This is the penultimate chapter. Things need to be properly tied up, so there's one more following soon(ish). Thanks for reading this far!
Sherlock is having The Dream. He knows he is because he's had it before, countless number of times. He always wakes up shivering. Right now, he is in Baker Street, playing his violin. Hears the latch open. Counts the impending footsteps. Seventeen steps.
He faces the wall as usual. He never wants to see John in this state. He waits, unable to escape or wake up. Please, I don't want to see you like this. He recalls the last Dream. John always sounds genuinely angry and it pains him. Even before he speaks, Sherlock knows what he is going to say. "You left me for three years. You pretended you were dead and you lied to me. I hate you." The worse thing is that John has said this in real life too.
And this nightmare haunts him constantly.
Only this time, John says something else. In this version of The Dream, John doesn't sound angry. He's begging.
"Sherlock." It's no more than a whisper. "Sherlock, help me. It hurts."
Sherlock breaks out of the trance and turns. For the first time in any of these Dreams, he drops his violin and it splinters on the carpet.
"John."
The doctor is drenched in blood, pain etched all over his face. Blood drips onto the once clean floor and begins spreading through the carpet until it reaches the detective.
John tips towards the floor.
"No!" Sherlock runs up and catches him. He leans over, shocked and confused. The Dream this time is too real. This is really happening. "John!" His friend's eyes are closed. Sherlock feels for a pulse. There is nothing. He wants to help, but his body is frozen by an invisible force.
The stairs begin to creak for a second time as a third person approaches.
And Sherlock knows who it is.
"NO!" He screams. He still can't move. The door opens and Moriaty stands triumphant.
"Evening Sherlock. I'm your paramedic for today. Do you want me to kiss your little Johnny boy better? Or should I just get it over with?" The gun appears from nowhere and he shoots into John repeatedly, while Sherlock, paralysed, can only sob. Blood is everywhere now.
"NO! STOP IT! YOU'RE KILLING HIM, HE NEEDS HELP! GO AWAY! GO AWAY! JOHN! JOHN! NO, NO, NO, NO!" With every 'no', Moriaty slaps him, chanting his name mockingly. "No, no, no…"
"No… John… n-no…"
"Sherlock! Sherlock! Wake up right now!" Mycroft was lightly hitting his face to rouse him.
Sherlock sat up, the world swimming into view. He was lying in a hospital bed. The stench of disinfectant was everywhere. He was in a private room, attached to a drip. Mycroft leant back in his chair, satisfied that his brother was finally awake. He was the only other person in the ward.
Sherlock wanted to talk, but found it too exhausting, so sank into the pillows. He had not forgotten about John for one second, but there was little he could do other than receive news.
"You were given sedatives to help you sleep, so you may feel a little weak. We're in the local village hospital, in case you're wondering." He informed. Sherlock couldn't answer. Even if he had been strong enough to, he wouldn't have been able to, for fear that his voice would betray his emotions. John. John. John.
He inspected Mycroft, who calmly met his penetrating stare. Try as he might though, he couldn't deduce any information about John from his brother. Then again, that had always been the case. The only two things evident were that Mycroft had not slept for at least forty eight hours and had recently drank coffee to stay awake, going by the small stain on his shirt cuff. Useless information. He frowned at his infuriatingly annoying sibling, all at once desperate to know what had happened. If John was… dead… Mycroft appeared to read his thoughts, but kept quiet.
Not wanting to beat about the bush any more, Sherlock managed to slur out John's name out loud, as a way of encouraging Mycroft to talk. His voice did betray him - it was shaking and sounded nearly as concerned as he felt.
Mycroft sighed.
"I would prefer if you got more rest first, but as you're so insistent… both of you were airlifted here. John underwent an emergency blood transfusion on board. They restarted his heart, but it stopped a further four times…"
He paused. Sherlock was staring at the window. He looked like he was about to cry, despite his attempt at a poker face.
"It's alright, Sherlock. He's stabilised. They're still monitoring him closely, and are unsure when he'll wake, but they're pretty certain he'll make a full recovery. That doctor of yours certainly is a fighter." Sherlock visibly relaxed. However, he was still looking close to tears.
The iceman, Mycroft, didn't realise. If he did, he probably wouldn't have cared. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock was just as cold as him.
"You know that this is your fault." He hissed, his tone switching. "I have no idea what possessed you to go halfway around the world for the sake of one criminal and then explore the mountains with no guide. What kept you alive was luck. That was it. If one thing had gone differently, you would be dead. And worse than that, John would be dead too." Sherlock's bottom lip was wobbling slightly. He twisted away from Mycroft and faced the wall, his eyes welling up with unshed tears. Unfazed and unaware, his brother continued. "You nearly got him killed out there. You were bone dead stupid." The drug slowly cleared Sherlock's system. "You got too complacent, that's what. You thought you were so smart that you could do anything. Not for one second - one second - did it ever occur to you to worry about Dr Watson's safety. You know his… his ignorance. You know how ignorant every damn person is. He followed you because he trusted you. You've broken that trust. Intelligence comes with responsibility."
"Please." Sherlock slurred, shaking hard, body still turned. "I know. I'm s-sorry. Please, p-please go."
Seconds later, he heard the chair scrape backwards. "I hope you've learnt your lesson." Mycroft said stiffly. Shortly after that, there was a click as the door closed.
Sherlock curled up tightly and scrunched his eyes tightly. Mycroft words echoed around on a loop in his head.
John was alive and that was great. Sherlock needed to talk to him and see him, but he was too afraid that he would break down.
So the next day, when he was discharged, instead of going to visit his friend, he left at once and caught the nearest plane, leaving Mycroft to ensure John was treated with the best possible care available.