up, searching for the snipers whose sights are trained on him and his friend.
Not long ago, the situation would have been very different. He had never concerned himself with the risks and losses involved in working his cases – they were just such collateral damage in a war against the London criminal mind, easily expendable for the greater good. He had never had any qualms or consideration for his own safety, or that of any other, in his pursuit of the game. Now all that had changed, in one moment, as one incredible being threw his life away to give him a chance of escape. Not for the greater good of the world, or of London, but for his sake alone. "Sherlock, run!" The words repeat in his head, causing a warm, pleasant sensation in his chest in spite of their present circumstances. His brain skips for a moment at the unfamiliar emotion, but he does not have time for that. He will have to consider it later. For the present, John's survival has become his primary concern.
What was Moriarty saying? "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." Taking deep, panicky breaths, his mind races. Think! What was he missing? "I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
Slowly, the realization sinks in. There is no way out, no great plan of escape. They were not going to survive the night, and their only recourse, the only way they could win in this no-win scenario, would be to rid London of its most powerful threat. But that would mean the end to everything. The end to the Game, the end to a growing…friendship?... that he had only just begun to appreciate, the end to another's life that had suddenly become too dear to contemplate losing. Why had he even considered having a flatmate? He should have known, should have foreseen the dangers he was dragging this extraordinary being into. And now there is only one thing to be done. He drops his head for a moment, then turns his eyes back to his friend, asking permission for what must be done, apologizing to this most long-suffering of men, for ending his life too soon.
The hazel eyes, wide with fear, are still fastened on him, unmitigated trust evident in their expression. John nods once in agreement before gasping, and after holding his gaze, seeking that anchor again for support, he turns to face their enemy, his revolver aimed directly at the criminal's head. "And probably my answer has crossed yours." Hoping the bluff will work, he lowers the gun until it is aimed at the vest rigged with explosives, lying on the tiled floor. Moments tick by, but no distraction, no brilliant solution comes to him, and he realizes again there is no way out. Determination to end this on his terms, to achieve some good out of a scheme gone horribly wrong, prompts him to take action before he is unable to do so, before Moriarty can escape unharmed.
Resolution steeling his nerve, his finger begins to press against the trigger. And during those final seconds, his eyes turn, not towards the criminal mastermind, but to his flatmate, to the hazel eyes that had offered possibilities of a different kind of life he had not known had existed, a life where he had mattered to one person. The doctor's eyes held his, sending reassurance and calm, before the semtex was ignited and….
Gasping for air, the detective opened his eyes, staring wildly about. He could still feel the heat from the blast, could still see those eyes burning into his….
With a soft moan, he settled back on his cot, careful not to awaken the other residents in the tiny, underground shelter he had found while wandering in Beijing. He lay motionless, staring at the cement ceiling above. His absence from London was approaching four months, and although he refused to acknowledge it, a deep homesickness had settled in, and a longing for past comforts.
He gave a silent sigh. The dreams were not helping, and always, in every nightmare, his friend's face and his eyes haunted him. He missed his flat, he missed his cases, and the Work…..he missed John. John's exasperated smile, John's nagging him to eat, or sleep, or other such normal functions, John's bizarrely girlish giggle when they had been misbehaving at Mycroft's expense. He missed the quiet "You ok?" whenever his world turned dark.
He entertained no false hope of ever seeing his friend again, but instead of fading, as he had assumed they would, the memories remained as poignant as ever, reminding him daily of what he had been forced to give up. Ignoring the flicker of nausea that was welling, he closed his eyes, praying for a sleep undisturbed by dreams, and a release from the darkness unlike any black mood he had ever faced.
III.
The eyes were staring at him, not warm and welcoming, but cold and hard, looking strangely foreign in that familiar face. He had half-expected a right hook, or an embarrassingly sentimental embrace, but… not this. This calm, calculating discussion, devoid of any emotion whatsoever.
"And that was your plan?" The soft, dispassioned voice continues. "That was the best your My-Brain-Is-So-Massive mind could come up with? To let me think you were dead for a year?" His friend stands before him, stiff and at attention, as if determined to maintain a formality. "A year, Sherlock!" The control slips for a moment, and John shifts, leaning on the cane he only now notices his friend is holding. "I've mourned you for a year!"
