NIGHTMARES.
Gasp.
The sand is here. The sand and the fire and the blood and the dead and the-
Blossoms. Pain, it blossoms like some sick flower. Faster than he can bear.
Then the black returns and he greets it gratefully.
Nothing.
"John?" A cool, clear baritone swipes through John Watson's subconscious and with a cry, he reaches to his hip to find the gun- my God, where is the- no, no, no, not now, just-
He flicks open his eyes, even if they still feel too heavy and pain-dull. He has to fight. Or he had to... which one was it again? Hmm.
There he is, though, that one trustworthy man leaning over him, dark curls framing a pale face and icy-slate eyes. He doesn't have to fight. The sand and the pain are long gone now.
"John," the waker sighs. "Again?" Even though he doesn't quite comprehend the question yet, let alone the answer, he nods as if it's some ingrained routine.
"Oh, John..." the voice almost sounds distressed for a moment, but that must be the drowsiness still. "Tea?" He nods again, even though he hasn't quite repaired just yet. He never had.
He had thought that the sand was gone, but for some reason he sees it everywhere. Grains scattered, stuck in the carpet where no one can ever clean it from, the treads of his shoes clogged with the mud of it, the brown-red mud of war... he sometimes sees it on his skin. A constant reminder from some cruel part of his mind to say: 'The sand is here still, and you can't wash it away.'
They watch a Shakespeare play, Macbeth, the waker finding maths and patterns he could never dream of in the words.
"Out damned spot: out I say. One: two: why then 'tis time to do't: Hell is murky. Fie, my Lord, fie, a soldier, and afear'd? What need we fear?"
The words echo and catch his breath. His eyes are closed but he is wide open. He curls, vulnerable, into the warm beside him. The warm is always there now except for night. Night is when the sand pour through every crack, every window and door, looking and searching for him and then drowning him in its blood-soaked golden.
Ironic, really, that he would be afraid of relaxing; he is afraid of letting his guard down, his shield, because he knows that that's why the sand is still there.
"Glamis hath murther'd Sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more: Macbeth shall sleep no more."
He remembers it and wonders: is he going to become a tyrant now? Will he follow the drugged footsteps of a tempted man? Who knows... but Fate.
"John?" the waker says once more. Again, again, again, so repetitive in its sameness. A name, apparently, John. His name, as he was once known. Maybe the waker hasn't realised that he is no longer John. No. Now he is something else.
What?
He stumbles through life mechanically. An incredibly well-oiled robot, so that even the waker can't see the metal, but mechanic. Half of what is said goes in one ear and out the other before he realises it. Most of the time he replies without noticing and then wonders what's happening.
But it isn't as though he's stupid or dim now, because he's not – he's just detached; more than the waker, even, who doesn't notice, the genius.
Maybe he is already a soulless minion of orthodoxy. If orthodoxy happens to mean Fate.
He's glad to know that he isn't yet a tyrant. That comes next.
That comes after the fall.
After all the nightmares.
A/N – Hello, fictioners :D This is by no means my usual style, but I thought, 'What the hell, I'll post this anyway.' I've spent what seems like forever attempting to write a good, short fic to be the first one on my account, but... it wasn't happening. This is utterly random, so I hope you like it
I have lots to put up (I think.) so now it's just a matter of putting stuff up in the right order.
Thanks for reading this; I know it's not great because I'm not used to writing short stories like this, and I'm not used to writing from this kind of character's point of view. By that I don't mean John, I mean traumatised, changed, John.
Please review!