Chapter 5
The deafening sound of bombing. The ominous whistle of shells. The hot oppressive air choking him, tasting of dust and metal and destruction.
Chaos. Confusion. Shouts and screams. A blur of camouflage greens. Soldiers. Closing in around him. Dragging him onto a stretcher. An agonising flare of fire in his shoulder. Scorching pain that makes his eyes burn and the world spin nauseatingly.
A boom of an explosion and the scene abruptly changes. He is outside St Barts, staggering towards the broken body of his friend. Sherlock's head is horrifically haloed by a widening pool of deep crimson blood. He can almost smell its coppery tang. It fills him with panic.
It fills him with dread.
Sherlock's turn to be lifted onto a stretcher now. His body unresponsive, lifeless. Eyes vacant, face blank, marble-white like a statue. Can it really be the same man? The brilliant, dynamic, Sherlock Holmes?
No, it can't…it can't be…
People holding him back. Arms and hands stretching out like tethers, stopping him from reaching his friend. He tries to fight his way through them but they are strong, so very strong, and he feels so weak, like he is wading through treacle, his legs shaky with shock and despair.
"I'm a doctor…let me come through," he pleads, trying in vain to pass between them. "Let me come through…please…"
But the scene quickly melts away again, like a watercolour painting left out in the rain, and he finds himself back in Afghanistan.
Only Sherlock is here with him, taking his place, being dragged onto a military stretcher, his infamous black coat so out of place, so inimitable, against the regimented regalia of camouflage greens.
The soldiers swarm him like insects, blocking John's path, just like the people at St Barts. They close in tightly together, forming a wall between John and Sherlock, the manoeuvre so spine-chillingly swift and fluid that it is almost as if they are one entity, one collective.
"Let me come through…please!" John begs, frantically trying to prise their bodies apart, to break their resistance. "He's my friend…my friend…"
When they remain unresponsive, anger sparks through his veins like electricity. He starts to pound down upon their backs, each strike more determined, more brutal than the last. But every burst of violence only highlights the futility of his actions. The soldiers are as strong as steel, as impenetrable as stone.
As exhaustion finally overpowers him, his legs buckle, his knees slamming hard into the dry dusty ground. He reaches out desperately, knowing that he is too late, that this is the end.
"SHERLOCK!"
John woke with a gasp, struggling for breath, his heart racing wildly. Ripping the blankets from his sweat-drenched body, he tumbled from the bed, stumbling out into the darkness.
"Christ…"
Night swept imperiously around him as he stood, shaking, in the centre of the room. Dragging trembling fingers through his hair, he took several long deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. As the last remnants of the dream slowly ebbed away, he finally realised where he was, what had happened, what was happening.
"Sherlock?" he choked into the night, but his only reply was a mocking silence that cut like glass; merciless razor-sharp cuts to his soul. His shoulders heaved as he tried to get a grip on himself, tried to blink the world back into focus.
He didn't know how much more of this he could take. On top of everything that had happened, Sherlock had now become a part of his nightmares. The man had succeeded in both exorcising and resurrecting his demons, yet this time they felt a thousand times worse, a thousand times more debilitating.
His friend…his best friend…dead?
"No…please god, no…don't let it be real…"
He knew what was coming and fought an internal battle to stop the horrific onslaught of images, scrunching his eyes shut, trying to shake them from his mind. But they were ingrained on his psyche now, had evolved a cruel impervious life of their own. Like physical blows, they rained down upon him, striking at his very core.
Sherlock standing up on the rooftop…
Taking that terrible fatal step…
Plummeting…
Plummeting…
Down…down…down…
"No!"
Mirroring the anguish of his dream self, John collapsed to his knees again, burying his face in his hands, surrendering to his emotions for the first time since Sherlock's death.
AUTHOR's NOTE...sorry this is so very short but I'm in the process of moving house, very busy with packing. I have loads I want to write but frustratingly, so little time to do it. Please be patient with me. xx