He winces at that, but his friend is continuing in a softer voice. "I never stopped mourning you. And poor Mrs. Hudson…" The dear eyes, that have plagued his dreams for so many months, look up again, a fire kindling in their depths. "Sherlock, do you have any idea what it was like – what you did to us?"
He shakes his head, stepping forward, one hand out-stretched. "John, I'm….sorry-"
"My life fell apart, Sherlock." The blonde head shakes in disgust. "Couldn't keep a girlfriend, couldn't hold onto a steady job, couldn't function in normal life because everywhere I looked, I saw you. You, lying on the pavement, your blood running down the street onto my shoes." The frigid voice continues. "Everything was empty after that, Sherlock, and all because of one of your stupid tricks!"
He bites back the defensive words that spring up, knowing John's anger is fully justified. And he had anticipated some resentment, even from this most extraordinary human being. "John, there was no other way – you're life was in danger –"
His friend interrupts, not waiting to hear his reasons. "I don't care, Sherlock. I've always told you – I wanted to share in the danger rather than you having a go all alone. Do you really think death could have been any worse than what I've been through this past year?"
He drops his head, shame choking the words he knows he needs to say. Swallowing, he manages a small plea. "What can I do?"
His former flatmate observes him for a moment before speaking, his face stoic and detached. "You can leave, Sherlock." The doctor shakes his head again, not meeting the detective's eyes. "Just go. I've finally started putting the pieces together again, got a job that I've kept for a couple of months now, have a place of my own, and my therapist says I'm doing really well." The hazel eyes look up, a flicker of their old friendship leaping into them for the briefest of moments. "I can't go through this ever again. And I know if I go back, it will only happen another day. I can't lose you a second time, Sherlock." John stares at the floor. "And I've got Mary now – she gives me a bit of balance; I don't need the battlefield when I'm with her." He shrugs. "My life is finally making sense again."
He stands motionless, praying that the panic clawing at his throat will not show in his voice. "John…. It was a mistake," he admits, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.
"A mistake? Yeah," his friend looks directly at him. "But not all mistakes can be fixed, Sherlock." John lingers for a moment in silence, then opens the consulting room door and walks away, leaving him standing in the surgery alone. Aghast at the direction of their conversation, he stares at the door, his mind numb and disbelieving. All through those months of self-imposed exile, one thought, one hope that he had only rarely indulged in, had lit the way…. A hope of someday returning to London, and John, and the cases he had loved so much. And now watching his former flatmate exit the office, he realizes that the thought of returning to his old life and habits, before he had opened his world up just enough to include a fellow being, was unthinkable.
But John was gone, had made it clear he was unwelcome, and now there was nothing for him to do but return to Baker Street and attempt to start over on his own, with no conductor of light to break through the darkness he had been living under for the past year. His hands begin to tremble, a visceral response to the bleak future awaiting him…...
A noise sounded from somewhere deep in the monastery, and Sherlock awoke with a start, blinking blearily several times before orienting to his surroundings. The Tibetan night was silent and still, and he settled back again, grateful for the noise that had interrupted his dreams. Glancing down with an annoyed frown at his shaking hands, he closed his eyes wearily. It was only an hour or so before dawn, when he would be summoned to begin his assigned duties in the monastery. He knew sleep was an impossibility after the dream he'd awoken from, and was thankful he would not be forced to wait long for daybreak and a return to his labors, unwilling to be alone with his unpleasant memories.
He missed John. His recent unhealthy life had exacted its toll, leaving him thinner and more wan than he had been when living with the doctor, but it was a soul weariness that had effected the greatest change over the last seven months. Wandering in remote lands amongst strangers, he had fought the beckon of London and the things and people he held dear, waiting until he was sure his return would not endanger them.
But he found it increasingly difficult each day to remember John's voice, and Mrs. Hudson's indulgent smile. He had been tempted to ask Mycroft for an mp3 file of surveillance video he knew his brother had taken of Baker Street, but he refused to do so for several reasons. Not out of any respect for his friend's privacy (individual privacy was an unnecessary concept that had long ago been deleted from his Mind Palace), but he would never do or say anything to his brother that would reveal the important place John had inadvertently assumed in his life, nor would he admit to any such common feelings as homesickness. And he knew from Mycroft's correspondence that John had moved out of their flat after spending one bitter, solitary night there, leaving their rooms empty.
