I haven't written fanfiction in ages, so this is probably rubbish, but I had an idea and this is what happened. Thanks to takeawalkpigeon for the title!x
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He's having one of the nightmares.
The smell of chlorine fills his lungs. The panic bubbles up into his throat.
Not John. No, please not John.
He wants to shoot Moriarty. He wants to empty every single bullet into his skull. John lunges forward and tells him to run, but he can't. He couldn't leave John there.
How stupid he was to have told John that heroes don't exist.
It never ends how it really did.
In his mind, the gun goes off, and Sherlock's world erupts into a flash of fire and light. The last word he thinks – or maybe shouts – frightened and pleading: John.
They don't come every night, the nightmares, but often enough to make him forgo sleeping more often then usual. John notices, but he doesn't do much other then nag him in a teasing way. Sherlock can still hear the traces of genuine concern in the tease and he wants to shut himself away in his room and play his violin until he can't feel anything.
You should stop caring John. Stop thinking of me as your friend. It will get you killed.
It would be easier if John left. Though the thought of it makes Sherlock sick. It'd doesn't matter how hard he tries to shut himself off, John is still there. Still a friend. Still a target. Sherlock is catching himself doing more 'human' things. He's stopped using John's dishes for experiments. He asks permission before destroying any of John's things. Others think that John is changing Sherlock for the better, but Sherlock can't help but think that John is making him weaker somehow. John has become a necessary fixture in his life, and he assumes this is why his nightmares are of losing John forever.
John has woken him a few times now from the nightmares, but only on the nights when Sherlock starts to shout.
A gentle but firm grip on his arm. A light shake. A calm voice. Sherlock.
When Sherlock is awake enough – Bedroom, John, Dream, Not real – he nods to John. John understands this to be 'I'm fine now, thank you', and he nods back. Then John makes tea. He never asks about the dreams, which Sherlock finds interesting. Maybe he's waiting for Sherlock to talk about them.
The first time John woke him, he was upset. He tripped over himself in explanation.
"I- Sorry, but- It's just… You were shouting. I thought…"
Sherlock fought his way back into consciousness, his hand wrapped tightly around John's wrist. John accepted it wordlessly. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed.
In, out. John is fine. In, out. John is alive.
After a minute that seemed more like ten, Sherlock let go. He wanted to say something. Thank you, maybe- but his mouth wouldn't form the words. So he waited for John to speak first, tease him maybe, but John simply left. Sherlock tried to ignore the stinging feeling that caused. Moments later, John came back with a mug of hot tea and the feeling dissipated. His mouth finally willing to cooperate, Sherlock made a joke about caffeine that made John smirk, then everything was alright.
John has dreams too. Dreams about the war. Sherlock doesn't think he dreams about the pool. For someone who was abducted and strapped in semtex, John seems pretty okay. Sherlock doesn't dwell on that too much, it's one of the things that makes John different. John walks stiffly the mornings after, and he rubs at his shoulder. Sherlock will hear him cry out on occasion, but John normally wakes himself up, so Sherlock has never ventured to his aid. Then Sherlock will lie listening to the creaks and groans of the bed and the floorboards as John moves about doing whatever he does to ease himself back into London, and out of Afghanistan.
Sherlock is dreaming of the pool. He can't move. John is still in the vest and Sherlock is aiming the gun at him. "This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?" It's out of context, out of sequence. Sherlock knows it's wrong, but in the dream he feels everything over again tenfold. Anger, hurt, fear. His finger tightens on the trigger even though he's mentally begging himself not to.
The gun goes off- and tonight, screams accompany the explosion.
Sherlock jolts into a sitting position. Forces himself to breathe. Not real not real not real.
He realizes the screams haven't stopped. John. Without any further thought, Sherlock is out of bed and pulling himself up the stairs to John's bedroom. The door is open slightly and Sherlock sees that John is (fine, alive, safe) having a nightmare. John is yelling and shouting and Sherlock feels and ache in his chest that can only be described as open wounds being prodded. He steps into the bedroom.
He considers for a moment, then reaches out to grip John's calf, and gives it a firm shake.
"John." He speaks loudly- then jumps quickly backwards as John half sits up and swings a fist in Sherlock's direction. His eyes are unfocused, half of his mind still on the battlefield. There is a pause as John fights to wake up properly. Sherlock waits.
