Now, when John dreams of the desert, it’s not him or his old team mates dying in the enemy fire. It’s Sherlock who lies on his back under the baking sun, blood seeping into the hot sand and through the knees of John’s army fatigues.
They are alone. John presses his linked hands over Sherlock’s heart, over and over, bends down to blow breath into his mouth again and again and again. John can’t stop. It goes on forever. Sherlock dies forever.
Now, when John wakes up, it’s not to the drab walls of his bedsit and the rank smell of his own fear. It’s to the plaintive sound of the violin, drifting upwards in waves. John imagines the notes winding around him, spilling out of the open window and down Baker Street, spreading out over London like a protective spell.
Sherlock would scoff, if he knew of John’s flights of fancy. Or perhaps not, considering he keeps playing, night after night, somehow knowing when John needs a way out of the desert.