A thin, high-pitched bell was struck from somewhere in the monastery, signaling for the monks to arise and begin their day, and Sherlock stood, pulling the cold mask back into place, willing his logic and reason to overtake his more painful thoughts.
II.
John leans back in the cab, his eyes staring blankly at the empty seat next to him, their expression dead and empty. A dark red stains the soles of his loafers, and the same dark scarlet is splotched on the fingertips of his right hand. Resting his head against the back of the seat, he winces and raises fingers to gingerly touch the forming knot on his right temple.
His mobile rings, and John glances down, before uttering a soft curse. "'M not answering, Mycroft," he mutters bitterly, and slips the mobile back into his jacket pocket. His shoulders shaking slightly, John leans forward and covers his face with one palm, sighing jaggedly.
Watching John's struggle to maintain his composure and keep a thready grip on his control, he feels the need to offer some sort of comfort and consolation to his friend. But John appears unaware of his presence, locked away in his own world, reliving visions he cannot see.
The cab pulls up to the curb, and the driver calls out roughly to the doctor, breaking into his painful reveries. John flings the payment at the cabbie and steps out, pausing to look up at the first floor windows, his breath rising and falling rapidly with an approaching panic. Then the man's eyes come back into focus as he stares at the front door.
"Mrs. Hudson," he whispers, and the shoulders shrink further down. "What am I going to tell her?" John steps through the front door, and his eyes follow the seventeen steps leading up the their flat, before half-retching. Grasping the banister so tightly that his knuckles whiten, he regains control again and turns instead to the door across the corridor.
The door leading to Mrs. Hudson's rooms is open, and John hears music coming from the kitchen. A violin solo. His face blanches before he realizes it is only one of Mrs. Hudson's programs on the radio, and he hurries into the kitchen to switch the music off. The flat is too still, and John wonders briefly if the landlady has stepped out…. but she wouldn't leave the front door open, and she certainly would not allow the workman to leave his tools scattered throughout the place.
He watches as John moves through the kitchen into the back room, pausing in the doorway, his face frozen in horror. Springing suddenly into action, John rushes into the bedroom and drops to his knees, fumbling for a pulse for the second time that day, then he crumples for a moment, still unable to weep, the hazel eyes burning within the white face. Rising from his position on the floor, he gently lifts the elderly woman and places her on the landlady's bed, before turning on his heel to stalk angrily from the room.
Taking the stairs two at a time, John hurries through their own flat, and he follows, alarmed at the stony expression on the doctor's face. Scurrying up the second flight of steps to his room, John bursts through the door and strides quickly across the bedroom floor. His breath coming too rapidly, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out the Browning pistol, checking it quickly before slipping it into his pocket. Slamming the drawer with more force than is necessary, John turns to head towards the stairs, an unnatural hatred burning in his eyes.
He follows John down the steps, sickened by the sudden realization of what his flatmate has just determined to do. He had long been aware that Moriarty had a skilled lieutenant, a second-in-command, but he had not considered the possibility that John would go after him, would seek him out in some inherent need for revenge. He knows John's own skills in self-preservation, has seen his friend's tenacity in the many struggles for survival they had experienced while working on his cases, but this was not a London street thug, and John is in no frame of mind to go after a man who was intelligent and resourceful enough to earn Moriarty's trust. John, half-mad with grief, would be walking into a fight he could not win.
His friend continues down the street, searching for a cab despite his calls and pleas for John to stop, to reconsider and not make the nightmarish situation devolve into absolute hell. Flying down the pavement, he is too late, and watches his flatmate jump into a cab and drive quickly off. He fumbles for his mobile, only to realize he has somehow left it on the rooftop of St. Bart's. Cursing, he spins to search the street for another cab, his heart racing, knowing he will be too late….
Sherlock sat up abruptly, nearly striking his head on the bunk above his bed. Breathing quickly, he forced his eyes to remain steady on the coverlet in his lap, as he reminded his brain that it was merely another dream. Lying back down, he listened to the sounds of the students partying below, in the all-night bistro next door to the Parisian hostel.
