Everyone had bad dreams.

"It is said that in the final days of Planet Earth, everyone had bad dreams. To the west of the north of that world, the human race did gather, in a celebration of the pagan rite to banish the cold and the dark. Each and every one of those people had dreamt of the terrible things to come. But they forgot. Because they must. They forgot their nightmares. Of fire and war and insanity. They forgot. Except for one..."

- - - -

John Watson awoke with a start. He'd had the nightmare, the same nightmare he'd had for weeks now. That face… laughing, taunting.
Sherlock was having nightmares too, but he said he'd forgotten them.

John pulled a hand through his hair, and sat up straight. The room was a bit of a blur. All he could make out were the red and green Christmas lights that Mrs. Hudson had draped across the room, as her little way to make the flat look festive. He waited for the dizziness to pass, and then made his way to the kitchen, where he found his flat-mate solving Su-Dokus and eating toast.

He was about to say good morning, but the words hung in his throat as something caught his eye. Sherlock had put his toast down, and had almost his full attention set on finishing the puzzle, but his left hand, the hand not holding the pen, was resting on the table. His index finger was restlessly tapping as he wrote. He didn't know what it was, but there was something John didn't like about the rhythm.

"Sherlock?" he asked, eyes fixed on the detective's fingers.

He replied "Hmm?", his eyes not leaving the newspaper.

John shook his head, and moved towards the fridge. "Never mind. Do we have any milk left?"

"'Fraid not," Sherlock said through a mouthful of toast.

Sighing, John turned back around to face his flat-mate, and frowned. All he could hear was their breathing, the gentle traffic outside, and…



One-two-three-four.