Just a simple one-shot. Not much for the world, but here it is.
The moaning woke him up. Not the usual, sensual moaning he was used to hear from John, but a painful and agonising moaning coming from a tight throat. Sherlock's eyes shot open, seeing John in the dark, fisting the sheets, heels digging into the mattress as he whimpered behind clenched teeth.
"John?" he gulped and heaved up on his elbow. "John? Wake up." He turned on the light and saw John's skin glisten of sweat. Something powerful had taken over his body, something so out of control he seemed to be trapped in himself, unable to move.
They had been sleeping in the same bed for three months, or 97 days according to Sherlock's counting, but never during these night had John had nightmares. He never imagined that PTSD could be so powerful and so intimidating. For the first time in many years, Sherlock was scared.
"John." he called out again and rubbed his chest, slick by the salty sweat and heaving of the raspy breath he so desperately drew like somebody was trying to drown him. A painful groan left his throat and he tossed his head to the side, burying his left side of his face into the pillow. "Wake up!" The shoulder hunched as he tried to place a comforting hand on it, like he didn't want to be touched and Sherlock felt powerless, he didn't know what he could do to help.
"John!" he called and heard the pleading in his voice. "Please, John, wake up!" He sat up in the bed, kept his hand on his heaving chest and felt the heart pounding against his ribs. And like the scene wasn't frightening enough, John suddenly closed his mouth, holding his breath like he was trying to choke himself. "JOHN! WAKE UP!"
He cupped his face, observing the panic in his features and tried to determine what he needed. His body squirmed, pulling the sheets and the cover slid of him and exposed his trembling, naked body.
"John, come on!" he was shouting now, desperate to get John to wake up. "You need to breathe! Breathe John!"
He didn't, and he started to cramp, his body twitched violently, but limps were still pressed against the bed like he was bound. "Don't do this!" Sherlock begged him and straddled the poor man, stroke his hair and took one of his hands to hold it. "Please John!" He pulled his hand off the sheet and John took a big breath and his eyes shot open. They were full of panic and fear, searching for something to focus on and Sherlock leaned over him to get caught in his gaze.
"I'm here." he said calmly, but John was still not breathing. It was like he'd forgotten how and Sherlock needed to remind him. "Come on John, take a deep breathe." With a loud gasp, he filled his lungs with the moist London-air again and it scratched his throat. He looked around the room, trying to understand where the hell he was. "You're here. You're home with me." John didn't seem to understand, he stopped breathing again and closed his eyes hard. "Deep breaths. Breathe in!" John pushed up his chin and took a massive breath through his nose and Sherlock rubbed his chest soothingly. "And out." It fell trembling over his lips and turned into a painful sob and Sherlock felt the world fall off his shoulders. John was back.
"It's okay, John. You're home." Sherlock continued and swallowed hard when he saw his strong partner break underneath him. "It was just a dream. Nothing more than a dream." But they both knew that wasn't true. It was memories, awful and horrible memories decorated with fear and imagination in dreaming. "I's over now." Sherlock whispered and dried the tears falling down his temples and down to his ears. John's face was scrunched up in pain, he was crying like a child and Sherlock had never seen him like this. Not even when they'd stared death into the eyes had John lost control and he started to understand how powerful this condition actually was. His John, the strongest and bravest man he knew had just exposed himself to Sherlock on a level so intimate that he had actually scared him. Not many had managed to do that to him. He was almost fascinated.
He massaged his scalp and hushed him gently but John still cried. He turned his head and tried to hide his despicable behaviour from his lover but Sherlock wouldn't let him. He needed to see this, understand who John was, and had been going through so he never took him for granted in dangerous situations again, because he knew exactly what had triggered this.
"Look at me." he begged him and moved down his hand to his cheek. "Look at me, John." His eyes shot open again and he looked straight at Sherlock, eyes tired and swollen by the tears. "It was just bad memories. And they'll always remain that way. You're home now. You're in London."
But Johns' face scrunch up even tighter and he clenched his jaw.
"It wasn't the war." he cried and Sherlock froze above him. Staring into his blue eyes he realised that this wasn't tears meant for lost comrades and soldiers or the man lying face down in a pool of blood earlier today, dressed in camouflage-jacket and army boots. This tears was meant for Sherlock and Sherlock lost his breathing. He knew that he'd hurt John, but he never knew this was the result of his actions. Was this what John had been going through those three years he'd been gone? Sherlock had never felt so cruel. The adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed the lump that had stuck in his throat and he looked down at John who hid his face with a shaking hand while he sobbed. Sherlock grasped his hand and pressed it against his chest, letting him feel every heartbeat inside him.
"I'm alive." he said and John twitched as he felt the quick drumming against the palm of his hand. "I'm as real as a person can be. And I'm back. And I'm not leaving you again." His voice broke by the last sentence and he swallowed again, proved how human John had made him. Before him he never cried. With him he'd cried twice. Before he jumped, and now. He had always been afraid of human emotions, never really understood them, but John had made him understand, and he cried.
He fell on top of him, pulling him into a hug and John tossed his arms around him and squeezed until it hurt. "I'm here John." he stated muffled by his shoulder and he heard him sob into his. John was never going to let him go. "I'm so sorry. So sorry."
They stayed in each other arms for many minutes. Sherlock made sure to take as deep breaths as possible to make John feel his chest moving, giving him the proof that he was still alive and well. Stroking his damp hair and murmuring in his ear, John finally started to come around again. The crying eased but his body was still trembling, and Sherlock didn't know how he could stop it.
"I love you." John sobbed and sniffled, making this moment the must romantic and unromantic moment so far in their lives and Sherlock felt how he started to quiver. He had never told him those words before, and Sherlock stiffened in his arms. "Don't you ever dare do something like that to me again."
He didn't dare. After seeing what he did to John the first time he wouldn't dream of doing it a second.
"I promise you, John." he whispered and pressed his lips to his jaw. Thinking about the confession John had just made and figured that they were pretty accurate of how he felt for John as well. The reason that he hadn't said them yet was because they hadn't crossed his mind. He wasn't used to love, he had never felt it so he didn't know what to expect by it. But lying here, holding John, he started to figure that there was no other man in the world that he could ever dream of doing these things to. And when he thought about the definition of love, John was now the first thing that popped into his scattered mind.
"I love you too." he acknowledged and felt like a claw released his heart, letting it pump out the blood in his body faster than ever before. "I really do." And John choked on a sob and nuzzled his nose into the crock of Sherlock's neck and left himself there.
"Good for you." John groaned and let out a big sigh that caressed Sherlock's neck. "Please, Sherlock, don't let me fall asleep just yet. Keep me awake."
"Alright." Sherlock murmured and shivered by the cold air around them. John was still shaking by his muffled sobbing and Sherlock hushed him gently once more. "It's over now." But John needed an other couple of minutes to cry out the fear in the warm crock of Sherlock's neck, where he felt safe. "You're here with me." John moaned loudly as the crying came to an end and the pressure of his arms eased around Sherlock.
"Keep talking." he pleaded as he found safety in his dark, rumbling voice. "Please, just help me get my mind off it."
And Sherlock talked, told him everything about his newest discoveries in the potential uses of after shave, how he solved their last case about the mysterious break-in by just looking at the front door and John listened eagerly to him even if the subject didn't interest him. The vibrations in Sherlock's chest, pressed against his own was just another sign of life and he needed as much of it as possible.
Sherlock was back, and alive. And John would never let him out of sight again.
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