He was falling, falling, coat flying in the wind. John couldn't move. His eyes stared, his mouth gaped. He couldn't save him. His last words echoed throughout the scene
"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
The road lurched towards his face. A man, on a bike, shouted harsh words before disappearing towards the blur of traffic. All started to fade to black.
A foreign pressure pushed on his forehead.
"The person. The person falling. You will see him as Sherlock. Sherlock is falling."
The pressure vanished, and Sherlock was still falling.
John jerked awake, shivering and coughing through the cold sweat. Breathing deeply, he wildly stared around the room. Lestrade's spare room. John couldn't face returning to Baker Street. Not when the rooms still smelt of him and the evidence of him littered every surface. John smiled involuntarily. The eyeballs; were they still in the microwave?
The voice in the dream. It was the first time it'd been there. John shuddered. The dream had plagued him for months, but who was that man? The man who sounded like he was trying to convince him it was Sherlock?
John curled his knees to his chest, and forced his eyes shut. Maybe sleep's empty darkness could comfort him.