Authors Note: Argh, this chapter was a little rushed, as I have a theory exam to revise for and fanfiction (I hate to say it) is decidedly not priority. But please review if you like it!
It was only the fourth time that John received one of his unknown visits from Sherlock that he noticed something was wrong. He had woken from yet another Sherlock-related dream to find his body drenched in sweat and shaking uncontrollably. It was hot in his dingy room, humid. John had unwillingly dragged himself out of bed to open his window and find relief in the cool night air that awaited him there. He found, or thought he found, something else entirely. A figure, a dark and curly-haired, tall figure, wearing an unmistakable coat. Running behind the corner of that cold grey street.
John awoke the next morning, convinced it had only been a dream.
oOo
For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes paced up and down Molly's sitting room and scolded himself for being so incredibly stupid. He had been so careful, up till now. Sherlock only hoped that John might have thought himself delirious, or perhaps dreaming when he had seen Sherlock run from where he had been silently watching John's flat, ironically slipping on a rouge tabloid crumpled on the ground, the words 'FAKE' and 'SUICIDE' just visible beneath the wet and crumpled folds of the newsprint.
Sherlock had initially thought that being so close to John would stop the thousands of thoughts rampaging around his head, release that rocket trapped on the launch pad, such as a particularly strenuous case would have done, had he not had to leave that past behind him. But although John somewhat reminded Sherlock of the large amounts of cocaine he used to generously pump into his bloodstream, unlike the other drugs he had so often taken (morphine, heroine, not to mention his beloved cigarettes), being within spitting distance of John, but simultaneously being unable to tell him, shout at him that he was alive was utter agony. It just aggravated and increased the cravings, the addictions. The situation was, Sherlock confirmed, similar to a deep depression after the calming euphoria of smoking tobacco.
But a mere slip-up like this wasn't going to be enough to stop Sherlock…
oOo
Insanity, John decided, was the only logical reason. Illusions, mirages, they all meant one thing. And after John decided that it wasn't down to dehydration, he began to seriously worry about his mental stability. Why else would it have happened? A second time. In broad daylight. Thus completely ruling out the possibility of mere nightmares being the cause of what he had seen whilst walking through St James' park yesterday morning.
It had been only a fleeting glance, that was certain. He could have simply dismissed the idea that he had seen it, not even entertained the possibility as soon as it had vanished. Blamed it on a trick of the light. Or perhaps a stray dog. But John knew what he had seen, Sherlock's vintage blue scarf was unmistakeable, especially to someone who knew him so well. And so to see that iconic blue scarf, vibrantly azure against the red brick building which it was fluttering behind with the slightly frayed end just visible, worn out from the various cases it had endured with its owner, chilled John to his very core. He thought back to the night when he had seen something, or an unmistakeable someone, run from his grey moonlit street, and seriously began to contemplate whether he really had been dreaming that night, and whether it had any connection with today's scenario.