A/N: This is just a little bit of fluff (with a dash of angst at the end) that I pounded out in an effort to get my writing mojo back. Enjoy!
He ran through the rocky Afghan hills, searching for the last wounded man that he knew was out there. Six, he told himself, there were six men on patrol and we've only found five. Where's Bates? He scrambled up a rocky hillside as voices echoed behind him, shouting in English and Pashtu. Bates had to be somewhere around here. He saw a boot sticking out from behind a large boulder, and raced toward the fallen man… only to find that a land mine had split Bates in half.
John Watson awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in his bed, dripping with sweat. Another nightmare, but at least this one had ended before the shooting started. He sank back onto the mattress and buried his face in the pillow until he could get the tears under control. (Can't have my new flatmate thinking I'm a coward.) He practiced the deep breathing techniques Ella had taught him, and after a few painful minutes, flopped over onto his back and wiped his eyes on his pajama sleeve. Within five minutes, it became clear that he was still too keyed up to sleep, so he threw on his robe and decided to go downstairs.
Having lived at Baker Street a mere 48 hours, John still wasn't sure of his flatmate's sleeping habits. He'd had a roommate at Bart's who woke if John so much as changed positions while he slept, and he'd had a tentmate in the Army who remained asleep while six other soldiers were having a poker game five feet away. John figured that a posh boy like Sherlock was more towards the light sleeper end of the spectrum, and thus he make a Herculean effort to be quiet.
As he made his way downstairs, he heard no sound coming from his flatmate's bedroom. (Good. Sound asleep, then.) He was about to flip on the sitting room light when he walked into a pair of feet and nearly toppled over. As he righted himself, the doctor looked down and saw Sherlock sprawled on the couch, face buried in the cushions and feet dangling off of one end. John took a moment to wonder why his flatmate was sleeping here when he had a proper bed. Then he decided that was sleeping on the couch was probably the least odd thing Sherlock had done since they'd met, and he stopped wondering.
There was just enough light coming through the curtains for John to pick his way through the sitting room and find the kitchen. (Warm milk. That's what I need.) As he retrieved the milk carton from the refrigerator, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound from the next room.
Sherlock was snoring.
When John was a boy, his Granny owned an English Bulldog named Gladstone. She said she'd purchased Gladstone because he reminded her of her late husband. ("But he's wrinkly and fat and snores!" Harry said. "Exactly!" Granny crowed.) And like most bulldogs, Gladstone's snores were legendary. The whole house knew when Gladstone napped, and it didn't matter how much they adjusted the volume on the television or how many closed doors were between them and Gladstone; they would hear the snorting and flapping of his jowls loud and clear.
Until now, John had never met a human who could equal Gladstone at snoring.
He turned toward the sitting room and cocked his head as he tried to square the image of the well-dressed detective who took over crime scenes with flair and bravado with the image of the pajama-clad lout snoring on the sofa. Silently, he began to chuckle to himself. (I bet there are a lot of people who'd pay to see this… but I probably can't get to my phone without waking him.)
Hearing Sherlock's snores reminded him of the nights he'd spent at Granny's as a small boy, Gladstone stationed at the foot of his bed. The corners of his mouth tugged up at the memory, and then the smile turned into a yawn as he remembered how tired he was. (I guess I don't need the milk after all.)
John Watson tiptoed back to bed and slept soundly the rest of the night.
A/N: I am in debt to LiveJournal user folha5eca for posting floor plans of 221B!