John is breathing heavy, and shaking, and Sherlock wishes he knew what else to do but he doesn't. So he stands silently at the end of the bed waiting for a cue of some sort. John takes a few shuddering breaths, and covers his face with his hands. On impulse, Sherlock reaches his arm out and rests his fingers on John's calf again. He tries to ignore the twinge of reassurance and relief this gives him.
"John." He says again, softer this time. John uncovers his face and stares at Sherlock, there is a stretch of silence, and then he gives a nod. (I'm fine now, thank you.) Sherlock nods back. This is where John would make the tea for Sherlock. Sherlock is hesitant to go. He knows John is watching him, but he doesn't want to leave. Not when while he stands there he can see that John is alive and safe. Sherlock is embarrassingly slow about it, but he pulls his hand away before finally turning and leaving John's room.
In the kitchen he waits. For the kettle to boil. For John to follow. He doesn't hear John moving upstairs and he wonders if he's fallen asleep again. He tries not to remember his own dream, but it seems as though the images are scalded into his mind. He pours out two mugs of tea and he decides against waiting at the table. He hesitates at the stairs. He appreciates the silent company John gives him after his dreams. He wonders if John would appreciate the same.
He lets himself quietly back into John's room, cautious in case John has fallen asleep again. He hasn't. He's leaning against the headboard and staring at the ceiling. Sherlock moves to John's side and sets a mug of tea on the bedside table. He doesn't make eye contact, but goes to the end of the bed and eases himself onto the mattress with his own mug. He crosses his legs and sits facing John. Assuming John will be loud about it if Sherlock has overstepped some line. If he disapproves, he doesn't show it. He simply picks up his own tea, and they sit in silent companionship. The images from Sherlock's dream are still flashing violently in his mind. He wonders if it's the same for John. He wonders what John would think of his dreams. He wonders about the details of Johns dreams.
He had nightmares as a child. Once, when he was seven, he woke from a terrible one, and unable to get back to sleep, he snuck quietly into Mycroft's room. Mycroft had looked him over, and Sherlock had waited expectantly for the teasing. It never came. Instead, Mycroft motioned for him to get into bed.
"Nightmares are simply your irrational subconscious thoughts put to pictures." Was the only thing Mycroft said before turning away. Sherlock had nodded, and they slept. The next morning, Sherlock was back in his own bed, and they never spoke about it again.
They've finished their tea.
This is when they return to their rooms and try to go back to sleep, but Sherlock isn't ready to be alone yet. Normally he likes that they do this in silence, but he would love for John to start a conversation. About anything. Just so he could stay for a little longer. He considers starting one himself, but John stifles a yawn. So Sherlock forces himself to move, rising and taking John's mug for him. He moves towards the door, but stops. He can't. He can't bring himself to keep moving, he doesn't want to be alone. He hates himself for feeling so needy.
He thinks again of the night with Mycroft. This is much different. This is John. His flatmate, his co-worker. (His friend.) He decides to give in to impulse. If he's wrong, John can shout at him. Sherlock would go back to his own bedroom and they could forget about it.
Sherlock turns to see John watching him with a curious expression. He moves back towards the bed, and places the empty mugs on the floor beside it. John's eyes have narrowed but he otherwise remains silent. Sherlock hesitates slightly but reaches out to rest his palms on the bed. He leans forward, making his intentions obvious. John's mouth opens as if to speak and Sherlock freezes. They stay like that, staring at each other for a moment. Sherlock suddenly realized how it must seem. Because this just isn't something that two, non involved, grown men, did. He was about to backpedal, and walk out the door pretending this never happened, but John shuts his mouth and tugs the blankets from under Sherlock's hands, holding them open in invitation.
John understood. John accepted. John wasn't going to yell at him or mock him.
Sherlock felt his chest constrict in gratitude. He knew that he was giving up the fight to pretend he didn't need John. He did need John. He would always need John.
Not waiting for Sherlock to get into bed, John rolled onto his side and faced the wall.
"I snore." John muttered quietly. Sherlock resisted saying that he already knew, and remained silent. Sherlock crawled into the bed, facing away from John. He did his best not to move too much, draping the sheet over himself but not clinging to it, worried that John would suddenly come to his senses and make him leave. He felt John shift, and there was more give to the blankets. He realized he needn't worry. John fell asleep not long after, and his light snoring slowly lulled Sherlock into sleep.
There were no more nightmares.