The walls of the room John Watson was in were the brightest white he had ever seen. Sherlock was in front of him again, but this time with an intricately designed knife.
This time, John tried to reason with his flatmate, "Please Sherlock, don't do this to me. Please- I thought we were friends." There was no reply. Or at least, not for long. John could hear someone saying his name, but it wasn't Sherlock. It wasn't the man in front of him with the knife.
John Watson woke up to his flatmate in bed. In his bed, beside him. It was confusing.
"Sherlock, what on Earth are you doing here?" John's voice was hoarse, and higher than normal. He was still very tired.
"John, you started talking in your sleep tonight, and normally when you do that it's just incoherent mumbling, but tonight I heard what you were saying. And whatever you thought I was doing to you, whatever you thought I was going to do- I couldn't let it happen. If you want to talk about it, if you need to talk about any of this, you can, but it's obviously very private and that decision should be up to you. Let's both just take it one step at a time."
"One step at a time."