A/N This story is for Kathy G! Thank you so much for the prompt, I am having so much fun thinking it up! Although from this one chapter you can't really tell where I'm taking this story, I hope it's what you were looking for :)
Disclaimer: I don't own any ACD or BBC characters. Only in my dreams. -exasperated sigh-
It was a long day at the surgery. Well no, excruciating would be a better way to put it.
The entire day was full of over protective mothers and hypochondriacs of adults. In the beginning he started out with a nice attitude, giving new parents sheltering words, calming their worries of why their twelve month old (on the dot) wasn't walking yet. But by the end of the day he was practically yelling at patients to get out of his examination room, because the bump on your ear is nothing to worry about!
Finally the day was over, and all John had to do was fill out some paperwork. He'd gotten behind thanks to Sherlock surprising him with a case a week back.
"Hey John." A voice quips from the door frame.
Looking up, he sees that Sarah is giving him a sweet (and slightly pitying) smile. "Er, hello. Anything you need?"He asks, immediately thinking of the worst possible scenarios.
"Oh, not really." She says as if the question took her by surprise. "I have an extra cuppa, I was wondering if you'd like it?" Just as John opens his mouth to reply she says, "It's just that I know you've had a long day. And um, it's decaf so you know, you can sleep afterwards." That fact is really quite unfortunate, seeing as how he really needs a 'pick me up' right now. Although yes, it is quite late.
"Yeah, actually, that sounds great." He clears off a small patch of his desk to make room for the steaming cup.
Nodding nodding and setting down the cup, Sarah says, "Well, I'd better be off. Mick is still here, so don't worry about locking up or anything when you leave." Sarah says, walking back to the door frame.
"Sounds good. I'll see you tomorrow." Then with a smile he adds, "Unless Sherlock makes me go gallivanting after on another case."
Sarah smiles back, then leaves the room, keeping the door open knowing that there are no more patients to waltz in.
Taking a sip of tea and sighing, John begins the tedious routine of paperwork.
Only thirty minutes pass by until John is consciously willing to keep his eyelids from drooping. Thinking back on the past few days he can't help but blame it on Sherlock.
Lately John's sleep has been far from peaceful. Not just 'lately' though, he can pinpoint the exact time they got worse again.
Baskerville.
Since Sherlock's little experiment his dreams are less than stellar. Like always, he adamantly refuses to tell anyone about this, and occasionally takes a few stashed away sleeping pills (God knows what would happen if Sherlock found them) to help. Proud of himself for not seeing his therapist anymore, he also refuses to get a new one.
Although the lack of sleep isn't entirely in the fault of dreams, Baskerville, and PTSD.
It started as a fake lead, which eventually led to an actual case, a nice few murders for Sherlock. Except that Sherlock refused to let Scotland Yard "interfere" this time. Which essentially left John to pick up the pieces.
Tired of trying to stick up for his flatmate, he told Sherlock that he has to let Scotland Yard in, or he'll tell Mycroft. But then again, judging by the fact that Sherlock hadn't been arrested yet, Mycroft probably already knew.
Nevertheless, the next day Lestrade and his team were also at the crime scene. This didn't stop the case from being stressful, and of course the very next day John had to work. At this point, it shouldn't be called a "flat-share" because Sherlock has pulled exactly none of his weight. It's closer to a flat-share with Mrs Hudson because of her discount due to Death Row in America.
Rubbing his eyes,John decides that he'll finish the paperwork bright and early tomorrow morning. Which doesn't sound too good either, but it's the best option right now.
While he flicks the switch off for the lights, he also grabs his coat and swings the door shut. He takes a deep breath (in: one, two, three. Out: one, two, three) and mentally prepares himself for the monstrosity- when he gets to the flat- which is called Sherlock Holmes.
For one of the first times in his life, the good doctor was able to call a cab first try, for which he was very grateful for. When he finally gets to his flat, he doesn't even bother pulling out his key, since he knows that Sherlock never locks it.
