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The sheets were too hot, but John seems to do nothing but tangle himself more as he tossed in his sleep. the night seemed to surround him with the dreams that danced in his mind.
None of it made sense. It was all jumbled into abstract colours and scenes.
Finally, something started to make sense when the colours combined to make a vivid scene.
John was walking—no, running. It was like old times with Sherlock. His lungs aching for air but still running full speed feeling the weight lift from him and the endorphin course through his veins before he ended in a alley.
He was by himself.
He was alone.
He was cold, though his body temperature was hot.
He turned to check around and turned back to feel himself jump at a darkened figure ahead of him.
Cautiously, John approached.
He didn’t know why he did, but this was a strange dream anyhow. He got closer and closer realizing that the figure was wearing Sherlock’s coat.
But was it Sherlock?
He reached out.
It was not
The figure turned to show the twisted grin of Jim Moriarty making John jolt out of his sheets with a sharp intake of breath.
He didn’t know which was worse: The hope of seeing Sherlock being torn away from him, or actually seeing the face of The Criminal in who still tainted his dreams.
He caught his breath and lay back down with a great exhale telling himself it was only a dream. It was only a dream and both Sherlock and Jim had died and he had nothing to worry about; save for his own sanity before slipping into yet another sweat-soaked dream.