Fluffy Clouds and Little Birds

by TheVenturer

A series of drabbles in 221, 442 or flash-fiction format, following the lives of our favorite Baker Street boys; what's going on when we aren't watching? Not in any particular order, updates erratically. Humor, life, love, feels and fluff; includes wonderful Johnlock and a developing Mystrade. Rated M for language and smut, warnings inside. Suggestions reviews encouraged and loved!

57. Chapter 57

A/N: More sad feels, I'm sorry! I'll get better at being more fluffy, tomorrow is Friday and I want to start following that 'Fluffy Friday' tradition!

Happy Thanksgiving to any fellow Americans! Maybe next year we can be thankful for equality between the races, genders and wide range of sexualities out there… OK that's as political as I will get!

Hope this isn't too painful, please leave a review; they make me really happy, truly. I couldn't ask for more than to know people enjoy reading my humble writing :)

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A Nightmare

John Watson is standing on a precipice, there is a sun beating on his face and he doesn't know why but he is crying. In that moment between falling and just glancing off the edge, toes feeling the wind like the gentle pull of a stream. It's calling to him, a siren song so sweet and so sad. It sounds like loss and longing, tastes like salt and copper. Tears and blood. He sees the ground below him, someone's hand reaching out to him, someone saying yes and no all at once, someone telling him he needs to leave a note.

Because that's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?

Maybe so, he tells himself. Maybe so. But he'd rather not jump at all, truly.

Then he is falling, down down down and the babbling brook that was the wind is now a hurricane, a twisting tornado but it's not carrying him to Oz, it is pushing him closer, faster, harder to the ground and it all turned black. Then he was screaming, but he didn't know why.

"John, John? John!" he could hear his name again and again, that deep baritone wrapping around him but all he could see was the black so it must not be real, it never is.

Then his eyes are open and John can see that voice, can see those bright eyes, can see those lips speaking his name in worried pleas. And when he encloses that body in his arms he will remember who did fall and who didn't. Who really left. And it won't be better immediately, it won't be fixed.

But it can get better, he admits, as Sherlock curls back to his side in the bed they've shared for the past few weeks. It will be better.