Glancing carefully at the open window, he shuddered. Most of Moriarty's syndicate had been rounded up by covert members in Mycroft's employ, and he had only just received word from his brother to return to London at once, as they were close to capturing Moran and required his help. He would never admit it, to his brother or to anyone else, but he was so very tired of running, and hiding, and constantly watching his back for the vengeful second-in-command, bent on retaliation for his commanding officer's suicide. And the daemons that had haunted his sleep over the past year had become increasingly frequent and more ghoulish in their nightmares, pilfering any chance of rest and the strength he would need to bring the long game of cat-and-mouse to an end.
In the distance, he could hear a drunken brawl begin, while a group of slightly tipsy tourists in the bistro struck up a chorus of Sur le Pont d'Avignon. He smiled. Paris….which meant London and home were just across the Channel. If only he could be sure of John's reaction, and the type of reception he would get when he made his re-appearance. Sherlock blinked several times. Logic dictated that he not worry over future griefs until they became realities. Logic, however, could not explain why he lay awake for the remainder of the night, listening to the sounds from the street below.
I.
John sat in the sitting room, curled in his armchair, his bare toes wriggling happily. He gave a sigh of contentment and looked across at the empty leather chair, now no longer painful to view. All was as it should be again, and as the mantle clock struck midnight, he stretched his limbs lazily and contemplated heading upstairs to his bed. But it was too nice to simply sit there, a warm, peaceful feeling in his chest after so many months of icy numbness.
Before he could motivate himself to move, however, a noise reached his ears that made him pause. He froze, listening to the unmistakable sounds of a nightmarish struggle coming from the bedroom down the hall. John's forehead wrinkled in a frown. He had listened to the same sounds for the past three nights, since Sherlock's astounding return and their subsequent move back into Baker Street.
A sharp, fearful cry reached his ears, and he closed his eyes momentarily, raising a hand to massage his forehead. He wanted to respond to his friend's obvious need and send fleeing whatever ghosts were haunting the detective's dreams, but he was aware more than anyone of the brilliant man's massive pride, and he knew that any attempts he made at comfort would only be rebuffed. "Why would I need you?….Just leave me alone!" The space of a year had not erased the memories of Sherlock's prior responses to his outstretched hand, and John doubted that months of traveling in isolation had made any transformation in the detective's defensive walls.
Another cry sounded, and John heard his own name, called out in muffled, agonizing tones. He sighed. This was a battle he had lost long ago, a self-appointed duty to look after his friend's well-being, despite the cost to himself or his own emotions. He stood, heading swiftly through the kitchen.
They had enjoyed an afternoon of animated conversation, with a year's worth of communication to catch up on. John had regaled him with his confessions of many hearts won and lost, and Sherlock had recounted his extraordinary adventures covering three continents. They had giggled over Mycroft's diet-of-the-week fads, and all had been almost instantly forgiven by the most long-suffering man in London. Now, as they stand waiting in the empty flat across the street from their rooms, he feels happy for the first time since the entire Moriarty affair began, and senses a confidence that had been sadly absent without his blogger by his side.
They wait silently, their eyes fixed on the windows of their own flat across the way, but even the silence is comfortable, and comforting. His eyes meet his friend's, and in the shadows, he can see that the hazel eyes are dancing, rejoicing in the renewal of the Hunt.
A sound stirs from the floor below, and he reaches to grab John's wrist momentarily, his own ears catching what the doctor has not yet perceived. Raising a finger to his lips, he nods towards the door as a creak is heard on the staircase, and he releases John's wrist so that his friend can retrieve the pistol from his pocket.
Silently taking aim at the door, John waits beside him for the appearance of Col. Sebastian Moran, the doctor's hand holding the gun with no sign of tremor now that he was back on the battlefields of London. The steps hesitate outside in the hall, then the door slowly opens to reveal the man who has been haunting him for the past thirteen months, his own revolver drawn and aimed directly at the two men.
"So." The man's wary eyes flit from one to the other. "So, I see you have anticipated me, Sherlock Holmes."
He had expected this, and had surmised that the man would be armed and ready. What he has not anticipated, was the extent of the man's desperation and grief. He has not foreseen an ex-Army colonel willing to die if he could only exact revenge for his fallen commander, and he has not deduced that the man would be so skillfully astute at guessing the surest way of causing pain.
Moran raises his gun quickly, almost too swiftly to see, and gets off one stray shot before John's Browning fells the syndicate leader. Gasping from shock, he rushes forward to examine the body, thankful that no further gunfire ensued, but beside him, John is swaying, and his flatmate's knees suddenly give way.
