A New Kind of Sleeping Pill
Agonized screams pierced John's ears as he saw his next patient being carried in on a stretcher. He felt bile rise in his throat as he examined the young soldier. Both of his legs had been seemingly blown off, from the mid-thigh down. There was blood everywhere, and it was gushing freely from the gruesome wounds. The boy seemed barely older than a teenager; John guessed that it was his first tour. He and a few nurses scrambled to get cloths and bandages to help staunch the heavy blood flow. However, the boy had already lost so much blood and the white cloths were turning dark red far too quickly. John saw the boy's eyes begin to flutter and knew it was too late. The young soldier took a last shuddering breath and-
John sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. He was covered in a light sheen of cold sweat. He rolled over and glanced at the clock. John groaned; it was 2:30 in the morning. Trying to take deep breaths to calm the panic he felt, he slowly stumbled his way into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. He tried to get back to sleep, but whenever he closed his eyes all he could see was the mutilated body of the dead soldier. With a sigh, he made his way downstairs to make a cup of tea.
Upon entering the living room, he wasn't at all surprised to see Sherlock sitting on the couch, immersed in a book. John shook his head in disapproval at the detective's unhealthy sleeping habits, but remained silent as he made his way to the stove.
"Nightmare?" Sherlock asked calmly, his eyes never leaving his book.
"Yeah, don't wanna talk about it. Fancy a cuppa?" John replied, changing the subject. Sherlock hummed in agreement.
When the kettle boiled he brought over the two cups and sat one down in front of Sherlock as he plopped on the couch next to him, tentatively taking a sip of his own cup. The tea helped slightly, making him warm and a bit sleepy, but he was still on edge. He set his tea down and peered at the title of Sherlock's book. It read "The Origin and Early Diversification of Land Plants: A Cladistic Study". John chuckled.
"Sounds thrilling." he said, gesturing toward the book. Sherlock smirked.
"One can always do with a bit of light reading." he replied.
They looked at each other and began to laugh. Sherlock's deep tones resonated within the room, causing John to shiver. Just then, an idea struck him. However, he didn't quite know how to go about asking. The laughter having subsided, John awkwardly cleared his throat.
"Erm- Sherlock…would you mind-I mean you can say no, but I was just wondering if you could-"
"If I could what?" Sherlock interrupted, a hint of annoyance evident in his voice.
"Could you read to me?" John asked quickly, feeling a little childish. He knew that the man's velvety baritone would be just as effective as any sleeping pill. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I highly doubt it will be of much interest to you…" Sherlock said, slightly confused.
"I know, but it'll help me sleep." John replied, a slight blush creeping up his cheeks.
"Well, I suppose I could." Sherlock replied. With that, he cleared his throat and started to read. John tilted his head back and let his eyes fall closed.
"Land plants (embryophytes) are most closely related to the Charophyceae, a small group of predominantly freshwater green algae, within which either Coleochaetales (15 living species) or Charales (400 living species), or a group containing both, is sister group to land plants. Land-plant monophyly is supported by comparative morphology and gene sequences. Relationships among the major basal living groups are uncertain, but the best- supported hypothesis resolves liverworts as basal and either mosses or hornworts as the living sister group to vascular plants (tracheophytes). Less parsimonious hypotheses recognize…"
John stopped focusing on the words and just let himself become entranced by Sherlock's voice. He slowly felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness. Barely awake, he vaguely felt his body gently being pulled down into a lying position, his head resting on what could only be Sherlock's lap. A hand then started to thread through John's hair. However, John was in no state of mind to really process what was going on and just enjoyed the calming sensation. A second before he let sleep overtake him, the reading paused and he heard a voice whisper softly to him and a pair of lips press softly to his forehead.
"Sleep well, my dear doctor."
Author's Note: Hope you liked it! I've been obsessed with the recording of Benedict Cumberbatch reading "Ode To A Nightingale" and while I was listening to it, this little idea came to me :D It has the possibility for a second chapter, so if you want me to continue it (or have any ideas on what you would want to happen next), refer to the little box beneath this story ;D