His body was weightless. His breath hitched deliciously as he rose up and up. A harp was playing somewhere. A small smile played along his face. It was an almost there sensation and it made his stomach do a little flip as he tried to analyze the feeling. The surrounding area could only be described as that because there was no roof to stop him from rising and there were no walls to encompass a feel of being in any where with a defined perimeter.

Light shimmered around him and it was beautiful. It made him think of sunlight reflecting through a diamond lens. He felt that familiar tug in his gut when he found something that caught his attention enough to kick start his obsessive nature. The more he tried the more he felt the ability slip away from him.

Relax.

His eye lids dropped lower. He felt that excitable energy literally recede back in to his body to sit just below his rib cage and that small smile was back on his face again. What appeared to be large bubbles began to dance around him. The blue color reminded him of the blue he always saw in his dreams lately. The bubbles shrank down slowly, keeping their original length and they reminded him of water as it ran continuously over a solid surface, momentarily taking on the shape of that surface.

His first instinct was to reach out and try to touch them, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to do that. He wondered if they'd feel like the airy wisp of a bubble beneath his finger tips or if they'd have the thick liquid substance one associated with the feel of water. They began to swirl slowly and the blue inside of them glistened with the same reflective effect that the white light around him did. It was a dazzling display of light and bold colored ballet and he felt his body fade away.

There was only one word that could explain the sensation that he felt when this happened. Free. No more analytic thoughts to belittle his brain. No more human boundaries to slow him down. "Free," he whispered.

The word shattered as soon as he spoke it and scattered in all different directions. They moved too quickly for him to see and then the fragments were gone. He felt his face frown, which was odd. An odd sensation tickled where his stomach would be and he gasped as his body snapped back in place.

"What the..." This time his words came out of his mouth and they didn't shatter. The light began to vibrate slowly and he felt his head swim. Suddenly, he was violently thrown in to a tunnel of total darkness.

[-]

Lazy sun light filtered in through the curtains of the sitting room. John guessed it must be about seven thirty, which was an odd time of the day for any one to be sleeping. He eyed Sherlock's curled up form curiously before he turned from the couch and began to study the newly begun easiled painting. The canvas was medium sized, taller than it was wide and it was splattered with different shades of bright blue. He wondered if this had something to do with the dreams Sherlock had been talking about.

Leather squeaked behind him and he turned around in time to see Sherlock turn over and bolt up right in to a sitting position. His chest was rising and falling quickly and he was breathing loudly in tune to the movements. "You ok," he hesitantly asked. He didn't seem to hear him. "Hello?" He said slowly.

Slowly, Sherlock turned his head to look at him. His eyes were unfocused and very slowly life trickled back in to them. John couldn't help, but be amused. He'd never seen Sherlock so out of it before. His mouth tugged up at one corner.

"John?"

The confused tone of Sherlock's voice almost made him snort in laughter, but he resisted. Still fighting the laughter that was bubbling inside of him John said, "Sherlock."

"I was dreaming."

"Uh huh." He studied his face carefully. "Coffee?"

[-]

Sherlock was clutching his mug like it would fly away if he released his grip even a little bit. John knew he should be worried about his behavior, but he couldn't find it in him. Sherlock's curls poofed out causing him to resemble a poodle, his silk robe was wrinkled and falling off one shoulder. He was even more a sore sight than usual and John once again found himself resisting the temptation to laugh out loud. "So, this dream," he said smiling as softly as he could manage. "Want to tell me about it."

Sherlock remained silent for a good few minutes, taking slow sips of his coffee as if he hadn't asked him a question. When he did finally speak John was surprised at how normal his voice sounded.

"The dream was different this time." He inhaled deeply and straightened his shoulders, instantly regaining his usual high up Sherlock appearance.

"What changed?"

"It wasn't the usual pop of blue color, or burst of sudden red, and there were no snippets of conversation. Every thing usually comes in a stream of steady repetitiveness. This time I was floating in an undefined area that was free of time or space."

John's eyebrows raised.

"The same shade of blue appeared inside of bubbles." He ground his teeth. "Don't give me that look. I believe it was symbolic. Of what, I'm not sure."

"The blue and red seems to exist out side of what ever else comes in to play. Every thing I've seen besides those display of colors are always brilliantly serene. Beautiful, majestic even. There seems to be an underlying beauty with in the dark parts, but it's all connected some how. Like, they belong to a certain place. Somewhere of reverence."

"Reverence," John said. "Like, dangerous?"

"I think that's only one part of it."

Hmm. He didn't know to take that. "Soooo?" Sherlock was looking at him like he always does when he's found something that excites him. Rounded, wild eyes, hands clenched in to fists and he's practically vibrating with porely suppressed hyper energy. "Is there more?"

