A/N: A plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. Enjoy!
John's eyes shoot open. His hair is matted in sweat, and his pillow is drenched, as though he'd poured a jug of water onto it in his sleep.
He hates sleeping.
When he sleeps, the terrors flood his mind. Most of the time, it's watching Sherlock jump from the building, and if he's lucky, that's enough to jolt him from his sleep. Although sometimes, it goes on a bit longer, and he has to once again look at his friend's still eyes, and the blood pooling around his head.
Other times, it's of Moriarty. John is sure he had something to do with Sherlock's suicide – although what, he still doesn't entirely know – and he'll dream of him coming to the flat to shoot a bullet through his brain.
Occasionally, he's treated to a nicer dream, in which Sherlock comes back. But it ends up being just as bad as the nightmares in the morning, when he has to face the fact that such things are only a fantasy.
He glances at his watch. Four in the morning. He decides to get up and start his day early, even if he'll only be running on three hours of sleep, making the bags under his eyes even darker. But it's better than having to confront the workings of his subconscious mind yet again.