A/N: Wrote this long ago, and only just found it on my hard drive. I rather like it. I don't own Sherlock.
Title: Sand
Author: Arisprite
Sand.
Choking sand and dust and heat and John couldn't couldn't breath. He was damp with sweat and there was cloth surrounding him, burying him. He struggled, not noticing the restraining hands and worried words.
He gasped, opening his eyes, finally coming truly awake, and feeling shocked that the room was dark, not the blinding light of an Afghani sun.
Sherlock was staring at him, frozen by his panic, and John just ran. Ran downstairs, ran all the way outside before he stopped, motionless.
Breathed.
He felt the rain, drank in the cool wetness of the rain on his skin, the spring rain soothing the memories of a burning land. He turned his face upwards, still gasping, almost crying with the remains of panic and relief. It was a light, misting shower, and it was nothing, nothing like the desert.
The click of the door behind him alerted him to Sherlock, having followed him down from the bedroom. He didn't turn, but he knew Sherlock was stepping closer, approaching him as you would a wounded animal. His irrational behavior had probably frightened him silly. He choked on a laugh, his chest spasming.
"John?"
Yup, Sherlock's voice was alarmed and wary. John breathed in deep through his nose, smelling the clean smell of rain on the city, calming his still racing heart.
"Sherlock." John answered, his voice rough but no longer his panicked shouting. He felt Sherlock relax slightly behind him.
"Are you alright?"
John turned around finally, and nodded. Sherlock looked slightly wide-eyed, and his hair was catching the misty drops, sparkling in the light of the street lamp. John closed his eyes, and breathed in again, this time smelling Sherlock's expensive cologne, and the slightly chemical smell of the interior of Baker Street.
"Are you coming back inside?" Sherlock asked, still out of his depth. John appreciated him for trying.
"Yeah." Sherlock looked at him for a moment more, his gaze piercing, and then he seemed to come to a decision. He stepped up closer and John felt a minute squeeze of a thin hand on his good shoulder. Then Sherlock turned and retreated inside the house.
John smiled, and turned back to the rainy night. Another breath, fortifying, soothing, calming. Then he followed Sherlock back inside.