Author's note: I'm a new fanfic writer, any and all comments are welcome :)
Someone was yelling, screaming. That was the first thing he heard when his ears stopped ringing. Shrill, piercing, and John shook where he was in the trench. Adrenalin raced in his blood, had been racing for the last hour, as he waited for the order to leave the trenches, knew it would be coming and he'd have climb out, run to anyone in need of medical attention. He quickly looked over the top of the trench, before dropping back down. The screaming was close, there was no pause, no intake of breath. Just continuous. His eyes burned, the dirt swirling around from the latest bomb. He couldn't see anything, just shadows racing, and still the screaming. The ground beneath him shook - dirt and rocks falling - as the next bomb hit. Static and then a crackling voice, his lieutenant. "Combat Medics - move -" He didn't hesitate. Still the screaming.
"John? John!" Someone was shaking him, shaking his shoulder. Screaming nearby, loud and shrill.
"Huh?" He blinked his eyes, found himself lying rigid in bed, hands tightly gripping the sheets. A figure loomed over his bed, screaming at him.
"Who is it? Get back!" He scrambled to sit up, to back away. His back was against the wall, tense, pushing for more space between him and the figure. The shrill noise pounded in his ears.
"Stop screaming at me!"
"John, it's Sherlock. That was you screaming." The deep cool voice was like water, soothing the headache beginning to pound at his temples.
"Sherlock?" John took in a long, shaky breath, held it for a moment, and let it out. Then took another. He squinted in the dark, seeing the tall figure for what it really was. Sherlock peered down at him, unruly hair and all, confusion, sympathy and curiosity warring across his face.
"John, I heard you screaming, so I came to see what was happening, but you were asleep. You've never screamed in your sleep before." Sherlock regarded carefully him, as if John was fragile, might break.
"Uh, it was a dream, Sherlock. A bad dream." John tried to relax, release the tension in his muscles.
"Really? What was it about? Your time in Afghanistan? I wonder what triggered it?" Sherlock looked thoughtful, his thoughts probably going a million miles an hour while John struggled to think coherently. The dream was beginning to fade, but the intense feeling - the urgency, the fear - was still clear.
Sherlock cut off his thinking curtly. "If you're feeling better now..." He made to leave.
"Wait! Don't go! You were already up as it is." John clutched at Sherlock's shirt, fully aware of what he was doing, but too terrified not to. He couldn't be alone. Not right now.
Sympathy won out on Sherlock's face. "I'll stay for now, just try to get back to sleep." He sat down on the edge of the bed near John's hand, blatantly exuding I'll be patient, look how patient I can be. John sighed and loosened his grip on Sherlock, but didn't let go completely.
"Thank you. It...it just seemed so real. And the screaming."
"Yes. Well, you're here now." It was said so matter-of-factly that John couldn't help a small smile breaking across his face. He closed his eyes, his breathing now steady and calm.
Sherlock watched him, as John's face slowly relaxed. His tan from Afghanistan had been fading, now barely recognizable except to Sherlock's trained eye. His light hair had been bleached lighter from the hot desert sun, and his eyelashes were a pale blonde, longer than Sherlock had thought. John hadn't lost the muscle from his time in the army. Sherlock knew that he went jogging in the morning, and had caught him doing push ups from time to time. John, ordinary John, but interesting in the ways he reacted - curiosity, admiration, courage, anger...
Sherlock blinked and wondered how long he had been sitting there, comfortably perched on John's down comforter. John had long since let go of his shirt. He stood up quickly, hesitated. Then lightly patted John's head before running his long fingers delicately through John's hair. Sherlock stared at John for another long moment, and then quietly left, closing the door and returning to the experiments he had left going in the kitchen.