Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, no matter how hard I wish it!
Author's Note: This chapter is more of a filler between chapters.I'm sorry if it's not too exciting, but I promise the next one is going to be awesome! (I hope so, at least) I've already started on it, and it's about halfway done. Also, thank you for your reviews! Every single one, even if it's only a sentence, inspires me to keep writing, Anyway, I'll stop wasting your extremely valuable time. Enjoy, my beautiful readers!
Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own!
Chapter 2:
It had happened again.
John knows how the dream begins. A particularly cheery, picturesque scene of a family at Christmas time. A cozy, if rather small living room displaying a crackling fire in the corner. Infectious laughter sounding through the air, and the smell of cookies baking in the oven. A massive Christmas tree in the corner, twinkling with specks of red and green. His mother, grinning widely as she adjusts the star to just the right spot. John feels contented. Happy. He wishes the feeling will last forever.
However, he knows what will happen next. The screeching of a car carries up to the flat. John's father swaying through the door, grabbing its frame for support. The grin melting off his mother's face. Angry mutters that become drunken screeches as his mother frantically tries to placate him. And then, her screaming. Always, the screaming, as his father grabs her by the hair and slams her against the wall. Again and again, while John's own screams mingle with his mother's. Fighting to reach her, but being frozen in place, unable to move his legs. Sobbing, too young to understand why, why he would do this. Struggling to aid his mother. This particular nightmare is all too familiar, but this was usually where it ends. Where John jolts awake, gasping for air.
Instead, the scene changes. The screaming cuts off, and suddenly John finds himself transported to a familiar looking alleyway. Leaning against a wall, hands in pockets, is Sherlock, enveloped in a dark coat. He is standing, casually watching John. The stormy eyes that had been so conspicuous before are narrowed, sizing John up. John, still unsteady on his feet, tries to get his bearings. He inhales shakily, attempting to relax his pounding heart.
When he finally feels his pulse slowing, he glances at Sherlock. And even though John is aware that he is dreaming, he finds himself checking the other for injuries. Sherlock's face is smooth and un-marked, and he holds himself comfortably. There are no signs of them ever existing. After determining Sherlock's apparent health, John contents himself to quietly observe the man.
They watch each other for an indeterminable amount of time. John could have been standing there for minutes or hours. When Sherlock finally speaks, there is no trace of pain laced with the words like there had been previously.
"Hello," he says simply, trapping John's gaze. John's return greeting is caught in his throat. The eyes of the other man lock on his, and John finds himself pinned in place once again. Even though he knows practically nothing about this man, he still finds himself fascinated, and John is unable to tear his gaze away.
When John wakes, his mind is awash with the stormy blue of the other's stare.
John was late. So late, he had most likely missed the exam entirely.
He scrambled out of bed, rushing to the bathroom. Thirty seconds later, John emerged, teeth hastily brushed and deodorant thrown on. He speedily pulled some clean clothes, then glanced at the clock again.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. Sighing, John slowed his frantic movements. There was no way he was going to be able to make it to the test on time. He pulled on his trainers, deciding to just walk down to Barts. He was one of the professor's favorites, so he would most likely be allowed to take it late.
John pulled out his mobile when he heard a text alert. It was probably his professor, wondering where on earth he was. However, John frowned when he saw Unknown Number written across the top of the screen. He opened the text.
I had you escorted home yesterday evening, seeing as you fell asleep on the ambulance. Hopefully, the next time we meet will not be as strenuous of an affair.
-MH
John wrote back:
if im lucky, there wont bloody well be a nxt time. where did u get this number? -J
A minute later, John's phone dinged.
That is unimportant.
-MH
John huffed. Why couldn't the arse just give him a straight answer? John was about to jam his phone back into his pocket when he was suddenly struck with a thought.
Is Sherlock doing alright? he seemed in an awfully bad way last night. -J
John really was worried. Sherlock had been an absolute mess yesterday, and, even though it was totally irrational, John couldn't help feeling responsible for how badly Sherlock had been hurt.
His phone dinged.
Sherlock is doing fine. Better than yesterday, at any rate. Currently, he is recovering at St. Bartholemew's.
-MH
John grinned and hastily typed:
thats gr8, im alrdy headed ovr there. maybe I can pop by 4 a visit? -J
Without waiting for a reply, John shoved his mobile back into his pocket. Taking the steps two at a time, he opened the front door and headed for Barts. It was only when John was nearly halfway there when he realized he was still grinning like a madman.
Author's Note: Short chapter, I know, I'm sorry. I'll get the next one posted as soon as possible. Thanks to my readers, especially Asamiakihito, beemoh, and GlareGryphon for your reviews. You are amazing! Fantastic!