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It's late at night.
3:47 am, to be exact, according to the glowing green numbers staring John in the face.
Dreams of gunshots and bombs don’t plague John often, anymore. Ever since he moved in with Sherlock and Mariana– ever since they got close, ever since he started getting comfortable. His thoughts are usually occupied by those two, and Archie, and so he dreams of keyboards clacking, and deep laughter, and vague fantasy movies.
That doesn’t mean they’re completely gone, though.
And recently, he’s been saddled with more nightmare fuel.
The one that’s scrambled his head so badly found him back in that hotel, bulletproof vest tight around him, cushioning a bullet–
But the bullet never comes.
And he looks next to him, and–
His memory has blocked the next part off. He has the vague memory of red, everywhere, and then tears, and then screaming, and then glass.
He wakes up, shirt clinging to him, wet with sweat.
He can infer what’s happened.
He tries not to.
He tries to focus his mind on the feeling of the blanket clutched in his tight grip, but he still feels dizzy, unsteady, his feet barely feel like they’re touching the floor.
The green glow of the clock on his nightstand is freaking him out. He pushes the blanket off of him and slowly gets out of bed, padding into the kitchen as quietly and quickly as he can.
He doesn’t want to wake Sherlock up. It’s one of those rare nights where he’s finally succumbed to sleep, letting its soft, welcoming arms envelop him in its embrace, and John would feel awful for pulling him out of it.
He considers making himself a cuppa, but the whistle of the tea kettle would wake Sherlock up, probably.
He’s a light sleeper.
He settles for a glass of water, downing it in a few gulps.
He goes downstairs, the steps creaking softly in a way that makes him go snail-slow, not for fear of waking anyone up, but because it’s unsettling in the quiet of the flat.
His head is still spinning, so the slow pace is probably for the better, anyways. If he’d bounded down like he usually does he probably would’ve fallen down.
Mariana has stickers on her laptop. They’re still glowing when he’s downstairs.
She must’ve gone to bed just now, John thinks. And then, wow, I’m picking up Sherlock deductions!
But he can’t interrupt her if she was just getting to sleep. If she was awake until now, she must be tired as all hell.
He ought to leave her alone.
Nothing for it, then. He’ll just go back to bed.
He can’t call his mum. Well, he doesn’t want to. She’ll just brush him off, probably, or more likely just not pick up the call.
He doesn’t want to go back to bed. What else is there to do but go back to bed?
Well.
The door is right there.
He could always just… go for a walk.
A walk. To clear his head.
It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?
He slips his feet into worn, blue flip flops.
He picks the key off the table next to the door, unlocking the door and shutting it carefully, locking it.
The sky is black, except for the faint glow of the moon and a couple stars scattered here and there.
The air is surprisingly fresh, and John breathes in, grounding himself. Walking a few steps. Breathing in. Taking a few more. Breathing in again.
It’s odd, seeing most of the shops closed down. Like he’s not supposed to be out here.
Well, he’s not.
He ought to be in bed.
But he’s not.
Because his brain is fucked up.
His feet are on autopilot.
Right. Left. Straight. Right. Right. Cross. Left.
His brain is so fucked up. Sherlock goes through the same shit he does and yet he doesn’t have these stupid dreams.
Something must be inherently wrong with him, to keep having these dreams weeks and months and years after they actually happen.
God, what he wouldn’t give to just lose a bit of his memory, to black out for a bit.
Maybe he ought to go to the Volunteer.
He looks up, intent on changing direction, and, like an idiot, only then notices the bright yellow car coming towards him, not slowing down, and–
And he’s being catapulted into the air.
It’s an odd feeling, being in the air. Is this what birds feel like when they’re flying?
It’s a quick thing, being hit by a car. You get hit, you’re in the air, you’re–
Flung into a pole, apparently.
“Holy shit! ” someone yells, probably the driver, John thinks. “Are you alright? Christ, I’m so sorry!”
The person runs up to John. They’re quite tall, with cropped hair. They’re dressed completely in yellow– just like their car.
“Is yellow your favorite color?” John quips, trying to sit up. The person in front of him lets out a nervous giggle.
“It’s blue, actually,” they quip back, and then, “No, yeah, it is yellow.”
The two of them grin at each other. And then they seem to snap back to reality.
“No, seriously, are you okay? Do I need to take you to A&E?” they ask. “God, I am so sorry, I didn’t even see you, it’s so dark tonight–”
“You know, I’m probably fine–”
“I’m taking you.”
—
Mariana gets a call at 4:13 in the morning. She’s asleep.
—
Mariana gets another call at 7:30 in the morning. This time, she’s awake.
“Hello! This is Mariana Ametxazurra from Sherlock & Co. speaking, how may I help you?”
“Hello, am I speaking to John Watson’s primary contact?”
“Err, yes?” She tilts her head. She’s still a bit sleepy, to be honest.
“Great. He’s in A&E, and he’s got to be picked up. He’s sustained a few injuries.”
“Sorry, he’s in A&E?? ” Mariana says, fully alert.
“Yes, he got into an accident last night.”
“ What??? Sorry, I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
They talk a bit more, Mariana putting on her shoes and starting the car.
The receptionist hangs up, and Mariana stops at a red light.
What the hell??
—
“Hi, Mari!” John says, a grin on his face, when Mariana walks in, out of breath and worried out of her mind.
“How the hell did you get hit by a car, you moron?!” she yells.
“Didn’t do it on purpose, did I?” he mutters, rolling his eyes.
The person next to him winces. They’re in mostly yellow clothing.
“Who’s this?” she asks. “Why were they here before I was?”
“This is Nat,” John says. “They hit me with their car!”
Mariana has got to be dreaming. This is all a bad dream. A very bad, very stupid dream.
“I didn’t– I didn’t mean to, I didn’t see him, I can– like– pay you, or something,” they stammer.
“No, that’s fine,” John says, waving them off, and Mariana swears she does something akin to a full body eye twitch.
“What the hell happened? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, the doctors said I just sprained my ankle. Doesn’t really feel that bad, though.”
Yeah, no, this is definitely a dream.
“He’s really lucky,” Nat says. “I thought he would’ve gotten a concussion, at least.”
“We’re going home.” Mariana sighs, fingers pressed to the bridge of her nose. “John, you are not to go out of the house for the next two weeks.”
“ Two weeks?!” he exclaims, indignantly. “I have a podcast to run, you know!”
“And I can record. You’re in a cast and crutches, for fuck’s sake,”
“Cruel and unusual punishment, I should think.”
“Oh, so I should just let you run around after criminals with a cast on your leg? What if this was Sherlock?”
“...yeah, alright.”