Work Text:
It starts with a cough. Probably just a tickle in his throat, brought on by the fact their flat is chilly and the air is dry.
But Sherlock can't feel the cold. He can only feel the fire and breathe the smoke. And he coughs.
In his dream, Mary isn't there. It's only him, and he digs frantically
through the elaborate dam of logs and sticks and branches, despite the fire, despite the smell of burning flesh. For every branch he dislodges, a hundred more appear. He claws at the wood, his fingers bleeding, his eyes never leaving John. John is calm, resigned to his fate, his eyes sad, his body smoking from the heat. He reaches one hand for Sherlock, but his fingers are blackened with fire, his fingers disintegrating one by one.
And Sherlock startles, shuddering, his eyes flying open, choking on John's name and the beginnings of tears. He tries to make sense of the darkness, but he can't see a thing. He gropes with one trembling hand until it lands on John's blanketed leg. He's almost surprised to discover John is not on fire.
"Wha... what's happening?" a hoarse voice asks beside him. "Sherlock? You okay?"
Sherlock wants to tell him yes, that everything is fine, but he can't seem to stop panting for breath. Then John is touching him, feeling the cold sweat running down his face, his throat, his shoulders.
"Another dream?" John asks gently. Sherlock nods, a whimper escaping his throat.
He feels the mattress shift as John gets to his feet and in a panic, he throws out his arms to prevent John from leaving. The kind doctor reaches to squeeze his hands briefly. "I'm just going to get some water, Sherlock. You're so hot. You must be thirsty."
John turns on the hallway light, and Sherlock blinks in the dim light, telling himself there is no bonfire here.
He sniffs the air, expecting to smell the burning wood and the charred flesh. Instead, he smells clean linen and a hint of John's deodorant.
A moment later, John is back, carrying a washcloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Sherlock drinks his water thirstily, with John holding the glass steady. When the glass is drained, John sets it aside and sits down beside him, wiping the cool cloth over Sherlock's forehead and cheeks, wiping away the perspiration and the tears. Sherlock hadn't even realized he was crying, and now he can feel the tightness in his throat as a sob wells inside.
"Was it the same dream?" John asks gently.
Sherlock's heart hammers in his chest, the tears once again brimming, then spilling. "Fire," he whispers, and then the sob breaks free. It's a wretched sound, bubbling up from somewhere deep and dark inside him.
John sets aside the cloth and cups his lover's face in his hands."Sherlock. Are you awake now? All the way?"
Sherlock squeezes his eyes tightly shut, as if that could somehow block out the image in his mind's eye.
"Sherlock. I'm fine, I'm not burned. My hands aren't burned, my fingers are all still attached. I'm not even hot; I'm actually a bit on the chilly side. Sherlock? Can you see me?"
But Sherlock is crying too hard to see anything, and John simply wraps his arm around his beloved and then scoots back onto the mattress, taking Sherlock with him. Despite the chill of the bedroom, John unbuttons his pajama top. He knows that Sherlock will put his head over John's heart. He wants to feel John's flesh against his ear. To hear every beat of John's steady, calm heart.
As soon as Sherlock lays his head against John's breast, his long, violinist's fingers curl around a handful of John's pajamas; and he cries in long, soul-destroying sobs. John can feel the tears and the drips of Sherlock's runny nose against his skin, but he doesn't move and he doesn't mind. His nightmares, too, are filled with blood and smoke and fire.
"Just a dream," he murmurs, slipping gentle kisses against the messy black curls. "I'm here. You're here. It's all right. Just let it fade away, Sherlock. It's not real. Just let it fade."
Sherlock tries hard to do exactly that. He sniffles hard and presses his ear tighter against John's chest. He can't listen and sob at the same time, so his sobs die away as he listens intently. There it is, the gentle and steady thud. Its cadence is a bit too fast- Sherlock knows he scared John half to death when he woke him out of a sound sleep-but it's strong. It's steady. John is always steady.
At John's encouragement, he takes a long, slow, deep breath and holds it, then struggles to exhale just as slowly. The breathing exercise works, and after a few moments he becomes aware of John's fingers caressing his hair, of the murmured assurances uttered in John's gentle tenor voice. He feels sticky and too hot and he desperately needs a tissue, but he can't move. He swallows hard and his eyes slip closed. This time, he doesn't see the fire, and gratefully he slips into a dreamless sleep.