if I fail I'll fall apart


I'm gonna live, I'm gonna fly
I'm gonna fail, I'm gonna die


Shots. Gunfire, everywhere. They didn't know- didn't see it coming, weren't prepared-

"No."

Shouts. Duck- no, move, get to him- up, get up, run, you can't do anything for them now they're gone-

"No..."

Run, just run, move. Weave across, bent double- where, where are they coming from- Pain, fire red hot fire, everywhere make it stop are you dying oh God-

"NO!" Who will save them, they stare out at you with blind eyes, horror and pain etched into frozen features, all the blood the flames licking at you but you can't move.

"No, God no-"

With a wretched cry, he shoots up from his position. Reaches out for a gun only to encounter air and warm clothes. Opens his eyes and draws in a long shaky breath as reality crashes in again and attempts to erase the dream-like fog.

He curls over himself, rests his head wearily in his hands and digs his palms into tightly-shut eyes. Groans when all the action seems to do is embed even further those blasted images- the blood dark on stark-white faces, bullets flying all over, adrenaline pumps in his veins – either from fear or a morbid excitement, maybe both-

A flurry of sharp deep notes pierces the memory and John sits up, drawing in a sharp breath. But then he relaxes automatically as the familiar sound of violin composition floats up from downstairs. The somewhat-staccato low bowing is a subconscious comfort and it chases away all thought, leaves his mind blissfully blank, lost in a haze of symphony and wavering in between the realms of sleep and wakefulness.

John drags a hand down his face, swallows, and slides back down until his head rests upon the pillow once more. He lays there, eyes half-closed, a soft smile about his lips, and lets the sharp yet soothing sounds surround him, lets himself get lost in the melodic pitch of a violin under attack from his friend's no-doubt tireless mind.

He lets it cocoon him, this steadfast connection, until his breath evens out and he is asleep – only this time, it is promisingly peaceful.

xxx

Downstairs, in his usual stance by the window, hidden in the deep shadows of a moonless night, Sherlock slows his playing, drops the crescendo that was about to rise to a low melody, deep and resounding in the darkness. He listens to the sounds of his friend struggling after what was, undoubtedly, another rendition of his army days in a dream, and continues playing, allows the violin – a bare extension of his mind – to render those nightly horrors ineffectual.

Above him, John finally settles. And yet Sherlock plays on, letting a small smile show in a mere upwards-quirk of the corner of his lips.

He may not fully comprehend the extent of people's emotions – the insatiable need for comfort and reassurance... but he knows what's important, and he knows enough.


A/N: ...first Sherlock fic, yay? I don't know, I have a headache and this is probably rough at best, but I needed to get this out and I just don't know anymore okay.

All I know is, the Johnlock bond will be the death of me. *flails and falls*

Let me know what you thought in a review, please? Critique's always nice; if not, then just... whatever, anything. This isn't the best I can do but it's the best I'm gunna be writing at the moment so. Yeah. Hope you liked it anyhow. x)

-izzy