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Summary
John was no stranger to PTSD induced hallucinations, but the scene illuminated by Sherlock’s bedside lamp was more terrible than anything he’d seen in the grip of a night terror. Glistening gray and purple tendrils bound Sherlock’s wrists to the headboard. Another was forcing itself down the length of Sherlock’s arched throat and was probably what had stifled his scream. John’s gun was drawn before he’d even had a chance to think.