"You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier. I killed people."
"You were a doctor!"
"I had bad days!"
Sherlocks eyes flashed open. That dream… it was only a dream, wasn't it? As the fuzziness in his brain cleared, the choke hold around his throat tightened.
Not a dream then! He brought his hands up to force his attacker away, but the other man had the advantage.
Leaning over the bed he was able to use his weight and position to squeeze the life out of the consulting detective, but he reckoned without the lithe and flexible body beneath him and as he leaned in for the kill, Sherlock jack-knifed his body, bringing his knees up to his chest, and then kicked his feet upwards, pushing his would-be assassin off with a blow to the solar plexus.
Gasping for breath the intruder leapt forward once more. Sherlock wrenched the sheet from his bed, throwing it around the other man's head and shoulders, twisting and pulling it tight until with a choking sound his neck snapped.
Letting the body slide to the floor, Sherlock sank back down on the bed.
"You are a miracle, John Watson. Even with thousands of miles between us you still manage to save my life!" he whispered as he wondered what to do with the dead body.