It had been months since Doctor John Watson, captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers had had nightmares about the war; not since he had gotten embroiled in another war. The war between Sherlock Holmes and the criminal underground of London. Or rather, between Sherlock Holmes and the unbearable state of boredom. His tremors had disappeared, as had his limp. The cane was relegated to behind his bedroom door where it rarely saw the light of day.
It was a particularly sleepy afternoon in Baker St: Sherlock was running an experiment in the kitchen-cum-laboratory - the exact details of which he refused to share - and John was dozing in his chair. He was meant to be scouring the paper for new cases but the sun was coming through the open window, accompanied by a light breeze. There was nothing in the paper anyway; there almost never was.
There was a loud bang and suddenly, it was before him: the medical station with rows of cots full of the wounded. He could hear the roar of bullets and feel the ground shaking beneath the heavy artillery. He was shouting for nurses but there was no one, he was all alone with more and more soldiers coming in for help. He turned desperately in a circle, looking for some way to save all of them, while knowing in his heart that he couldn't.
John began calling out orders to the less-wounded; they would have to be his assistants today. He had them help the seriously injured onto any cots that were empty and, when those were full, onto the cleanest parts of the temporary floor. He went around assessing the damage and instructing on how to tie bandages properly.
Why was he moving so slowly? People were hurt -were dying - and he was meandering around the room. What was wrong with him? He was so tired but he couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. Refused to admit defeat despite the lack of any hope at all. He was a doctor and a soldier and would do his duty.
In the midst of the confusion, he was dimly aware of an alarm going off. What was it? He couldn't remember. Was it for a security breach? Had an enemy spy gotten past the front lines? Before he had time to think more, an unfamiliar face appeared suddenly in front of him. The spy! He struck out and the face fell down and sideways. John followed it, keeping the spy pinned to the floor with one arm across his neck. He reached for his gun but it was gone. Missing. Now he really began to panic. Had he left it somewhere? Too late; he would have to do without it. He punched the strange face again. Hoping -praying - that someone outside would hear the commotion and come to his aid. But there was no one.
Dimly, he became aware of someone calling his name. "John." Over and over, "John!"
He jolted awake. He was on the floor and, with a horrified gasp, he saw that it was Sherlock he had punched.
"John, it's okay. You're safe. You're safe."
His cheeks glowed red as he fell away from the detective, hot tears burning his cheeks. He tried not to whimper but the dream still lingered on the edges of his mind, the fear and adrenaline and panic and confusion.
"Sherlock?" he asked slowly. The breeze came in through the open window and blew gently across his face. He closed his eyes and imagined it blowing the dream away. Deep breath. In. Out. In and out.
"John, what happened?"
"I just- Oh God, I'm so sorry!" John said he noticed the blood trickling from Sherlock's nose. He got up - shakily - and hurried to get a cloth. Sherlock followed him into the kitchen. "I don't know, I don't- There was a bang and it all came rushing back. Only there were so many people dying and no one to help me and I couldn't move and-"
"John. John, listen to me. It's a perfectly normal part of-"
He grimaced and stomped a foot in anger. "I don't care. It was supposed to be gone, I was supposed to be fixed by now."
"Fixed? John, you're not broken. That's not how it works."
"I know that," he hissed in reply. "But...but why do I feel like I am?"
"You are simply a person with certain experiences and sometimes, those experiences seem more real than usual. Perhaps, one day, that will change but it also might not. That doesn't make you anything less than John Watson, doctor, soldier, father and husband."
"Why don't I believe you?" John asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Because...you're an idiot. Oh, don't look at me like that, practically everyone is. However, not practically everyone is blogger to an internationally recognized consulting detective who needs to go and pester Molly about analysis results. Are you coming?" Sherlock said, already shrugging on his coat.
John gave him a look and hurried up to his bedroom to get his own coat, hanging on the back of his door. As he grabbed it from the hook, he saw the dusty cane tucked back in the corner. He smiled wryly at it and hurried back down to where Sherlock was waiting. There was a case to be solved.