3 rd POV
The scream that rippled through the house had Mrs Hudson and the nearly ever present Lestrade up from their night sleep. Both looking at the clock and sighing, for the last month since – since Sherlock died – Watson had been having nightmares, always at one in the morning.
"SHERLOCK!" John's voice rang out through 221b baker street, his body thrashing as the nightmare plagued him.
Always the same.
John was in front of St Bartholomew's Hospital, his eyes cast upwards to Sherlock. The fear churning in him as the pavement below seemed to latch on his feet.
It was then as he watched helpless as the man he considered his best friend, the man he loves fall to the earth, his arms and legs thrashing and his coat billowing out from behind him. When the sickening crack reaches his ears only is he able to move.
It was then when he finally makes it to Sherlock does everything shatter, his mind fracturing into pieces. Blood had smeared the pavement, his black mop of curls clinging to his head stickily. Stickily was that even a word?
"Holmes!" the name came out of his lips as he grasped the wrist for a pulse; finding none. That's where the dream ended, looking into the lifeless eyes of his love; the white pristine skin covered in garnet.