It was only seconds after midnight at the Silvester evening when the first fireworks started
and Sherlock sat sideways and relaxed on the sofa for hours now. Reading.
He had thrown his legs onto Johns lap, he allways did.
The doctors hands as usually resting on his knees, wrapped around his lower legs or sometimes wrapping his arms around Sherlocks feet when they were cold.
Neither he nor John particulary cared about it, or newyears and the man beneath had fallen asleep a while ago.
What Sherlock had never imagined to happen, was that when the fireworks cracked in Londons sky,
John would wake up, dragging the silent nightmare he had into his wakeness and attack him.
But that was what happened.
One moment he sat on the sofa, warm, comfortable, relaxed.
The next moment his shoulderblades were pressed at red-grey carpet, the right hand clamped around his throat,
Johns legs locking his knees to the ground, the soldiers left pressing his right on the floor.
Once the second of shock passed and Sherlocks mind deducted the obvious,
John had a flashback from afganistan, thanks to the sound of the fireworks.
This had happened before. Once. It had been impossible for Sherlock to 'get John back'.
But for some reason John had let go then, they never figured it out,
since when the doctor had snapped out of it the man had been a shaking wreck, terrified of himself.
In miliseconds the genious brain replayed the last situation, trying to see every detail, despite the darkness that started creeping in the corner of his eyes.
Nothing had been different.
It had been just after midnight, the Tv was running, a car accidant right infront of 221B, the crashing sound reaching them unfiltered through the open windows.
No hit, no clawing or touch, not even when Sherlock had bit his hand had made John move, muscles as steelwires, completely unmovable.
John had grabbed his throat, almost hyperventilating himself.
When the hand glided to Sherlocks chin and the other to the back of Sherlocks head there had been something.
At that moment Sherlock knew that he won't get out of that situation alive, his neck will be snapped. It will be quick and clean for him and it will break John to pieces.
The TV, right after 12, the news, it had been about some military actions. They had named a Captain, that was the moment John had let go. Yes!
"C-cap-tain." he croaked with the last remains of his air, his vision reduced to a tiny spot that was fixiated on Johns huge dilated black pupils.
He could see the effect on the black orbs as they retracted even before Johns hand loosened its grip.
The doctor flinched, scrambled back till his back pressed to the side of the fireplace, eyes darting around the room trying to locate the noise probably.
"Fireworks." Sherlock coughed as he gasped for air, "Silvester.".
Johns lips formed to a soundless 'fuck' as he dropped his head to his hands, knees drawn to his chest, getting smaller every second, shaking.
"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock whispered, kneeling next to the blond man, not sure if touch would soothe or make it worse.
" I tried to kill you, again!", John hissed, flinching when the detectives hand touched his shoulder, tears threatening to fall.
"You didn't."
To see there two extremes on the doctor was disturbing. The first time he had been shocked and angry afterwards.
This time John had switched from 'killermashiene' to 'whipped dog' in an instant.
"John, calm down, I'm ok, you're ok. Calm down." Sherlock whispered when he took his doctor into his arms.
Only moments later the blonde started crying silently, clutching to Sherlocks grey shirt, mumbling "I'm sorry" with almost every breath.
...
This silvester Sherlock sits in a dark Motel, somewhere in Moscow, freezing, tired, wondering if John is alright without him.
Hoping that John won't have a flashback.
Three days later his mobile beeps.
Dr. Watson is under my surveillance.
01.01.2013 approximately 0235 he strangeled his partner to death during a flashback.
He is breaking. You have little time. - MH