The darkness is oppressive, weighs heavy on his eyelids, a noose tightening around his throat. He can't breathe, it's pulled all of the air out of his lungs. His throat is dry and he can't breathe and they're coming for him. The walls are closing in, squeezing him, wrapping around him and he can't move, mind spinning out of control, flashing red lights and the rope is so tight wound his neck and he has to get out of here, has to run, his heart fit to pound through his chest, splinter his ribs and –

"Sherlock. It's okay, Sherlock. It's okay, I promise."

John? What is John doing here? He's supposed to be at home, in London, safe from Them. He can't be here.

"You're safe, Sherlock. Don't panic, you're safe. I'm here."

He's not safe. They're coming with their lasso and they're going to strangle him, and John can't be here for that, he shouldn't have to see him die. He's watched him die enough times, off Barts' roof, the bullet that tore him apart and there was so much blood and he couldn't breathe –

The noose is gone, the dark blasted away with golden light and he sucks in a breath greedily. Oh it's so nice to breathe. It's not boring, not at all. He's safe, he really is. And John is really here, his eyes so worried, and yet his lips smiling so softly, so gently.

Baker Street. Not Serbia, Baker Street. And John's cheek is warm and solid under his hand. Real.

It was just a dream. He's not dying. The walls are not closing in, no body is trying to strangle him and there is no crushing block of impenetrable marble on his chest crushing his ribs to splinters. He really is safe.

John's lips are soft on his forehead, and he sighs, relief crashing through him.

"I love you, John." His voice is so hoarse, but it seems so important to tell him, to make sure he knows.

And John's eyes crinkle, shining at him. "I know you do."