"Sherlock!" He calls out, climbing up the seventeen steps.
"John. I will advise you to not use the lavatory on this floor-" Sherlock starts.
"What did you do this time?"
"It was an experiment, John! I need my brain to do something!" The detective retorts, as if that's a reasonable answer to why the loo can't be used.
"You just finished a case!"
"That was days ago! Do keep up!"
"It was yesterday, Sherlock! Can't you just keep your mind occupied for at least twenty-four hours?!" John asks outrageously irritated.
"My mind is extraordinary! It needs-"
"Yeah okay, heard it before. At least this time you told me."
"Mrs Hudson said that I should do so."
"You brought Mrs Hudson into this?"
"Well…"
"Nevermind." John says, sighing. "I really don't need to deal with this right now. Don't blow up the flat tonight, I really need to sleep." With Sherlock's strange look he adds, "Not that you should blow up the flat any other time either. We don't need that. Definitely don't need that."
Sherlock just nods.
"Right. Well, I'm off to sleep now. No waking me up." And with that he trudges up the stairs into his room.
Really needing a nice rest tonight, he quickly changes and wraps himself in covers. The London Winter isn't very forgiving. Passing on sleeping pills tonight, mostly from the fact that he is already in bed, he closes his eyes, and unknowingly transports himself back to Afghanistan.
…
As the IED explodes, it sends shards of any and every material in the vicinity flying at terrifying speeds.
John hears the hellish cries coming from both sides of the war, but only focuses on a few of them. Ignoring his own new blossoming pain in his left leg, he runs over to a soldier, barely a man, and assesses the damage.
It's bad. It's severe. There's no way he is going to survive this. His eyes already know that though. John recognizes the look. It's the look that some soldiers get when they're hit. Inside, they know that they won't survive this. It's the worst look that John's ever seen. He's only seen it twice outside of the war, but countless times inside.
Despite the fatality of the wound, John still wraps it up, but nothing else. Morphine, a God send in the war, should not be used for this. As much as it pains John, he runs to the next soldier needing medical help.
Not a minute later he hears a shout of "NO!" coming from the soldier. But it didn't actually come from him. It came from another man squatting next to him, crying and yelling for him to wake up again.
The screams absolutely break John's heart, and he'll never get over them. The man next to the deceased soldier looks straight at him, and John knows that he knows. That the 'doctor' left a patient to die.
The doctor sees the other soldier's face contort in rage, fear, grief, any emotion known to man that doesn't even almost resemble happiness.
Begrudgingly, he turns back to his patient and tries not to think about another death that he blames on himself. But really, the surviving soldier adds to the casualty rate. Having to watch your best mate die in front of you… It changes a person.
When running to the next wounded soldier, his leg finally gives out, leaving him useless on the ground, with a perfect line of sight to the man, young man, he wasn't able to save.
After what feels like hours, another medic comes up to him and wraps his leg up, helping him stand. But in his mind he still hears the cries of the surviving soldier.
….
John wakes up panting, gasping for air. Quickly opening his eyes and checking his surroundings, he is surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, instead of the soldier.
"I-I um. You told me not to wake you up." The detective says quietly.
"Yes, I do suppose I did. Was I-" He clears his throat "Did I wake you up?"
"No, I wasn't sleeping in the first place. Though you did give me quite… a scare."
Knowing that that is the closest thing that the so called 'sociopath' would say to mean. "I was worried" John says, "Well, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine now."
"You obviously aren't. The nightmare was from a traumatic time. You were unconsciously crying and calling out to someone to 'Let him go.' Furthermore, you've been grasping at your left leg -unknowingly, as it seems, based on your facial expression when I said that- which is the one that you had a psychosomatic limp, confirming my hypothesis of you dreaming about a traumatic event. There-"
"Get out, Sherlock." John says, with an alarmingly tranquille voice.
"What?" Replies Sherlock, not understanding why on Earth his flatmate would want him to leave. "Wh-"
"I said, get. Out." Replies John, grasping the sheets on his bed with white knuckles in an effort to not punch his flatmate.
