Sherlock- Fever Dreams JWW

Warning- contains post- Reichenbach angst/spoilers

A John Watson's War fic


John was sick.

Not sniffles sick. Not even hacking cough or runny nose or 'I lost my voice' sick. He was sick. The kind of sick that wracks your body hot then cold, that leaves you shivering in a corner and simultaneously fearing but longing for sleep.

And to make it worse, he was alone. In a shady motel. On the floor, too weak to move to the bed or the ripped chair in the corner.

His hand twitched towards his phone on the table, and after what was surely way too much effort, he managed to slide it off. It hit the carpeted floor with a thud and he let it sit there for a moment as he stared at it, deciding who to call. He forced his clammy fingers to close around it and punch in a number.

"Hello, dearie!" cried the phone after two rings. It laid beside his face because he wasn't certain he could keep it held to his ear for long enough. "It's been ages since you last phoned, how are you holding up? The flat's too quiet witho-"

"Mrs… Hudson…" He managed, trying to cut her off.

There was a concerned pause on the other side, only lasting a moment. "Oh, you sound simply dreadful! What's happened?"

"S.. sick." He coughed, the effort burning his raw throat. "C'n I.. come 'round…?"

"Oh, you poor thing! Tell me where you are, I'll come by and pick you up. You haven't been taking care of yourself properly; look what you've done! I demand house-rest until I can verify that you're in tip-top condition once more, is that clear young man?"

He nodded, his half-delirious mind not fully registering that she wouldn't be able to see him over the phone, and told her where he was, including the room number. He half-listened to her ramblings and scoldings for a while, and at some point they stopped but he didn't really know when and kept making affirmative notes into the phone beside his face. And then suddenly there were people in his room. They murmured a few things about John that he couldn't focus on and moved towards him, to where he laid on the floor.

A soft, feminine old-lady arm wrapped under one of John's armpits. Another arm, belonging to someone only marginally taller than the sick soldier and reasonably strong, wrapped under the other. John registered Lestrade's silver hair. Mrs. Hudson must have called him. Bless her.

The two half-walked-half-dragged John out the door.

"He looks like a ruddy ghost," Lestrade commented to John's former landlady.

"Oh, positively dreadful. White as a sheet, and look at how thin he's gotten! I told you to keep an eye out for him, didn't I?"

"Not my fault if he won't check in. Barely heard from 'im lately. I'm glad you called, at least I get to see he's still alive, albeit barely."

"Don't be like that! He can still hear you, you know!" Mrs. Hudson childed. Suddenly John was sitting down on a bench in front of the hotel. The sunlight hurt. Lestrade had vanished, and he only later understood that it was to go and fetch his things from the room. When he returned he hailed a cab for the three of them and ordered it to Baker street.

John wasn't sure how long it had been since that. Time wasn't working right. He'd opened his eyes and seen the black front door with gold numbers. Closed his eyes. Opened them. He was on the couch. It was cold. He was shivering. Closed his eyes.

Opened them.

A mug of tea was on the table with a purple bendy straw in it, peeking over the rim like a plastic waterbird. He was too tired to reach for it. His lips were dry and cracked, and it was no longer too cold but too hot. Except for his forehead. His forehead was so cold so that it stung with an icy pain. He shifted, trying to relieve the pain. Tried to stand. A soft hand pushed him down.

"No, no, it's alright, dear. Just lay there, I'm here, it's all alright now," She tended to him like a concerned parent, childing the sick man. He didn't even protest. He was too weak, too tired, too hot but cold but both and neither to have any sense of pride left in him. Mrs. Hudson took the mug of tea and held the straw to his lips. He drank it in tiny sips. It was too warm for his body, but it was sustenance. He downed what seemed like an ocean of tea, though when he could drink no more and Mrs. Hudson took the mug away, he'd barely lowered the level in the cup by three inches.

She moved something on his head before removing it, and the stinging cold was gone from his head. Mrs. Hudson shifted the bag of ice-cubes in her hands, judging if enough were melted to require a refill. John was suddenly too hot. The woman must have noticed the change as she quickly replaced the pack. His head was too cold. His body was too hot. He didn't want to hurt anymore.

He closed his eyes.

He dreamt.

He was a dog. This wasn't strange to him, in fact it wasn't all that bad, the being a dog part. Sherlock was there. He was dressed like a Jester, looking ridiculous with his lanky limbs sticking out of poofy, multicolored clothing and one of those ridiculous hats with the bells on the ends. He didn't seem to like the hat, but it was sewn into his hair somehow and he couldn't remove it.

