Chapter Text
For every evil under the sun,
There is a remedy, or there is none.
If there be one, try to find it;
If there be none, never mind it.
- Traditional nursery rhyme
The corridor was dark, and, John thought dimly, rather like the ones in St. Bart’s at night, as he remembered them from when he was earning the letters that came after his name, only this particular corridor seemed to be interminable, even if he could make out the faint red neon smudge of the EXIT sign at the end of it.
He heard footsteps behind him, echoing his own just within the edge of his hearing. He knew who they belonged to, or he thought he did, punctuated as they were with the swish of a heavy coat – or was it just the wind in the curtains in the rooms? And, when it came to that, when had he last heard those footsteps go at such a slow and measured pace? (Hardly ever.)
There are rules, and there are rules. John knew, as you did in dreams, that he shouldn’t, oughtn’t, absolutely must not on-pain-of-crushing-failure look behind him until he reached the exit.
It was harder than it sounded.
Uncertainty ate away at him, and John wished he had something – a pocket handkerchief, a certain blue scarf – to use as a blindfold, but inexplicably all he seemed to be wearing was his dressing gown, and there were nothing but pomegranate seeds in his pockets. Besides, he tried to reason as he stared fixedly into the distance in front of him, a blindfold wouldn’t actually stop him from turning his head, and that would probably be what counted.
But, oh, it was difficult. The footsteps behind him faltered sometimes, and grew fainter, and while it would have been entirely keeping with who he thought it was to be sidetracked by other, more interesting things along the way, well, he wasn’t sure who it was, was he? He was just going on a hope and a prayer and a vague sense of familiarity.
The footsteps stopped entirely after he passed a junction that led to another long, dark hallway, and John went on for a bit past that, biting his lip, his hands pushed in among the pomegranate seeds in his pockets, desperately trying to ignore the fact that all he heard now was the slap of his own bare feet on the linoleum. He wasn’t imagining it, he knew it, and when he decided that he knew it, he panicked, and he turned a fraction of an inch, trying to sneak a look behind him out of the corner of his eye.
The world went wrong as soon as he did it. Lights snapped on, harsh and fluorescent, and there was nobody else in the corridor at all.
And John Watson woke up. He swore once at his disobedience, swore a second time when he saw the time, and swore thrice for good measure.
As he shifted in bed, trying to get just a few more minutes of rest, he thought he heard a dry voice saying. “You know, I think you might be on the wrong path there.”
“Sod off,” mumbled John into his pillow, “And if you don’t let me sleep, I swear to God I’ll take the poker and smash you to pieces.”