Jolting upright in bed, John realised what had bothered him about the body.
It reminded him of Jennifer Wilkens. The hair, the way the body was positioned, her jewellery.
Now that John thought about it, her coat was the same, except for the colour, and so was her shoes.
Maybe he was reading to much into this, besides, he could ask Sherlock in the morning...
With that thought, John drifted off to sleep.
Gun shots startled John. He looked around and found himself in the army infirmary. A yell of pain, and seconds later a body was wheeled in. Rushing over, John's heart stopped, his mind screaming 'NO!'
Sherlock was lying on the stretcher, pale and sweating, blood dripping off of him.
Frantically trying to find the wound, John was aware of Sherlock slipping away from him. "Stay with me, Sherlock!" John said desperately.
Sherlock's eyes flickered open and he smiled weakly at John, hand raising. John immediately caught it, his mind denying the acceptance in Sherlock's eyes.
"John," he rasped, and it sounded like 'goodbye'.
Then Sherlock's eyes closed and John howled in pain. He was helpless, he could only watch as Sherlock's chest heaved as he tried to stay longer, to live. Tears dripped down both their cheeks, and John sank to his knees as Sherlock's hand gave a feeble squeeze before it became lifeless. Sherlock's chest stopped heaving as the eerie stillness of death overtook him.
Sherlock's body was ripped away from John, was carelessly chucked on a pile of other dead bodies, no one caring.
Breath heaving in his chest, John was forced to watch, frozen in place, and the body crumpled to the ground and was trodden on and wheeled over.
With a wrench and a loud gasp, John's chest heaved as his eyes desperately flicked around, searching for Sherlock.
Morning light streamed into the room, and John saw that it was already 9am. Stuff work, he thought.
He needed a day off; a day with Sherlock.
Sighing heavily, he got up and walked into the bathroom, splashing water over his face and scrubbing it furiously with his towel.
Taking deep breaths, he slowly walked down the stairs, anxious to see Sherlock. He needed to see Sherlock.
A quiet sigh of relief escaped him when he found Sherlock lying on the couch in his 'thinking pose'.
Feeling slightly better, yet not able to fully shake off the dream just yet, John went into the kitchen and started making them both some tea, while sending a text to the receptionist to say he wouldn't be in today.
Setting Sherlock's cup on the table, John sat in his arm chair and just watched Sherlock breathe, reassuring himself that he was still alive.
After a while, Sherlock twitched slightly, and his eyes opened. John watched, sipping his tea.
Sherlock looked over at him and frowned slightly, then sighed, sat up and picked up his own tea, and watched John watching him.
Studying his face carefully, Sherlock frowned, knowing that something was wrong but not knowing exactly what was wrong.
When they went to Greg's office so that Sherlock could tell him how the woman had died, John stuck closer to Sherlock than normal, constantly touching him.
He just couldn't shake off the lingering nightmare, the horror of Sherlock dying in front of him and John being helpless to stop it.
Shuddering slightly, John pressed his leg against Sherlock's on the couch they were sitting on in Greg's office.
Sherlock glanced at him, then carried on reading the report. Remembering his misgivings from the night before, John said hesitantly, no sure if he was right, "does... does she remind you of another case?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped to him, demanding he explain, his full attention focus on John. "Well... I was thinking, last night, that she reminded me of the Pink Lady..."
Sherlock's gaze sharpened, and his eyes flew back to the paper in his hands, scanning furiously over the words and the picture.
Gazing at Sherlock, John froze when he saw the tiny, almost invisible, red dot over his heart. Glancing around, John saw the window and the sniper.
The image of Sherlock, lying dead before him flashed through his head.
The sniper grinned evilly at John, and his finger bent on the trigger.
John had half a second to react.
Pushing Sherlock out of the way, John took the bullet for him. Well, he had assumed it would be a bullet.
When he hit the floor, John turned and saw a tranquilliser sticking out of his arm.Without wasting another second, John quickly whipped out his gun and a grim thought ran through his mind. 'An arm for an arm...'
Aiming at the sniper's arm, he fired, a sense of grim satisfaction going through him when he saw the sniper fall.
Quickly tugging the dart out of his arm and secretly rolling it deep under the couch, John couldn't help but feel relieved that he had gotten rid of the sniper and that Sherlock hadn't gotten hit.
Quickly running his hands over Sherlock as he turned to him, John let out a relieved sigh when he found no wounds at all on Sherlock.
Glancing at Greg, who was looking extremely shocked, John sent Mycroft a short text telling him to come and join them at Greg's office.
Gripping Sherlock's shoulders gently, John pulled him upright into a sitting position. That seemed to snap him out of it and he stared at John's arm in horror.
"I'm alright, he must have missed me," John lied, already feeling the effects of the tranquilliser surging through his veins.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and, without another word, hauled John to his feet after he himself stood, and pushed his through the office door.
John half turned and saw Sherlock's blank expression, making John wince slightly as that usually meant something bad.
Walking in silence slightly behind Sherlock, John was steadily feeling sleepy, and knew that they had to get home, fast, before he fell asleep. But, he was also knew that speaking to Sherlock right now would not be worth it.
After they had they building, Sherlock had grabbed John's hand in a tight grip and hadn't let go as he pulled John after him.
Any attempts to get out of his tight grip resulted in an even tighter grip until John eventually gave up and Sherlock loosened his hold slightly.
Wave after wave of sleepiness hit John, and he struggled to stay awake and walk at Sherlock's quick pace across London. Fighting off yawns, John hoped they would get home soon.