They were in London, somehow. The entire city fit in one room and they were in it, and the roof was so high that it just kept going up, and eventually receded into blackness above. Like a night sky with no stars. Except one. Sherlock pointed at it, called it the Van-Buren Supernova. John barked.

At the head of the room was a gigantic throne. The king was a spider. It was wearing a suit and tie.

Thick ropes of sticky web were around John's legs. They pulled him here and there, dragging him, forcing him places he didn't want to go, tightening painfully if he tried to resist them. They were around Sherlock, too. They forced him to dance. They pulled the jester, making him dance right up to the edge of a building. They tightened on John, sitting him at the bottom and forcing him to look up as the lines tightened on his friend and he danced right off the ledge.

He opened his eyes.

He was too hot. The ice was gone and there was a blanket on him. He tried to kick it off but was too weak to succeed. His clothes stuck to his clammy skin, drenched from sweat.

There was a plate of saltines with peanut butter on the table. And a glass of water with another bendy straw- green this time. He liked green. One hand reached for it limply, and he realized he'd never have the strength to lift the glass without spilling it all over the floor. He instead swung one arm over the edge of the sofa, braced it on the ground by locking his elbow, and lifted himself to the straw. It was an awkward position but it managed, and he sucked down the cool liquid as much as his uneasy stomach would allow. It cooled him off slightly, but the blanket was still smothering him. He couldn't get his shoulders back onto the couch so he hung there weakly, half-off the seat and sideways. Blood was rushing to his head. This was uncomfortable. Unconsciousness tugged at his mind and his eyelids fluttered, threatening to close again. He let them.

Someone grabbed his arm firmly, and another hand snaked under his armpit and he was on the sofa again. The blanket was tugged at, giving his overheated body closer access to the cooler air.

"'nks," he mumbled, barely conscious.

The tugging stopped suddenly, as if in surprise. There was a small sound, a kind of 'you're welcome' but not in words, a kind of gruff, baritone 'hm.'

John was unconscious before he could make sense of it.

He dreamt. A man with dark, slicked back hair stared at him with dead, cold eyes. A sanguine, crimson lily bloomed from the back of his head. The dead man opened his mouth and another flower emerged, blooming to cover his face. Vines and roots spread from the orifice to entwine the man, and he spread his arms and fell, and suddenly he was a very different man, a man with curly hair and a black coat like wings billowing and the flowers were ripped apart by the wind- their petals flying off to float behind the plummeting man.

John opened his eyes.

Now he was cold. He had enough strength to pull the blanket onto him from where it was folded over the back of the couch. John shivered beneath it. His stomach rolled painfully and he thought he might vomit, but there was nothing in his stomach to expel. Instead he retched painfully, curling into a fetal position beneath the blanket and moaning.

His eyes caught a flicker of movement into the kitchen. A black flicker of fabric. Coattails.

"S…Sher-" He tried to make some sort of call to his flatmate. He had to be in the other room. Why wouldn't he be? The sociopath didn't respond. Bastard. He could have at least called Mrs. Hudson for him. John shivered and curled further into himself.

The tiny part of his brain that wasn't addled by sickness told him that Sherlock was dead. He hadn't seen anything.

He closed his eyes.

This time it was Afghanistan. The soldier re-lived some of his worst memories of the war in vivid detail. He watched the heads of young boys-new recruits with hopes and dreams and families- turn into red clouds of mist. He watched the jeep ahead of him explode in a roadside bomb. He felt his world tumble as his own jeep was thrown…

He opened his eyes. He was on the floor. The blanket tangled around his feet tightly and he couldn't free himself from the cocoon. Even his arms were stuck. Trapped between the coffee table and the couch, he had no room to roll over, and was stuck, face down, on the floor.

The soldier pressed his forehead into the floorboards, savoring the coolness against his burning scalp. "'Elp…" He called, his voice pitiful. It would barely carry to the stairs. He tried again. "Please… M's Huds'n…"

Whoever grabbed his shoulders, it wasn't Mrs. Hudson. The grip was too strong, the grunt from the exertion of lifting the mummied medic was too deep. Someone sat him on the couch, and John's head bobbed as limply as a rag doll as he was guided. He looked up into a pair of familiar, blue-grey eyes, eyes that looked back into his, studying his eyes, his gaze, checking for signs of concussion. The rest of the angular face came into view, framed by black curls.

John Watson smiled weakly before slipping back into unconsciousness.

He opened his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson was there. He asked her where Sherlock was. She went quiet and forced him to down half a mug of tea.

He closed his eyes.

Sherlock was there. He flitted back and fourth, casting occasional worried glances at his flatmate.