"Well," he says flippantly, turning his head. "There was the bit about any words I spoke fragmenting and speeding away, but that's not what's important."

"There's an important part?"

"Yes," he growled excitedly. At the same time, he leaped up, reminding John of a super tall five year old. He leans down to eye him intently and says, "It means that I'm getting closer."

"Closer to what?" He was genuinely curious, although in the dark recesses of his mind he thought that Sherlock had officially gone mad. He wasn't about to tell him that.

"I don't know."

He smirked up at him. "You seem excited about that fact."

His smile grew wider and he said, "I am. It's something new. Something exciting." He sighed. "I don't feel like I'm falling down the rabbit hole any more. More like I'm on the other side and I'm about to reach a revelation."

"A revelation, huh?" He'd had enough. "Well," he said, standing up. "When you reach that aspect give me a ring, ok?"

"Where are you going?" Sherlock shouted.

"I'm escaping," John shouted back.

He blinked rapidly at the empty door way before he carelessly shrugged. The sight of his newly begun painting bored him so he scraped it to replace it with a fresh white canvas. He squeezed out some new paint and began to mix colors. His intention was to recreate the shade of blue he saw in his dreams, but so far it continued to elude him. He wasn't giving up.

Alternative methods be damned.

[-]

The only light in the room is from the flame from the fire place. Jim is sitting cross legged on the thick white carpet in front of it. He has his elbows braced on his knees and the finger tips pressed together in front of his face. His eyes are wide, but his expression is neutral as he focuses on opening his mind. The constant anxiety he feels is a momentary distraction.

He'd had a good day, so it's easy to focus beyond that fluttering sensation. It's eventually forgotten and he starts to get a clear picture of the room he's in. The large, old, mahogany shaded couch is behind him at the end of the carpet he's sitting on. The tall dresser is over to his left against the wall the door's embedded in. A tiny scratch pops out to his heightened sense of sight. It's more a nick really.

The scene of someone bumping a small wooden box in to the dresser flicks through his mind and he pushes it away, uninterested. He focuses harder and his vision shrinks in to a small bubble. He takes a few minutes to strengthen to center himself. "Breath," he whispers, taking in a deep breath. "Just breath." When he feels secure that his concentration will hold he conjures up the memory of the front door of Sherlock's apartment.

He feels a shift and the door isn't just a memory. It's solid and the color of the paint pops beneath the glow of the street light. There's a resistance as he tries to push his vision through the door. He ground his teeth as he realized that he was over thinking it. The door was solid, but he wasn't.

It was his mind, not a physical form. He let his thoughts wonder for a moment and it did it's trick. They all faded away and he couldn't help but smile at his small victory. The physical quality of the door disappeared and his mind moved through the space like there wasn't a door at all. A small light was on in the hallway and he could see the stair case that led up to Sherlock's flat. It wasn't like he needed the light.

He could reach out with his other senses and simply use that to lead him to where he needed to get. Every light in the flat is on as he moves through the kitchen and he can sense Sherlock in the next room. He find him facing in his direction and he's wearing his pajama's, hair sticking out in all directions and half of his body is hidden behind an easel holding a canvas. He inhales slowly and focuses on widening the space of his vision. As he does so he can make out the small frown on Sherlock's face and the deep knit of his brows.

To any one else he'd appear to be angry, but to some one who was used to obsessing over things he recognized the look well. He was lost in concentrated determination. He was on a mission and this painting was one of the steps he was taking to reach his set goal. Jim gasped as the entire room exploded with the color red. He felt like he'd been stabbed all over his body with needles and his vision of Sherlock in his flat shattered like a broken mirror would.

A scream ripped from his mouth and he scrambled backwards until his body hit something firm. He pitched around and saw that it was the couch before his body started to violently shake. Blackness started to creep in to the corners of his vision and he lost consciousness.

[-]

There was a low vibration underneath him and when Jim opened his eyes he recognized the interior of Anna's car. He gasped as he remembered what had happened. "Sherlock, he's..."

"I know. I know," Anna interjected. "We're on our way."

He felt them accelerate and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Anna was amazing and this wasn't the first time he felt grateful to be connected to her. She saw what he saw, felt what he felt and she always responded in the right way. "Thank you," he said turning in his seat to look out windshield. Anna didn't respond, like he knew she wouldn't.

She simply did what she referred to as her duty and like she accepted him as he was he did the same in return. The black pavement flew by them and Jim fidgeted in his seat. He wished he could simply call Sherlock and warn him against the impending danger, but he knew that was out of the question. The red had been a vision of death, but that's all he'd gotten. No time limit or who or what was going to be the cause, but clearly Sherlock was in danger.

He gripped the strap of his seat belt and began to pray that they'd make it on time.

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