The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.
The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
I do not own these characters, I'm just borrowing them for this idea.
- + -
A distant sound in the dead of night woke Sherlock Holmes with a start. His immediate thought was a question (when the hell did I fall asleep?), but when he thought about it, he realized he'd been up for nearly four straight days. Apparently his body felt it was time to get some rest, though he'd been longer without it before. The more he tried to recall the evenings activities, the more he realized he didn't remember making it back to Baker Street. He was still fully clothed; including his Belstaff coat, but was lying in his bed, lanky legs tangled amongst the sheets.
Sherlock leaned on his left hand, depressing the bed as he ran his free hand through his mess of curls. "How the hell did I get into bed?" he mused, pulling his legs free from the sheet. The last thing he remembered was sitting in the back of a taxi with John, on their way home after successfully solving a case for Lestrade. He must have fallen asleep then and there and John must have carried his; heavier than he looked, lithe body up the seventeen stairs, through the sitting room and dropped him onto his own bed.
Planting his feet on the floor, Sherlock stretched, removing his wool coat as his shoulders and elbows cracked. He pulled his mobile from his breast pocket and checked the time. Just after three in the morning (so what woke me?), when he last checked the time it had barely been eight thirty. He stood; coat in hand, and walked into the sitting room, almost expecting to find John passed out in his armchair; he had after all been up just as long as Sherlock (possibly longer with the night shift at the surgery the night before the case came to us), but the flat was vacant.
"Up in his room, I expect," he said to no one as he passed through the sitting room and placed his coat on the hook before turning to see that the soft glow in the room was coming from the dying embers of the fire. Mrs. Hudson (possibly even John) must have kept it alive for some time after they came home. Sherlock trotted back to the fireplace and poked the embers a little, the center still well heated and he warmed his chill hands until he discovered what had woken him.
A small noise made Sherlock cock his head to one side, trying to hear it better. A louder sound resonated through the flat and brought his full attention to the upstairs, John's room. He launched over the army doctors armchair and rushed up the stairs as fast and quietly as he could. Another strangled noise sounded and Sherlock pressed gently against the door; trying to keep it from creaking. Nightmares were the bane of John's sleep most nights and he could see that tonight's was one of the worst he had the unfortunate chance to witness.
The floorboards squeaked beneath Sherlock's slight weight as he pushed into the room, observing his partner. John's eyes were swiveling in their sockets, his breathing was rapid, and the half-words exiting his mouth were distressing. His brow knit together as Sherlock stepped closer, the floor protesting again; trying to announce his presence. John tossed his head at the sound but didn't wake and mumbled something that Sherlock thought sounded suspiciously foreign in language.
Sherlock took another creeping step forward and John balled up his left hand into a loose fist when the detective finally settled on the edge of his bed. More foreign words spilled from his mouth in sleep, causing Sherlock to sigh (Afghani phrases he'd picked up during the war, not something terribly uncommon amongst soldiers). Now they were mixed in with broken English phrases, distressing in nature (particularly bad one tonight). He'd never asked about John's experience during the war; for the most part he didn't care, but all the information he had accidentally collected about his friends time overseas was when John was having nightmares.
"John," he tried softly. The doctor shifted in bed but refused to wake, his face turning momentarily ugly and frightening the detective. "John, wake up," Sherlock whispered, pressing a hand to John's shoulder and gently shaking him. The name slipped between his lips several times as he shook the doctor harder, trying to rouse him from his nightmare. John's eyes suddenly snapped open and he launched up at a figure he didn't recognized; and simultaneously at one that could not possibly be there, burying a knife he was so sure he had in his hand into the figures chest, between the ribs and into its heart.
Sherlock started at the sudden motion, casting his brilliant eyes to the hand on his chest. Seeing the intent it had, he gasped and took his friend by the shoulders, shaking him hared between words. "John, it's Sherlock. Wake up!" His breathing was hard, labored, and his eyes... His eyes weren't John's kind, hazel spheres, they were dark and filled with something Sherlock was positive he'd never seen before. His hand twisted, trying the turn the knife that wasn't there.
"You are at home, John. You're in London! John, wake up!" the detective nearly shouted, shaking his friend with more force than intended (don't slap him, either of you will feel better if you do). John's head snapped to and fro and his eyes turned sleepy another moment before closing. His head sank to his chest before shooting back up, his eyes clear and conscious. He unclenched his fist and pulled it from Sherlock's chest with a start, his breathing suddenly unsteady, his jaw beginning to quiver as he took in the action his subconscious had tried to take on his friend.
"No. Oh God... Sher-Sherlock, I'm...sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," John repeated over and over again, grazing a gentle hand over Sherlock's heart. He couldn't take his eyes from the spot and they began to well with tears. Deep in his mind, he remembered something similar that he'd done in Afghanistan when an ambush caught his men off guard and he suddenly felt ashamed of himself.
"Don't worry, John. It's okay now, it's all right. You're home, you're awake," Sherlock cooed quietly, pulling John into a tight embrace, gently running his fingers through his soft, sun-bleached, sandy hair and attempting to sooth away the dangerous and deadly thoughts of war. His fingers danced over the scar that marred the flesh of the doctors shoulder and knew that nothing he could do would scare those thoughts away for long (my John, my poor John).