He opened his eyes.

Lestrade dropped by. Said he'd forgotten that Watson's phone was in his pocket and was there returning it. John weakly tried joking about the inevitable twenty texts Sherlock must've sent while Lestrade had the mobile on him. The inspector went white as a sheet and Mrs. Hudson whispered something in his ear.

He closed his eyes.

Sherlock stepped off into nothingness.

Open.

Sherlock was playing the violin.

Close.

It was raining. The rainwater kept rising and rising, lapping at John's legs, his waist, his chest… suddenly he was in a swimming pool and sinking, and he couldn't swim up because then the red lights on the surface would shoot him and ignite the bombs and the coat was wet and so heavy and he couldn't breathe… He sucked in a lungful of water.

Open.

He was alone. He called for Sherlock. He called for Mrs. Hudson. Neither came.

Close.

Irene Adler's safe. In the wall behind the mirror, the safe holding the pictures. Sherlock didn't know the code. An American held a gun against John's head. Cold metal pressed into his scalp through his hair. Sherlock didn't know. There was a bang.

Open.

Sherlock had made him tea. He could tell. Mrs. Hudson always forgot that he didn't take sugar and would put a lump in before remembering. She'd always try to fish it out before it dissolved but it always left some sweetness behind. There was no sweetness in the tea. Watson found himself strong enough (just barely) to lift the cup to his lips. He drank the whole thing. It sat, warm, in his stomach. He'd not realized he'd been shivering until he finished the drink. He replaced the mug on the table.

Close.

Mrs. Hudson was crying. He heard her. He cracked his eyes to look at her.

"'s wrong?" He asked. The old woman jumped, clutching a hand to her heart. She held a used kerchief in her soft fingers, pressing it to her blouse.

She smiled sadly at the sick man. "It's just…" She sniffled. "You keep calling for him. In your sleep. It's un-nerving, is all. Heart-wrenching, really, you poor thing…"

"Calling f'r Sherlock?" John furrowed his brow. "Why's that wrong?"

Mrs. Hudson crossed the room, bending down to bring her face near to John's level. "Sherlock's gone, dear. You know that." She tilted her head, looking at John like a child.

"No," He protested. "He made tea."

Mrs. Hudson had a sad little smile at that. "Fever dreams, you poor thing… Try to get some more rest, there's plenty of biscuits and tea here for you if you're hungry. I have to go out, sorry. I'll try'n drop in in a bit, alright?"

He watched her leave, heard the door close. Watson frowned. Sherlock was dead. He'd saw him fall. A sharp pain wracked him at that memory. No. Not memory. Dream?

Sherlock was alive. He'd made tea. He'd dragged him back on the couch. Checked him for a concussion. That seemed right. Yes. All the horrid things were dreams. Sherlock, alive, was a good thing. Therefore, not a dream.

He must be dreaming now.

He wanted to wake up.

The army doctor pondered this. He knew how to wake himself. Usually by concentrating he could force himself awake, but only when something terrible was about to happen. Like a mate of his dying in Afghanistan or Sherlock stepping off a building (that was a re-occurring one, he'd have to tell Sherlock when he woke up about it). He usually woke up right before the bullet hit or the man hit the ground. However, nothing dangerous or horrible was occurring at the moment. It was depressing, yes, but kind of a post-trauma dream. Dull but sad all at once. Waiting for something to happen would doubtless take a while. He wanted to wake up now.

There was another way to wake up.

John rose himself from the couch. His body was heavy and he stumbled his first steps, his legs weak and tingling from their period of disuse. The man pulled himself from one piece of furniture to another until he got to the desk. He pulled open one of the drawers and removed one of the contents. Lightheaded from standing, he dragged his way back to the couch.

The medic plopped down on the soft sofa, further pillowed by the disheveled blanket strewn across it like some messy creature's nest. He imagined he'd wake up on one just like it. Except real.

The handgun was heavy in his weak hands. He wondered if he could just shoot himself in the leg and wake up that way. Though that might not work, a shot to the leg wouldn't kill him and he'd doubtless have to suffer a large amount of dream-pain until he finally bled out. No, he had to do it in one shot.

He pressed the barrel under his chin, in the fleshy part behind his jawbone. One shot. That's all that was needed. He was going to wake up.

He closed his eyes.

"Nope."

The gun was pulled from his weak fingers and Watson opened his eyes. His flatmate was stalking back to the desk, putting the handgun back in the proper drawer.

"You," The dark man said firmly, "Are not going out like that. Really, John? Suicide? Not to mention the mess you'd make for Mrs. Hudson…"

John blinked at him blankly. "So I'm awake, then?" He asked.

