Sherlock was John Watson's new flatmate.
Sherlock was impossible... well actually more improbable, he was insufferable, arrogant and an utter madman.
Sherlock was always on John's mind.
How did he do this? How could he know that? What did he do that for? Thoughts over thoughts tumbled through John's head and evey last of them was filled with him, Sherlock, the flatmate – the madman.
He told Sherlock he had no attachments, just like him, but he was wrong. He had already attached himself to this weird person. But like it wasn't enough that this lunatic was every waking hour with John – in person or in thought – he was even in his dreams present.
Always there, never gone.
Never, never, never.
This man, the man he met only days ago and knew next to nothing about, was like his breath. Flowing through him, filling his mind and heart, like a passion, a desire he shouldn't have. It was dangerous, reckless and stupid – the exact thing Sherlock would do.
Sometimes John would dream about the horrors of war.
People dying, getting shot or blown to pieces.
Losing limbs... friends... lives.
But even here among these horrors he would be present, trying the improbable, defying everything normal people thought inpossible, waging his own private war.
Like Don Quichotte - fighting against windmills and foes only he could see.
Those were some of the good dreams, but there were bad ones too.
Like today.
John Watson was back on the battlefield. Or rather held captive and surveying the battlefield.
Sherlock was beside him.
The pale man, looking as if made of something fragile. Porcelain maybe?
He looked so wrong in this situation. Not wearing a battle dress but rather a dark blue button-up shirt, dark trousers with a suit jacket and the long heavy coat.
They were for what felt like ages in the dessert but his skin seemed like it had never seen the sun. White as marble or ivory. The only color on this face was the red stains of blood on his face.
John didn't know how he got here or what had happened. All he knew was what was to come.
Sherlock would die.
The enemy would take out a gun a shoot them. John couldn't remember it but he knew they had tortured both of them. Despite the pains and the sure death to come all he could think of was the man next to him. Smiling one of his smug smiles as if it was all just a game.
His last and only thought was: ‚Please god, let Sherlock live'.
Sherlock who was constantly annoying him.
Sherlock who could tell you everything about a person just by looking at them, but couldn't tell you the date if you smacked him with a calender.
Sherlock who had become his reason to live.
Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock...
Sherlock who was softly whispering his name and shaking him awake.
‚John', he said soothingly ‚wake up. Calm down.'
The voice of an angel, John thought, his guardian angel, his savior, his downfall.
‚Sherlock?' he asked surprised.
‚You had a nightmare', he stated the fact. Yeah Sherlock loved facts.
‚Right', muttered John and without a second thought pulled the other man into a bone-crushing embrace.
Glad it was all just a dream.
Glad Sherlock was in no danger.
So damn glad.
Sherlock just sat there on his bed and held him for an eternity until John pulled reluctantly away and mumbled an apology.
‚It's all right.'
Awkward silence stretched out between them. No one moved, no one talked, no one did anything.
‚I...', stuttered John after a while ‚I... should try... to get some sleep. I've... got a job interview tomorrow.'
‚Right', said Sherlock.
No one moved.
‚Right', said John.
After a few more moments Sherlock stood up and John settled back into his bed. He was still shivering and shaking from the nightmare.
He closed his eyes.
He opened them again.
Sherlock hadn't left. He stood there, watching him beady-eyed with an unreadable expression.
Weirdo.
John tried to fall asleep again – which was kinda strange considering that he was been couldn't tell how long he lay awake - minutes, hours, days – when he felt the mattress beneath him shift. His blanked lifted shortly and then he felt a warm and surprisingly strong arm around his waist, followed by a warm body. Strong arms held him, securing him and driving his nightmares away.
Soon he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The coldness was gone and so was the shivers and trembling.
Sherlock might be arrogant, rude, strange and slightly mad.
Sherlock might be fascinating, imperious, pompous and not entirely safe or healthy to be around.
Sherlock might be a lot of things. But for John Watson he would always be one thing and one thing only.
He was Sherlock Holmes.