Sherlock saw John's sleeping form and grabbed one of Mrs. Hudson's homemade afghans from the airing cupboard. He came back to gently lay it on John when he noticed.

Where was the scar? He'd almost been killed yesterday, and there was only the tiniest mark where the scalpel had only been millimeters away from his jugular.

He leaned in closer, trying to study the wound, when John turned over and muttered the one word.

Arthur.

The afghan dropped from Sherlock's hands, falling into a quiet pile on the floor at his feet. He could feel his world whiting out again. He could see knights, and magic and...

What was going on?

Without even realizing what he was doing, he put his hands to his head and yelled out ":Stop!" while shutting his eyes tight against the sudden throbbing pain in his head..

And in his shoulder.