Another man down.
Another friend down.
"Noo. . ." John murmurs in his sleep, his head moving to the other side of his pillow.
Another gunshot, followed by a loud boom as dirt flies into the air and comrades fall.
"Noo. . . noo. . ." He says more urgently, like a quiet, desperate cry.
The image changes.
It's Sherlock, on the roof of the hospital again.
The scene replayed in his head.
Sherlock sending his 'note' and jumping.
"SHERLOCK!" John bolts upwards, wide awake and breathing hard. He looked around, making sure that he was still there in his bedroom of 221b Baker Street. His and Sherlock's flat.
"That was two years ago John, calm down, Sherlock is fine." He said to himself, throwing his blanket back over his shoulder and laying his head on the pillow. He sighed, his breath back to normal. A light passed by the window, caused by a passing car. The faint sound of a siren wailing in the night. He turned away from the window and started drifting back to sleep. He was almost asleep, when he heard the door to his room open quietly, followed by footsteps padding over the wooden floor. He paid no attention, thinking nothing as he drifted deeper into sleep. Someone lifted the side of the blanket by the window and lay down next to John, putting one arm over him comfortingly. John lifted his head, woken up a little more by the visitor.
"Ssshhh. . . It's ok John, I'm here." Sherlock whispered gently.
John turned around towards Sherlock and cuddled into his chest, breathing in his flat mate's familiar smell. He felt Sherlock put his arm around him again, making John smile faintly as he drifted back to sleep.
The last thing he heard and felt before he fell asleep, was Sherlock comforting him, saying goodnight.
And the feel of his lips as he kissed Johns forehead.