***A.N. Hi there everyone! I'm sorry for such a long absence (until recently I'd had very little time to write and very little will to). But I'm back now and hitting it off very ambitiously with a 64-prompt challenge, in which this is the first. I'm hoping to post up one or two every fortnight, but that may have to expand to every month or so. :P I don't know. Anyways, this is just a really short Oneshot-ey thing, to be part of a series of drabbles. :) Enjoy! Also, I would love reviews. They're really lovely and I really appreciate them, even if it's just to get pointers or to correct things. Thankyou!***
2 a.m.
John gasped and rolled over in bed, his eyes wide and his mind uncomfortably alert. His bullet wound was causing him distress, inflicted years ago now in another life, another time, in Afghanistan. The thin bed sheet stuck to his sweat-beaded skin like a tissue dipped in honey and the hot, smoggy London air wafting through the open window did little to help.
The night wore on and John's eyes tried to focus upon the half-formed shapes of his bedroom. Small piles of clothes littered the floor and his mat cast a dark shadow where it had bunched up. The darkness was broken by a slowly breathing chink in his curtains, allowing the dimness of the room to be filled with swaying, deep blue shadows.
Watson shifted to face his alarm clock, noticing with only the slightest amount of care that it was 2am and he should, if the painkillers had actually worked, already be in a cloudy state of unconsciousness. But the twinge was too great in his old wound, the dull ache keeping his mind sharp and all too aware of the old memories that his body refused to forget. In fact, the longer he stayed awake, the worse it seemed to be getting. He moaned softly and curled his knees up closer to his chest as hot bolts of pain sizzled up his spine.
This was exactly why he didn't like the warm weather. It seemed to exacerbate the usually dormant aches and pains. Bursts of light blurred his eyes and he gasped, curling his toes up involuntarily to defend against the pain. He tried to think it away, to reason the pain into submission, but to no avail. The throbbing increased in his arm and his head felt as though it was going to split down the temples. His eyes were blurring over and his breathing shallow.
Through the pounding of his head, John heard the whisper of sheets and felt the delicate caress of long, cold fingertips like cobwebs sliding over his shoulder. John's already tense body jerked slightly away from the new stimulus and the soothing sensation stopped. The pain redoubled and John could barely think.
"John?" The tentative whisper was filled with concern.
"It's- My shoulder- It hurts- It burns…." He whispered back, his eyelids squeezed together to try and shut it out.
"Oh John …" The rustling of sheets became louder as the tall, dark haired detective sidled his endothermic frame in around that of his loyal companion. He placed his arm around John, and the touch of his cool skin against the doctor's seemed to have an almost instant calming effect upon him. Sherlock's head nuzzled him from behind and john let out a long relaxing breath.
"Better?"Sherlock's question was slightly muffled, from sleep and also his mouth being buried in the corner of John's neck and shoulder.
"Better," he half-sighed contentedly. The heavy breeze caressed John's clammy cheek and he could feel Sherlock's chest pushing gently against his back with every slow breath. The vague tickle of Sherlock exhaling against the nape of his neck was calming.
With a soft sigh, and the cool touch of the detective to keep the pain at bay, John finally drifted into a relieved sleep.