My first Sherlock fic :3. A post-Reichenbach oneshot where Sherlock visits John at night (in a non-creepy way). It's very short, and a bit sad. Well I think it's sad.
Reviews would be greatly appreciated!
Oh, and I don't own any of this so don't sue me please.
I really hope you like this.
Slumber
Sherlock could always tell how well John was sleeping, and what he was dreaming of, from the position he was in, the expression on his face, and how hard he was breathing.
He'd instantly know when John was reliving Afghanistan. His bed was a battlefield of arms and legs and sheets, and his slightly sweaty face would bear a pained expression and a heavy frown. His breath came out in irregular gasps. Names that Sherlock had never heard would escape John's lips, and he knew that they were the names of John's fallen comrades, the ones he couldn't save.
The nights John was seeing Sherlock fall off Saint Bart's roof again, his figure spelled despair. One of his arms would be outstretched, his face set either in a mask of anguish or a blank façade, amid the ocean of sheets. His shallow breathing would be punctuated with murmured nos.
"Sherlock," he'd mumble.
Occasionally, his pillowcase would be slightly damp, like his face. Those were the worst nights.
Then Sherlock would calm him. In a low whisper, he'd utter words of reassurance, softening John's face as he spoke. He would talk to John about anything, everything. But he preferred telling him about the memories, the adventures they'd had together, all those long, cold, months before.
On those nights, Sherlock couldn't help himself. He'd stretch out a slightly shaky hand, and with one of his long musician's fingers, he'd touch the bit of sheet covering John's shoulder, which would be the same colour as his face. John's eyes never opened, and Sherlock knew he felt him; but just how much, he never knew.
Occasionally, in the morning, John would wake up and forget that his best friend was no longer there, before the cold truth hit him again. Sometimes he thought he could remember Sherlock's voice from his dreams. One thing was constant: the grey heaviness that dug the circles under his eyes still filled him.