This fic is dedicated to my dear friend Micha, who unites chaos and security in one person.
This is a 221b fic, which means it has exactly 221 words and the last word begins with b.
Watson shifts uncomfortably in his sleep, memories of Afghanistan haunting his dreams. He is bolting upright, suddenly wide awake, suppressing his scream. It takes some time to get his breathing back to normal. He hides his face in his hands, weary, tired, but not able to get back into sleep again. The former soldier knows fully well they are waiting, the ghosts of people long dead, eager to pull him down into nothingness along with them.
He hears the annoying sound of Sherlock plucking on his violin - again. Watson sighs, contemplating to give his flatmate a lecture about proper times for playing, but decides not to. He is rather grateful the sound has woken him, interrupting his nightmare.
He gets up instead, limping down the stairs drowsily, heading for the kitchen. When the kettle is wheezing and he puts his shaking hands around a comfortably warm mug of steaming tea, he begins to feel better.
He leans against the kitchen door frame, listening to Sherlock, who is playing real music for once. It´s a sad melody, intense and touching. Watson keeps standing, not daring to move, fearing Sherlock will stop if he´s disturbed. Watson closes his eyes, lets the music wash over him, lets the music wash the nightmare away. He is smiling faintly, savouring the melody´s beauty.