John Watson was having a nightmare. It was nothing new, he was prone. But now instead of young soldiers dying in his hands or a bullet tearing through his shoulder, the cause of his night terrors is blood on the pavement, clotting in dark hair he once lovingly ran fingers through.
This time was different, a shadow crept into John’s room, fingertips ghosting over his troubled brow. The face from his dreams — miraculously alive -- though John did not wake enough to know he’d been visited.
“John, be still. You are not alone.”
Peaceful sleep came, the first in a year.