The Dreams of a Burnt Soul-(Johnlock)

The Dreams of a Burnt Soul

John sighed heavily in his sleep as he bit his lip. The dreams, they were coming again. He could smell him . He could sense him . He could hear his breathing. He could feel his presence. John didn't dare open his eyes. He knew, from the hundreds of other times these haunting dreams, that Sherlock would not be there when he wrenched his eyelids open. They were a weird type of dream. In the dream it was as if he was awake, yet when he opened his eyes to see him, to embrace him, it was then that would awaken.

These resplendent nightmares were a blessing and a curse for John. The first few dreams left him catatonic for days, not talking to anyone, not leaving his room, not eating. He'd lie in bed in a daze purposely, pretending to sleep. But pretending for whom he could not answer.

However, he soon learned that if he could both appreciate these moments with Sherlock and at the same time prepare for them to be ripped away, they might actually do him some good. Though some things are better in theory. The thought that Sherlock would have be able to come up with a better solution stung John's mind and he focused on the details of the dream.

This night's dream was more vivid then usual. He was suffocating in Sherlock and the memories that came with him. He could feel the coolness of his fingertips as they traced his hairline to his jaw. They were cold just like many times when he had come home from a case late at night. The fringe of his navy scarf tickled his bare arm. He inhaled quickly as he could smell the fog emanating from his coat.

This was getting too real for John. He struggled to open his eyes, to stop it from drowning him. But he couldn't do it. His own hope forced his eyes to stay closed, ironically, considering all the nights before they had fluttered open searching for someone who was not there. He felt his breathe on his cheeks and he blushed involuntarily. His breaths came in jagged as he choked them down. His heart raced as he could feel him coming closer and closer to him. Open your eyes! He shouted at himself, but his body betrayed and allowed the dream to continue.

John lay there; his loud heart beat practically shaking the walls of the solitary flat. His hand suddenly had chilled fingers interlocking with his own.
He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. This isn't real. He died. John tried to convince himself, though it was too real and he found himself gripping onto the fingers of his unattainable love.

Flesh. He could feel him. He could feel his strong digits and his thumb ran over the back of his knuckles. He suddenly felt the returned favor. His eyes were now squeezed shut; his body, heart and mind were determined to not even let the idea of ruining this to encounter. The feeling of soft cashmere fondled his neck before the crash. Before John could realize what was happening, it hit him. His lips. First on his forehead, then his cheek bone, a slight hesitation as he felt the warm breath on his nose, then his lips.

The connection was electric; it was everything John had always imagined, but better. It far out did any and all of his school-girl day dreams. It was soft and tender, affectionate everything Sherlock pretended he wasn't. He lips tasted like mint and a flavor he couldn't put a name too. It was a taste he was familiar with, yet the name escaped him. His heartbeat seemed to stop and start sporadically. John had no idea how long it had taken him to decide to kiss back. He did so gently, terrified that any sudden move would rip the seams of the dream. He felt a single tear escape and roll down his cheek. He ignored it and continued to feel the warmth of Sherlock's lips with his own. He dare not imagine Sherlock's face at the moment; dare not do anything. He just continued to move his lips with Sherlock's in a dance that seemed to be choreographed specifically for this moment. Soft pushes and pulls along with the mystery taste that John couldn't place. It was all so real. So so real. John ignored the third and forth tear just as well as the first. He tried his best, but as the fellow traitors rolled down his face he couldn't stop the thoughts from flooding his mind.

Maybe it is real this time

Maybe he figured out a way to survive.

John felt his love pull away, his lips lingering for a moment, his fingers tightening their grip on John's.

John felt the breath before he heard the words. John, I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Please.

The whispers echoed in the air as he felt Sherlock's grip loosen and his fingers slip away. John's arm wrenched out and caught them. He squeezed them tight. Sherlock truly was with him this time. Less than a second passed as he gathered the courage to open his eyes. John's mind raced as he imagined what Sherlock's expression would be. How would he have changed in the past year? John's eyes opened and waited impatiently for them to adjust. He smiled as he looked down at his hand, though it quickly faded.


