Present
John's eyes flew open, the stark whiteness of the ceiling the first this greeting him. Just a dream. Just a dream, he chided himself, because Sherlock couldn't be dead. He lay there in silence until the familiar sounds of his flatmate's morning routine reached his ears, and he let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding.
The thing was, though, it wasn't really a dream, was it? It was too real, almost. It was... what, the future? But it couldn't be, because Sherlock wouldn't die, he couldn't, because John Watson needed him.
When he he sat down at the kitchen table that morning, Sherlock did not comment on his lateness. John didn't notice.