Sherlock stopped, turning to look at John. His eyebrows tilted down into his deducing face as he examined the sick, disoriented man.

"No," He said firmly in that way he had of starting with one point and then building speed. "You're asleep. This is a dream."

John pursed his lips. "No it's not."

"Yes it is. I'm dead. You know that. You're obviously dreaming."

"No, I'm not." John said firmly. "You're alive. Alive means awake, that's how it works. When I'm asleep you're dead, when I wake up you're alive."

"More dreams. I'm not here." Sherlock insisted. "Close your eyes, you might wake up if you go to sleep in a dream."

"If I'm asleep, why wouldn't you let me pull the trigger?" John narrowed his eyes.

"Subliminal desires. You're depressed, of course suicide has crossed your mind. You dream about that. But you know that's not what I would've wanted, so you invent a dream version of me to stop you from committing the act."

The medic looked at Sherlock doubtfully. "My subconscious did not just make that up."

"No. it's just registering that I said something smart and your imagination fills in the blanks. Now lay down before you hurt yourself further." Sherlock demanded.

"Damn, even in my dreams you're annoying," John laid down obediently, tugging at the blanket to get it over his legs. His head was throbbing from getting up and his brain was foggy.

There was a laugh from Sherlock. He wandered out of sight and John's pulse quickened.

"Wait-" He called, extending one arm. The taller man paused and returned to peer through the opening to the kitchen at the sick medic. "Don't go. If I'm dreaming I want to make the most of it, it's a good dream."

Sherlock looked at John with a kind of sad, compassionate look, but only for a moment. Then he swept to the center of the room, nabbed a chair, spun it around and sat on it, facing John with steepled fingers. "Well?"

"Just… I don't know. Talk for a while. I haven't heard you talk in ages. I miss it." John hugged the blanket around himself.

Sherlock leaned back, craning his neck back in a thinking stretch. Then he started talking. He talked about cases they'd done together and cases before John had shown up. He talked about deductions about Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Nothing John hadn't heard before, but that was alright. He talked about John's most recent therapy sessions, and when the soldier questioned how he knew this he simply shrugged. "It's in your head, I'm in your head, therefore it's in my head."

After a while John spoke. "I've never had a dream try to convince me I was dreaming before. That can't be normal."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh, my dear Watson, when have I ever been normal?"

And then he kept talking and John closed his eyes. Unconsciousness tugged at his mind, pulling in and out like a wave. He didn't quite want to submit, didn't quite want to leave Sherlock, but it was so warm, so welcoming…

His breathing slowed and he realized he couldn't hear Sherlock anymore. And then he could, quietly, softly, right in his ear.

"I will return for you," Promised the deep voice. "Not now, not yet. But someday. Don't lose hope, my dear, brave John."

He dreamt.

Sherlock had wings. Not white angel wings, but black ones, dark as night. They were magnificent. They fluttered in the wind on the rooftop. He could see them, even from where he was on the ground, so far away.

The masses of feather and hollow bones extended as the man took one graceful step forward, spreading his arms. John should have been worried, crying, screaming or even numb. But he wasn't. He was warm. He watched the wings be pulled back by the rushing winds as Sherlock fell down and down

At the last moment they shot out.

And there were two Sherlocks. One version, lacking the feathered appendages, tore away from his doppelganger and smashed into the ground with a sickening sound that was too far away to quite make out. The other version tore upwards, wings and all, propelling up and up into the sky. John watched that version, keeping his eyes fixed on his winged friend until he became a black speck in a sea of blue.

He opened his eyes.

That was the end of his fever dreams. His fever had broken and his stomach settled, at least for the most part. He could finally keep down small portions of solid food without it coming right back up. His strength returned slowly.

He had no more dreams of Sherlock, good or bad. He hadn't seen any more signs of him. It was as Mrs. Hudson had said- fever dreams. He didn't bring them up to poor Mrs. Hudson.

He was pleasant enough for a while as he recovered. He mostly slept, and when he woke the landlady was there with a mug of tea and some form of sustenance. But as his strength returned and he spent more of his time awake and alone in the flat, he began to get distant. He talked less and less and had to remind himself not to snap at the kind old lady tending to him.

When he accidentally overturned a mug of tea with his jumping hand he knew he couldn't stay.

The medic thanked Mrs. Hudson for all that she'd done, and phoned Lestrade to thank him, too. Then he hailed a cab. The cabbie inquired where he was headed.

He told the man to take him to his therapist. He wanted to talk to her about fever dreams.