The trouble of post traumatic stress was not the returning to the city, the noise that may put him on edge, the constant feel of being back at war. No, that wasn't the problem with John Watson. The trouble came in the form of nightmares; vivid, shocking nightmares formed from his near death experience in Afghanistan. The sudden flash of images, fast and broken as the shouts of his comrades pounded heavily against his ear drums, growing louder and faster as memory pain coursed through his veins. He would wake, sweating and breathless, staring up at the ceiling instead of squinting against bright sunlight within the comfort of his room within 221B Baker Street. However, ever since moving from his bedroom and into Sherlock's, nestled comfortably at Sherlock's side, had the nightmares halted...or so he had thought.
The rain fell throughout London that night, the droplets hammering hard against the window panes of 221B. Despite the late hour and the ugly weather, the city outside was still buzzing like a midnight hive of nocturnal bees. But inside the apartment all was still and quiet for a change. Normally, Sherlock would still be up and about at this time; busy finishing an experiment, busy working on a case, or his mind was just so hectic that it forbade him sleep, but this time was different. Instead of having to gently sneak into bed, careful not to wake his lover, he had decided to go to bed on time allowing his lover to spoon against his back, his head rested between his shoulder blades as the duvet cocooned around them.
"Not now John, it's far too late for that." Sherlock muttered sleepily, not bothering to open his eyes as the feel of his partner's fingers clawing against his bare back woke him from his slumber. But it seemed that John was persistent tonight as he continued to squirm into him, odd, normally John took the hint and gave up. Besides, it wasn't like John to wake up in the middle of the night...nor to even try and wake Sherlock when sleeping because of its rarity. Something had to be wrong.
Cracking open his eyes, Sherlock pushed up using his elbow, the covers slipping from his torso as he twisted to look over his shoulder. John was sweating, the duvet tangled around his limbs as he thrashed and writhed. His head lolled from side to side as broken syllables of words fell from his quivering lips. Sitting up properly in order to face the other, Sherlock quickly glanced him over.
A nightmare judging by the amount of struggling and sweating,
The sleep talk and the sweat also suggested vivid or violent images...
Memories perhaps...
No he was an army doctor...most likely...
Post traumatic stress induced dreams, probably recurring but had ceased since sleeping in this bed because of the sense of a safe environment. Possible trigger: unidentified.
"John" Sherlock called, gently shaking John's shoulders in an effort to wake him. John's eyes flew open, shocked and surprised, lashing out at the purposing threat. Sherlock instinctively caught hold of his wrist in order to avoid the jab to the face. John struggled having not recovered from his nightmare. Sherlock needed to calm him down, he knew that, but comfort was not his forte and that caused him to flounder.
It hit him. He could remember having nightmares himself as a child; he could remember climbing from his own bed and finding his way into his elder brother's back when they got along. Mycroft had always read to him, the same story over and over until it was drilled into his head and he fell asleep again. What was that story, he knew he could remember, he could remember anything he wanted to.
"'Will you help me plant the wheat?' asked the little red hen" Sherlock said calmly, loosening his grip on John but not totally letting go.
"'No' said the rat, the cat and the dog. 'Then I shall plant it all by myself' said the little red hen, and she did" His voice was deep and gentle as a soothing nature within him emerged. John continued to squirm and mutter beneath him as he spoke, but the struggles were less violent.
"'Will you help me cut the wheat?' asked little red hen?"
"'No' said the rat, the cat and the dog. 'Then I shall cut it all by myself' said the little red hen, and she did" Rolling off of John, Sherlock sat up with his back against the head board, his arms around John's form as he pulled him up against his side. He eased more into the comforting role, forgetting his previous uncertainty and disappearing into a world of his own.
"'Will you help me make the flour?' asked the little red hen?"
"'No' said the rat, the cat and the dog. 'Then I shall make it all by myself' said the little red hen, and she did." Sherlock smiled slightly at the corners of his mouth as he felt John start to calm. His fingers brushed his hair soothingly as the other hand moved to caress his shoulders, lingering slightly on the white bullet scar mounted on his shoulder.
"Will you help me make the bread?' asked the little red hen"
"'No' said the rat, the cat and the dog. 'Then I shall make it all by myself' said the little red hen, and she did." By now Sherlock knew that John had calmed and was fully aware of his surroundings... and of the fact that Sherlock was telling him a children's story but Sherlock could not find it within himself to stop.
"'Will you help me eat the bread?' asked the little red hen"
"'Yes' said the rat, the cat and the dog. 'No' said little red hen 'I will eat it all by myself' and she did"
There was a pause. The two lay for a moment, John pulled against Sherlock's side with his head nestled on his bare chest with Sherlock's arms around him. John tilted his head slightly so that he could regard Sherlock softly. Their eyes met briefly before Sherlock shifted his pupils away.
"Don't mention it. " He said with no indication of emotion on his face. John smiled a tiny, sleepy smile as his thumb rubbed against the knuckles of the pale hand enclosed loosely around his wrist.
"I didn't know you were quite the story teller." It was a gentle tease but nevertheless, Sherlock still shifted to sink back down into the mattress and turn his back on him. He was tired hence making him grump and no doubt a tiny bit embarrassed at being caught.
"As said, don't mention it." was the reply thrown sleepily over the shoulder as the duvet was tugged up under his chin. John grinned, spooning against Sherlock's back and coiling his arms around the other's slender waist. He dipped his head to rest between his lover's shoulder blades.
"Good night Sherlock" he muttered before falling back into dreams.
A/N: A short requested by a friend on Tumblr and inspired by a video on youtube of Benedict Cumberbatch reading the Little Red Hen. It's just a bit of fun really. If you ever want me to write something for you, submit your request either on my personal tumblr, my writers tumblr (preferably the writers tumblr) or send me a private message to my account. Hope you enjoyed.