NO AIR.
John felt the grip around his throat again. It pushed harder, and he gasped for air. He'd gotten used to these momentarily strangulations, but this one was a though one. He tried to breath calmly, taking deep breaths through his nose, and letting them slowly go out through his mouth. The grip loosened.
John could cope with the strangulations. The thing he couldn't cope with was the reason for them, and every time they came, he got reminded. His psychiatrist told him that it would go away, eventually, and until then, he just had to focus on his breath and try to relax.
John had snapped at her, saying that when her best friend, flat mate and really her whole world, killed herself, she could have something to say. Then he got up and left, leaving his psychiatrist with pity and anger in her eyes.
And now he was sitting here. On his best friends thumb stone. He thought of all the things he never got the chance to say, and the grip tightened again. He led one hand up until his throat, dragging in his jumper to make more space. Finally it stopped. He drew in air for all he had, before sinking down on the cold mud, leaning against the black stone. Beside him lay three red roses, he'd brought with him. He knew Sherlock would know what it meant, but he felt the need to say it anyway. He drew his breath, preparing to say the words that'd been on his heart for the last weeks.
"Sherlock. I know you know, but I have to say this. I love you." John paused, because he could feel the claw taking a tight grip around his throat again, but pressed it away, putting all his effort in to saying the last words.
"I can't breathe without you, Sherlock. It's like living in a world with no air. Please. For me. Don't. Be. Dead." It felt like someone hit him right in the stomach for each word, and he lay by the thumb stone, breathless and exhausted when he stopped talking. He dragged his knees up until his chin, feeling the cold air and ground slowly cool him down. He hadn't slept for days. He just went on and on, until he couldn't help it any longer and passed out. He'd turned to Sherlock's sleeping habits. He knew it was pure stupidity lying on the ground in degrees somewhere below zero, but couldn't bring himself to care. Slowly he drifted away, one hand still holding the jumper away from his throat.
He dreamt, which was unusual for him nowadays. He dreamt that Sherlock came, and lifted him up from the ground, holding around him, warming him, and carrying him away. He dreamed that Sherlock whispered all the things he needed to hear. Realization hit him when he woke up. He was alone. He tried to go back to sleep, he wanted to feel Sherlock's arms around him again .A big chain of pain hit him and he crept together in his bed. His bed? He opened his eyes. He was in a hospital. Beside him was an empty chair. How had he ended up here? He must have fallen asleep in the graveyard. But how had he ended up in a hospital?
He looked around, finding one of the buttons that called for a nurse. He pressed it multiple times, desperate. It didn't take long before a fair-haired, little nurse appeared in the door, coming fast over to him.
"Is everything okay, Mr. Watson?" she asked, her voice light and warm.
"How did I end up here?" he asked, not caring about answering her question. He still felt the grip around his throat, and had to force himself to sit up and act normally.
"You passed out in the graveyard," the nurse said, not managing to hide the pity in her face, and John looked away.
"A man found you, luckily, and brought you here. If he hadn't, you'd frozen to death." John grabbed the nurse's arm, as the grip once again tightened. He pressed the words out, between trying to breathe calmly and gasping for air.
"What kind of man? What did he look like?" The nurse looked terrified over the wild look in the patient's eyes. She took a quick glimpse to the door, wondering if she should run away.
"He was," she started, but paused, which caused John to shake her. She quickly continued, not able to hide her fear from her voice.
"He was tall, dark. Black hair, pale skin, and a huge moustache… He came in carrying you, looking lost and desperate. He called himself Mr. Semlo… And he didn't leave you until, well, obviously newly. He's gone in our steps all the time, making sure you were okay. Almost like if he knew you, but he said multiple times he didn't." John felt the grip around his throat loosen. His whole body eased. He breathed out, suddenly realizing he was still holding the terrified nurse's arm. He moved his hand quickly.
"I'm so sorry," he said, trying to look sorry, but he felt a warmth spread in his chest. The nurse smiled, though a little forced.
"Where is the man now?" John asked, trying not to sound to eager.
"I don't know. He was here when I came to see you about five-eight minutes ago." John looked around the room. The window was closed. The nurse saw that John'd his thoughts other places and used the opportunity to leave as fast as she could. John didn't even notice. He looked around the room, closely. Where could he have vanished? Then he eyed the toilet. He got out of the bed, and much to his surprise, figured that his legs could carry him. He tried not to get his hopes up as he approached the door. Just when he was about to open it, the door opened. In the doorframe stood a well-known, familiar figure, and John passed out.
He woke up a bit later, again in a hospital bed. He sat up too fast, and got immediately dizzy.
"Shhh, don't do any abrupt movements," said a low, baritone voice. John turned to see. Sherlock. With a moustache.
"Sherlock… You're alive. And you have a moustache. Why do you have a moustache?" John couldn't find any other words. The only thing he managed to ask, was why Sherlock had a moustache. Sherlock smiled a very tiny smile, and lifted a hand up to remove the moustache.
"John. I'm so sorry." Sherlock began to say, but John stopped him.
"Wait, so you carried me away? It wasn't a dream? This isn't a dream?" The last question was uttered with slightly panic.
"No, it's not a dream. Yes, I carried you here. John, I jumped beca-" but John stopped him again.
"So you love me?" he asked, remembering the words Sherlock had whispered in his dream. Sherlock looked at him for a moment.
"Yes, John. That's why-" but John didn't allow Sherlock to say any more. He took a firm grip in Sherlock's coat, and pressed him against him, crashing his lips against Sherlock's. As the kiss softened and Sherlock responded, John felt the last little grip ease and leave his throat. He pulled away, finally able to take a deep, long breath of fresh air.