Dwindle

Chapter Two

"Okay, here we are." Dr. Watson sighed as the younger boy followed him into the dark, cluttered room, "It's not usually this messy-" Sherlock snorted and John rolled his eyes, "-but with me just moving back in and all....." He paused, "I suppose your bedroom is down the hall and to the left. It was my study, but...."

The rest of his words were lost on Sherlock as he walked into the small back room. He shut the door behind him and breathed it all in.

The room smelled strongly of mildew, rotting wood, and something else morbidly unpleasant.

Sherlock scowled and tossed his satchel onto the small bed that huddled in the corner. If he was going to be forced to live in this god forsaken dump, he was not going to be cheerful about it.

Slumping to the floor with his back against the door, he closed his eyes.

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John Watson sat alone in the kitchen. Putting his head in his hands, he inwardly groaned at the unexpected turn of his evening.

He couldn't fathom how Mycroft Holmes could even remotely think this situation was a good idea. A student boarding with his teacher! Who ever heard of such a thing? It was an abomination! It was improper! It went against every single one of the moral codes he learned during his own years at Widdleton.

Nevertheless, there was nothing he could do about it. And that fiercely irritated him.

John had been employed at the university the year before to teach Basic Meds to third and fourth years. He was only a few years older than most of his students, but his experience as an army medic and his stern teaching style earned him the respect he deserved.

John liked to believe that Mycroft had hired him because of said respect, but he was beginning to doubt that very much.

He slowly walked out of the kitchen and made his way into his small bedroom.
He lay on his bed , still fully clothed, and it wasn't long before he fell asleep.

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John was engulfed in darkness.

He could see nothing

Hear nothing.

Feel nothing.

He was a void to the world. A meaningless hole of wretched emptiness.

But he wasn't alone.

He could sense a creature lurking around his numb form. The ghost of a monster he knew so well.

"What do you want?" He rasped, but the thing did not reply.

"Why are you here?" his voice was barely a whisper.

Wind swirled around his body in the form of a nefarious shadow.

"I am here because you are here." Came the dark reply.

A shiver ran down John's neck and his unseeing eyes widened.

Fear gripped his being like a claw. He could no longer think; he could no longer breath.

He was suffocating in his own mind, the horror of the shadows mocking his terror.

"Show yourself to me." John manages to gasp. Dread settling in his stomach like a stone.

Suddenly, a brilliant light exploded all around him.

He frantically looked around for the creature. His breath was heavy and sweat soaked his shivering skin.

He turned in circles, faster and faster and faster. Spinning out of control.

Searching.

Searching.

Searching.

But he was alone.

"Where did you go?" He cried out in agony.

A soft whisper was the monster's reply:

"I'm in your mind."

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John Watson sat up with a jolt.

His breathing came out in rasping coughs as he struggled to control his racing heart.

He was safe. He was in his room, in bed. He just needed to calm down. He needed to breath.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Breath in.

Breath out.

That was how it always was. He just needed to breath. Everything would be fine if he would just breath.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Breath in.

Breath out.

He soon was calm and put his head in his hands. The sheets on his bed were in a tangled mess, damp from his frantic perspiration, but he didn't care. He couldn't.

He turned on the lamp on the side table and picked up his old, leather notebook.

His psychiatrist had told him that writing down his dreams would help him cope with his haunting PTSD. That if he, John Watson, described his demented nightmares on paper, they would all go away and he could go back to normal.

He told her that she was full of crap.

It wasn't necessary to 'write' them down when every one of his dreams danced before him constantly. They were a vivid reminder that he had never truly left the war; that his life would never truly be 'normal' or heck. How he had never even been normal to begin with.

He didn't need some stranger with a doctorate reading his deepest thoughts all the while giving a half-baked performance of what she thought "sympathy" looked like. Who was she to know what he was going through? A wealthy lady who probably had her future handed to her on a silver platter. A woman who never went to war, never had a father like his, never begged for her life, never worried about the money or the food or the work, never just wanted to end it all.

He tossed the notebook onto the floor after scribbling an angry message on a fresh page.

Go to hell.