Chapter 2 - Realisation

Hey you guys thanks for the fantastic response on the last chapter. If you need a break from all the angst check out the new Small Comforts fic chapter :D

Love you loads and hope sad!shattered!Sherlock isn't too depressing :/

MOST LOVE to my beta read, Q, love of my life ;)

Please review! x o x o x o x

John paced the wooden floorboards of their flat, occasionally looking at the silent man on the sofa.

He was intensely worried about him. It was harrowing to see the usually energetic and vibrant man so still, so introverted.

And the worse thing was that Sherlock would not look at John, he wouldn't acknowledge him at all.

From what little snippets of speech Sherlock had managed to get out once they finished running, John gathered that he'd had some sort of vision.

Using his own, albeit second-rate, powers of deduction John decided this must be what had so violently shaken him.

Sherlock's entire work ethic consisted of observation, of facts, of reasonable links. He was not a superstitious man. And yet this vision had been so vivid, so real that it made him react like this, turning into himself.

Then it had come true.

John sighed and went to sit by Sherlock. Neither said anything for a long while and John contented himself with studying his friend's face.

Nothing. The emotions going on below the surface were so well hidden that Sherlock could have been a waxwork. A beautiful waxwork.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "You have to tell me what you saw,"

Sherlock turned his head, almost mechanically back and forth. No.

"Please," he tried, "I need to know why you're so..."

Sherlock glanced at John and he faltered. Those icy blue eyes looked so sad. So sad, as if they carried within them the weight of the world.

John tried once more, squeezing Sherlock's hand, "Please,"

Then there was a reaction. Sherlock shut his eyes and opened his mouth.

"All those people," came the strained whisper, "John, all those people. I could have saved them all,"

John made a noise of protestation but Sherlock carried on, ignoring him.

"If I'd just said no don't throw that," Sherlock's eyes had glazed over with tears, "Then they'd all be alive. They died because I am stupid John, so stupid,"

A tear rolled down his cheek and Sherlock looked away. This wasn't right. John shouldn't see him like this. So weak and pathetic. He knew it was bad, it was hurting him.

And John was hurt. He felt a deep pain in his stomach, a stab and he held Sherlock like a drowning man holds a lifeline.

The two stayed locked like that until Sherlock finally moved. He disentangled, stood up and turned away.

When he looked back his eyes were hard and he was ready to tell John, though he suspected it would hurt him even more.

"I saw it John. I saw it all. The fire, the collapse, everything. I saw us all die. It played out as if it were actually happening. I died. Then I woke up,"

John was speechless. When he got his voice back he exhaled deeply.

"How did I die?" he asked in a very small voice.

Sherlock shuddered visibly, "That's the worst thing. I can't remember. It's as if...I know we all died. And from my," he paused, "feelings, it was bad. But it's so vague. It's just sensations. Heat and pain and fear,"

He shook again and twisted his hands together, worrying in a most uncharacteristic way.

He could feel the blood on them. Their blood. All those people, dead. All his fault. So much blood. He was drowning again.

"I need a shower," he blurted and stalked off.

John exhaled and dropped his head in his hands. How could he convince Sherlock that despite the horrific scale, terrible accidents do happen? People died every day in fires and explosions. This was no different.

And it was shocking to Watson to see these deaths weigh so heavily on his soul. Never before, even in the most brutal serial killer cases had John seen his friend like this.

Sighing, he switched on the TV. Any distraction was welcome.

"The main headlines once again. The death toll at the explosion of Mill & Miller's Depot is currently stopped at 26,"

John grimaced and was glad Sherlock was in the bathroom.

"An exclusive source told the channel today that the toll would have been 5 higher had not a young detective been concerned about something outside, evacuating himself and close colleagues from the room shortly before the explosion took place,"

John swore under his breath. Fucking Anderson. He was going to kill him. Anything for a bit of fame or money, the prick.

He turned the telly off in disgust and looked at the old wall clock. Quarter to twelve. John rubbed his tired eyes. He couldn't remember ever feeling more exhausted but he doubted he would be getting any sleep tonight.

Sherlock emerged, hair wet and dripping on his pyjamas. John gave him a weak smile but it wasn't returned. He went into his bedroom without a word and shut the door behind him.

In all his medical career, John couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to go and comfort someone so much.

Because in Sherlock's case he didn't have any physical wounds, he was injured. All the crazy and irritating and brilliant and beautiful things that made him him seemed to have been broken. He was a shell.

John sloped off to bed, feeling heavy with grief.

That night Sherlock dreamt of fire and death again. But the burning pictures were interspersed with odd, out of place objects. A glass of water, condensation slowly dripping down the side. Blood. A plug socket. Screams. Wires. Blood. A ceiling fan.

Sherlock woke up sweating all over and screaming. The door burst open and a sleepy-eyed John rushed to his side.

Sherlock hadn't realised he was sobbing until John crawled on top of the bed and stroked his hair. Then the little shakes and tears began to stop and he felt ashamed.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked softly, murmuring into his friend's hair.

Sherlock shook his head. They sat like that for a long while, John's hands still twining through the fine strands.

Just as the detective was drifting off to sleep again, he muttered, clutching John's free hand.

"I didn't understand it," he whispered, "I'm...scared,"

Then he was asleep and John was tempted to stay just in case he screamed again, but Sherlock was fragile and he didn't think he'd react well to the change.

Hours later John was woken from his own bed by the irritating metallic ringing of the phone. Momentarily he forgot the past day's events and groaned at the fact that he'd have to go get it; Sherlock was too lazy to get the phone during the day let alone at, John winced, 4am.

When he finally got downstairs (his leg was killing him) he found a pale-white Sherlock holding the phone by his side.

In an instant it all came rushing back and John was glad for his cane, he thought his knees would buckle.

"What's wrong?" He asked Sherlock, because it was clear from the haunted look in his eyes something was terribly wrong.

He didn't reply, just stood there, staring at the wall. A tinny noise came out the phone. It was Lestrade's voice.

John gently took the phone from Sherlock's limp grip.

"Lestrade what's going on?"

"It's Sally Donavon," he replied huskily, "She's dead."

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