He sat up and bent over. He grabbed the wastebasket near the bed and felt all of his fear, hope and disgust with himself spew out of his gut.  

He pushed the bucket aside and stared at Sherlock's "hand", the, now twisted, lilac bed sheets. He looked away from it, staring at the wallpaper. He cursed himself in his mind. Tears no longer escaped him. He struggled to keep it together, however. He wouldn't Sherlock see him like this, where ever he was. He shut his eye tight as the traitors began to build.

<em< No! </em>,  he thought. No. He put his hands on his knees to steady himself as he regained composure, or what he had been passing off as composure for the last year. He took in deep breaths, each time the hope that maybe he would just stop breathing pricked his mind.

how easy that would be. John, some how, closed his eyes tighter, willing for it to happen. How ever his breaths came just as they always had. He was a doctor. He knew what pills to take, which arteries to cut, which angle to point the gun, which gases to inhale. But as much as he wanted to, he couldn't. Not because he knew he could move on, or because he had a duty to his sister and Mrs. Hudson, but he couldn't get the idea that as soon as he would digest the pills, bleed out, pull the trigger or breathe his last breath, Sherlock would come walking through the door. A minute too late. Had he just wait longer. No he wouldn't do that. He would stick it out.

He's never coming back though. No he couldn't think like that. No, he could not. but the thought stung him again, and again, and again. How long could he survive these dreams? Feeling and hearing Sherlock, but then to wake up and have the images of his bloody corpse lay on the ground, as if it had happened just a second prior.
These thoughts truly were too much. John practically vomited again from trying to suppress his sobs. But he held it together. He would hold it together. For Sherlock, where ever he was.

Where ever he was.

That thought was what hurt John the most. He couldn't truly believe Sherlock had died. But he did. He saw him die. He saw him jump. And land.

If he did die, is there a place for him out there?

What do you mean if? He's dead.

But what if he's hiding out somewhere.

But he isn't.

"Sherlock?" The word escaped him. It leapt from his mouth, his soul calling out to its other half. The silence that filled the room was his breaking point. Not the dream; nor was it the disappearance of the mirage. Not his hand, nor his kiss.  But the silence. All the words left unspoken, "how cliché" was the phrase that ran through John's mind. But it was true nonetheless.

Heartbreakingly true.

The silence twisted from its melancholy mocking setting to a substance much more despondent. John fell to his knees beside the bed as the sobs rocked him side to side. His own broken heart trying to soothe itself.

His cries were savage and terrifying. His cries were the sound of a person's soul burning. He had given up. He had tried to control the burn at first, starting with a flare up at the fall, then he tried to put it out. Too bad he only dulled it to a hot ember, still burning, still just as much damage, but slower. A year had past, since then and he hadn't paid attention to it catching fire. Slowly more memories fed the fire, more thoughts added fuel. More dreams lit more and more matches.

A soul burning is a dangerous thing. Say the fire was out of control. The flames of hurt and grief burn the brightest, burn the longest. The soul burns greedily and misguided when hurt this terribly, looking for the source of its grief, to burn and destroy it. But what if there isn't a source to seek revenge, what if the source is long gone. Who's to blame then? Who's to be burned? The fire doesn't care. It wouldn't understand that it's misguided. It couldn't understand, it only understands what it feels, what it wants, revenge. It'll burn in all directions, searching for something that isn't there, destroying all in its path.

John's was only a few more leaflets of paper, a match or an ounce of fuel from this. He knew it. He could hear it, the fire roaring, the fire gaining momentum. He could feel it burning, charring the inside of his soul. He felt it. It burned but he didn't have the will to stop it, to even try.

He couldn't be strong any longer. He could. But he wouldn't.

His body futilely tried to save itself like it had done before, but it was no use. The tears spilled down his face. His lungs tried to suck in air to breathe to forget to start anew.
His lips trembled and he gasped. The fire roared.

"Sherlock," he pleaded, "I'm sorry too. I can't wait any longer."