After another minute, black started crowding in on John's vision. His pace slowed dramatically and his head flopped forward without his consent as his body sagged.
Spinning around, Sherlock's angry mask dropped and surprise and understanding flashed through his eyes as he caught John, releasing his hand. Wrapping an arm around Sherlock's neck to make it easier to carry him, John was vaguely away of Sherlock hailing a taxi and gently being put in it as Sherlock slid in alongside him before he gave in and blackness overtook him, dragging him into the realm of sleep.
When John slowly opened his eyes and stretched, he found that his bed was softer and comfier than usual. Looking down, he realised with a start he was lying on his pillow. Panicking, John looked around his room; everything seemed so big now.
"Sherlock?" John yelled, panic seeping into his tone but he was glad his voice wasn't squeaky like an elf.
He heard the pounding of footsteps, then Sherlock opened the door and quickly strode over to John, kneeling beside the bed so that they were level.
"Yes, John?" Sherlock murmured, eyes immediately scanning John for any sign of harm.
"What happened to me? I'm the size of your middle finger!" John yelled, panic and anger competing to be the dominate emotion.
A brief flash of emotion flashed through Sherlock's eyes, too quick for John to recognise. "I don't know," he finally said, "you passed out when we were walking home and I had to drag you into a cab!"
John watched as Sherlock's eyes closed then opened again, carefully blank. John stood shakily on his tiny legs and walked over to Sherlock, the pillow made him feel like he was walking on a cloud.
Shaking away the silly thought, John reached out and placed his hands on Sherlock's cheek. "The sniper, at the office. He shot me with a tranquilliser. He was aiming for you, but, I have no idea what he put in the dart," John explained, feeling slightly guilty about not telling Sherlock before.
Sherlock's eyes widened and then softened, his breath coming out in a small sigh.
John's stomach rumbled loudly, and Sherlock let out a low chuckle of amusement. "Let's get you something to eat, shall we?" Sherlock said, holding out his hand for John to step onto.
Glaring at the hand for a second, hating being smaller than he usually was, John sighed in defeat and stepped onto Sherlock's surprisingly soft hand.
Lifting him up easily, Sherlock placed John on his shoulder.
Full and sleepy, John crawled onto Sherlock's hand and curled into a ball, yawning and his eyes drooping.
Sherlock gave a chuckle and gently put him in the inside pocket of his coat.
Curling into the warm fabric, John loved the warmth emitting from Sherlock's skin.
"Where's John?" Greg's curious voice roused John from his nap.
"He's sleeping," Sherlock said curtly, and it felt like he sat down, slowly as to not disturb John.
Wiggling around, John stood, stretched and climbed out of the pocket and up Sherlock's sleeve.
Sherlock gave an amused sigh. "Well, he was."
Popping his head out of the sleeve, John climbed onto Sherlock's palm then up the outside of the sleeve.
After his nap, John felt like he was bursting with energy. Pausing at Sherlock's shoulder, John crouched, then leapt and landed into Sherlock's hair.
Sherlock huffed. "Really, John? My hair?" he asked, sounding irritated.
Climbing through the soft, thick black curls, John leant over his forehead and pouted, giving his best puppy eyes.
Sherlock stared at him for a second before giving in with a sigh.
Lying down in Sherlock's soft hair, John turned his attention to Greg, who was staring in disbelief at the tiny John.
"H-how?" he stuttered, leaning back in his chair, looking rather pale.
"The sniper. A tranquilliser with some unknown fluid," Sherlock said dismissively, waving his hand and settling more comfortably against the back of the couch.
Greg just stared at him for a second, then blinked rapidly and huffed out a breath, muttering, "not my division."
"Anyway," Sherlock said, sounding irritated, "we aren't hear for that. I wanted to go over the files that we didn't get time to yesterday."
"Er, right, OK," Greg said awkwardly, bending over and rummaging through his draws and taking out a pile of papers.
Bored. Bored. Bored, bored, bored.
John yawned. Sherlock and Greg had been going over files for an hour and a half. John was completely bored.
Standing, John slid down the back of Sherlock's hair and onto his coat collar.
Jumping onto the back of the couch, John wondered how he was going to do this without Sherlock noticing.
Shrugging, John slowly lowered himself down the back of the couch. Landing with a muted thump, John waited his eyes to adjust to the dark light.
Giving up, John cautiously walked around, feeling before stepped. Bumping his leg into something sharp, John muttered a string of curses.
"John?" Sherlock called, and John heard him shifting around on the couch.
John imagined Sherlock patting himself to see where John was.
Reaching out with his hands, John grasped the tip of the point and slowly limped out from under the couch with the dart.
"Down here, Sher!" John called, looking down and grimaced at the blood soaking his pants.
"What were you doing down there?" Sherlock demanded, crouching down and glaring at John, papers forgotten.
"Look!" John said impatiently, gesturing to the dart.
Turning his glare away from John, Sherlock's eyes sparkled with interest as he saw the dart.
"There's still some in there!" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly, grinning and picking up the dart.
He carefully deposited it into a bag and put it into his pants pocket. Then he gently picked up John and stood.
"I'll text you tomorrow and tell you what I think. John and I are going home now, before John gets himself into any more trouble," Sherlock said, a light teasing tone in his voice as he glanced down fondly at John.
Sticking out his tongue, John crossed his arms and glared at Sherlock's fingers.
Chuckling as Greg said goodbye, Sherlock strode out of the office and tucked John behind his scarf, where he would be safe and warm, protected from London's cold winds.