He stared at the cold metal cuff locked fast to his slender wrist; he couldn't help but shudder slightly at the harsh feel of the metal against his flesh. Had it really come to this - that he could not trust his own mind? The thought was abhorrent; and yet, here he was, chained to his own bed. He lay back with a frustrated sigh. He resigned himself to a possibly sleepless night; although he'd woken up in cuffs once before - naked, at that - this was the first occasion he could recall going to sleep cuffed. He twisted his wrist briefly, and found the resulting clink of the chain less reassuring than he would have liked. He turned his face towards the wall and closed his eyes.

The water was icy cold and black like ink. He was exhausted; it was getting harder to stay afloat. He tried to reach up out of the water, but snaking tendrils of weed held him fast. He tried to kick his feet free but was growing weaker. His head slipped briefly beneath the water; choking and spluttering, he strained for the surface. One hand stroked the smooth, oily slick surface of the wooden lock gate but the other was held fast by the water weed. He could feel strands wrapping themselves around his throat as the powerful current dragged him down again; his nails scrabbled to find purchase in vain. He was drowning, and this time there would be no Watson to pull him free. He was going to die here, alone; the weir would become his watery grave. He panicked and tried to scream but black water filled his nose and throat, choking, drowning him...

"Holmes? Holmes!"

The weeds tightened about his shoulders; he thrashed desperately and tried to scream again but he was caught, held, suffocated, unable to breathe for the tight constriction about his chest, his throat; the more he struggled, the tighter it held him until his struggles weakened, slowed... ceased...

It was the screaming which woke Watson; a panicked sound which then tailed off into choking noises as he became aware of a terrific sound of thumping and banging coming from Holmes' room. Throwing on his dressing gown, he flew down the stairs to knock on his friend's bedroom door. "Holmes? Holmes!" he shouted and pounded on the door. The choking noises were becoming fainter; Watson threw open the door and was at Holmes' side in a moment.

Caught in a nightmare, Holmes had thrashed so wildly in his sleep that he had all but fallen from his bed, the sheets wound tightly about his legs, chest and throat; he was held up only by a handcuff holding his bruised wrist to the bedstead, and he was slowly being strangled by the tightly-wound sheet about his throat. Even as Watson reached for him, Holmes' weak struggles ceased and his head lolled bonelessly in unconsciousness. He wasted no time but hoisted Holmes back up onto the bed and then set to work to free him from the asphyxiating bonds of the sheet. To his heartfelt relief, Holmes drew a ragged breath as his neck was freed, and then he coughed, spasmodically. Watson glanced around and spotted the key to the cuffs on the bedside table, and soon had released Holmes' wrist. He lowered himself to sit on the edge of his friend's bed, holding the slender hand in his own and gently chaffing life back into it; it was icy cold to the touch. As Holmes' breathing slowed and became more even, Watson called his name gently.

Holmes did not react at first, so Watson called again, a little more insistently. "Holmes, wake up dear fellow." The hand he held twitched slightly, and Holmes' brow furrowed slightly in a frown as his eyelids fluttered. "Come on, Holmes, open your eyes." After a moment, the eyelids fluttered again as Holmes groaned quietly, turning his face away from Watson as he lifted his free hand to the bruised flesh at his throat. He tried to speak then softly coughed once, twice. His eyes slowly fluttered open. "What..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "What happened?" His voice was low and hoarse.

"Just a nightmare, old boy," replied Watson reassuringly. "You got yourself a bit twisted up in your sheets and nearly throttled yourself, but you'll be fine." He rubbed his thumbs in circles over the delicately mottled wrist between his hands, the slender white fingers a stark contrast to his warm, brown, work-worn soldier's hands. "What were you dreaming about?"

Holmes' gaze turned from confusion to an almost glassy blankness. "I don't remember," he said flatly.

"Oh come now, Holmes; I know you better than that. You were screaming, for God's sakes!" His hand closed around the slender wrist and Holmes winced then glanced back at him.

"Let me go," he said quietly, a warning note in his voice. At once contrite, Watson gently laid the hand upon Holmes' breast, and gently traced the bruises lightly with his forefinger.

"Holmes, why were you handcuffed to your own bed?" he asked softly.

Holmes groaned and put his hands over his face, rolling away from Watson to face the wall. "Enough with your damnable questions, man; let me sleep!" he growled, voice slightly muffled. Watson tried to pat Holmes' shoulder, but Holmes flinched away. "Leave me alone!" he cried, almost plaintively. Watson jerked back with a pained expression, and then his shoulders slumped. Slowly he rose from the bed and made his way towards the door.

"As you wish, old friend," he said sadly.

Holmes sat up and turned, one hand outstretched. "Watson, wait...!" he cried, but it was too late; the doctor had already gone.