"John!" he gasps breathlessly, catching his friend and sinking gently to the floor to support the limp form. He scans his friend's face for answers, but the doctor's expression is taut with repressed anguish. Clumsy hands search beneath his jacket, looking frantically for the cause of John's distress, and his eyes suddenly widen in horror as his fingertips come in contact with the sticky warmth of blood. Quickly peeling the weathered, black jacket off of his friend, he ignores John's cry of pain and bends low to examine the chest wound. Too deep…too large…too much blood being lost too quickly. He swiftly pulls out his mobile and calls for emergency medical services, then uses the jacket to stay the flow running steadily from the wound. He can hear John's breathing, shallow and slow, and he blinks through blurred vision, shifting his friend to recline back in his arms gently.
The breathing, almost imperceptible in the still room, slows to an unbearable pace. "No, John!" he cries out forcefully, praying his strength will transfer to his friend. "Breathe….Fight it!" His voice chokes on the command, and he bows his head. "Don't leave me now. Not now, when all is right again…"
John lies still, resting against his shoulder, his hazel eyes fixed on his face. The breaths, coming in painful gasps now, are so sporadic that at times he is uncertain if his friend is still breathing. He listens as garish sirens sound in the distance, alerting of nearing aid, and John opens his mouth with effort, gasping out words too soft to hear. His flatmate reaches a trembling hand up to clasp his own shaking one tightly, then the grip loosens, the dear eyes slowly close, and the painful breaths cease.
Shuddering, he stares in shock at the pale, still form in his arms before huddling in grief over the body, his own world going black….
Sherlock awoke, trembling and sweat-soaked, a sob still caught in his throat. He glanced about the room with panicked, fear-ridden eyes, his own breathing halted. He was too late. He had lost the only thing that had mattered; the only person who had truly cared and had never viewed him as The Freak. And it was all his own fault. He sat up quickly and sprang from the bed in time to empty his stomach in the bedside bin, before sinking on his knees to the floor.
Passing through the kitchen, John paused as the sounds of retching carried through the corridor, and hurried to push open the door to the detective's room. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Horrified at the unusual outburst, John approached warily and sank down on the mattress beside his friend.
"You okay?" he asked gently, but the other man was staring unseeingly at the floor, locked in his nightmares. "Sherlock, are you okay?" Receiving no answer, he watched the bent head for a moment, then cleared his throat uneasily. Dropping to his knees in front of the detective, he reached up to take the cold hands in his, forcing his flatmate to look into his face. "Sherlock, I'm here."
The haunted grey eyes raised, seeing him for the first time. "Are you a ghost?" he whispered pitifully, still trapped in the realms of his nightmare. "I've seen you die so many times."
John gave a small smile, and squeezed his hand. "Yeah, I know. Your ghost has haunted me often enough over the past year too, Sherlock."
Now fully awake, the dark head hung lower. "The dreams…" John hesitated, interrupting the silence. "They're about me, aren't they?"
The man nodded slowly. "Each time you die, and it's always my fault. This whole thing has been my fault."
"Now….stop it, Sherlock," John interrupted quickly. "We talked about this three days ago." The guilt John knew his friend had been harbouring was rising to the surface, and he was determined to lay it to rest once and for all. "You have to stop blaming yourself. Yeah," he emitted a chuckle, "I'll kill you, if you ever do this to me again, but this was Not. Your. Fault."
The detective's shoulders were still trembling, his hands shaking in John's grasp. "It's over, Sherlock. Moriarty and Moran are dead, and you stayed alive. You kept me, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly…alive." John frowned in concern at the pale face and still-haunted expression before him, watching his friend's breathing begin to slow. "It's finished now," he added. "We're safe. You're home. I'm home. It's over."
At those words, the trembling quieted, and John stood. "Right then. Why don't you come out to the kitchen, and I'll make you a cuppa, and we can talk about it?" he said gently, bending to awkwardly pat the thin shoulder.
Turning to head towards the door, John missed the light that suddenly flickered in his flatmate's grey eyes. A small smile flitted across the detective's face as he watched John walk out into the hallway. "Yes, you are home," he muttered, standing to follow his friend, daemons forgotten.