Wordlessly, Sherlock nods and goes out of the room, closing the door behind him.
As soon as his footsteps fade out, John untangles himself from the bed and rubs his face.
So much for getting sleep tonight. With a quick glance from his clock (1.34) he walks in circles mindlessly around his room, trying to block out any thoughts.
Interrupting his circle walking, the door to the flat slams shut, and John knows that the great detective is going to be sulking around London for the next few hours.
Maliciously happy that he has the flat to himself the very, very, early morning, he walks down the stairs into the kitchen, making himself a quick cup of tea, in an attempt to sooth his nerves.
Once the kettle starts whistling, John stands up from the chair he was previously sitting in and walks over. Until his left leg unexplainably buckles.
Growling in frustration, John slams his hand down on the table then walks the rest of the way to the kettle. Grasping at the tea bags from the cupboard, he makes himself a little tea, happy for the caffeine to keep him awake.
The army doctor doesn't know how much more of these daily nightmares he can take. Soon he'll have to go back to Ella, which he most definitely doesn't want, and there's no way that he could hide that from the world's only Consulting detective.
By the time Sherlock gets back (completely covered in mud for an experiment he had performed) John is already back into his room. The only thing left of his presence is the kettle sitting on the now cold stove, still almost entirely filled. He sends a quick text of to Mycroft:
Turn off the damn cameras. John does not appreciate you spying on him in the middle of the night, whether he knows it or not. ~SH
Within the minute, the 'secret' cameras in their flat are facing downward, the little red light on the top turned off. It seems that, like his little brother, Mycroft does not find sleeping necessary or useful at any rate.
Quietly taking John's laptop and punching in the passcode (even Anderson could've figured his passcode out) he starts up an incognito tab and types in: nightmares from ptsd.
Carefully reading each word from multiple websites, Sherlock retains all of this information, making a new room in his mind palace for it. He won't tell John any of this, though.
After the detective finishes surfing the web, he closes down the numerous tabs on the computer, then restores it to how it was before he took it. Then he sits down in his chair, pulls his knees in close and just thinks. He thinks for hours and hours, until he hears footsteps coming back down into the kitchen.
"Sorry um, for last night." John says sheepishly, looking down at his feet.
"No worries- now, what time is it?" Sherlock says, acting as if he wasn't thinking about how he could help his flatmate the past-
"It's 6.30"
-five hours of the day. "Mm. Thank you." Moving only his head, Sherlock takes a good look at John before announcing his deductions "I take it you're going to the office to finish… Paperwork, since you didn't finish it yesterday evening or today morning. And you're going extra early to beat the rush of traffic and so you can have some time to yourself without any patients."
John shakes his head in astonishment, "How did you- did my jumper give it away or something?" He says with a smirk.
"It's really all there John, if you'd just take a second to look around and observe."
"Well then, I'll be getting off then. No point in telling you where I'm going or how long."
Sherlock tilts his head to the side to agree.
"Don't bother Mrs Hudson too much today, alright? If Greg calls y-"
"Who?"
"Greg, Sherlock! The one you've been working with? Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?"
"Oh yes. Him."
"Right, so if he calls, no dragging me along, I have to pay the bills so that we can actually keep our flat. And if a client comes, don't scare them off. Just accept their case without making fun of them." John sighs at that last part, knowing how many clients are terrified of the man's deductions once they meet him. They assume that they're somehow impervious to the effects of Sherlock Holmes.
"Fine."
"Sherlock,"
"I won't scare any clients, or tell them that their wife is shagging their gardener."
"Great. I'm off then. Ta." He calls out, before swinging the flat door closed using the knocker.
On the cab ride to work,he can't help but think about his dream. Too many soldiers-
And then John's thoughts get interrupted by another car smashing into the cab.
A/N Muahaha cliff hangers
Any reviews are very appreciated, whether they be criticism or kind words! They make me happy and self-confident!