Title: Untitled
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: PTSD (military related).
Spoilers: None.
Characters: Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson.
Word Count: 1600+
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC.
Summary: John suffers in his sleep. Sherlock suffers by interruption. Mrs. Hudson suffers by proximity. ( Can be read as pre-slash, or simply friendship.)
Sherlock is in the middle of a late night experiment - testing the adhesive powers of certain homemade glues under the stress of gravity- when he hears it. A low, incoherent murmur filtering through the hallway from the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock ignores it and attaches another tea cup to the underside of the kitchen table. Careful to keep the thick glue from dripping onto the edge of his dressing gown.
He ignores it because John is upstairs. Laid flat by a vicious flu virus plaguing the majority of Scotland Yard. A small cough the previous evening had morphed into a wet, harsh barking by morning. By the time the two men had returned home that night, John had been deep in the throes of fever and chills. Utterly miserable. And utterly useless to Sherlock's work for the time being.
Mrs. Hudson had bundled John up, pressed two nondescript pills into his hand, and practically tucked him into his bed. She had a few choice words for Sherlock on her way back downstairs that Sherlock had barely taken note of except to nod and spill a few empty agreements from his mouth until he heard her flat door shut behind her.
And then he promptly forgot about everything not connected to his experiment.
Now there's a muffled voice, rising in volume before abruptly ending.
Sherlock continues to ignore it. It's not unusual for John to talk in his sleep, to have nightmares involving his military career and occasionally his current line of work. Just because John thrives on the adrenaline rush, Sherlock does not assume that he isn't haunted by some truly horrifying memories. Dark experiences. Regrets. Things that tend to make themselves known only in the most vulnerable of states.
But Sherlock is confident that John is capable of handling them on his own. He never disturbs John during his night terrors and does not intend to start sticking his nose in now. Not when he's so close to discovering which adhesive is the culprit in their newest case. No matter how interesting it would be to observe. Physical manifestations of mental afflictions are always so fascinating.
However, Sherlock has already discovered that watching John suffer is neither satisfying nor enlightening. Merely... unsettling.
So he moves on to the next container of sticky, foul smelling goop.
A yell. A crash of glass.
Sherlock grinds his molars and paints the bottom of a tea cup with glue. Sticks it beside the dozen others already lined upside down on the underside of the table.
Click of a door lock. Mrs. Hudson's voice calling up the stairs." Sherlock? What's going on?"
Nothing, Mrs. Hudson! Sorry to wake you!" Sighs quietly. Sherlock waits until her flat door shuts, the lock sliding into place. Then rolls to his feet and strides into the hallway. Takes the steps two at a time. He's irritated. Concerned, as well, but mostly irritated at being interrupted and he hopes he can get back downstairs before the first tea cup loses its grip from underneath the table. It's important to record the time lapsed between adherence and release.
Sherlock isn't certain what he'll find when he opens John's bedroom door. Obviously, something broken. Most likely the lamp on his bedside table judging by the sound of the crash. Hopefully, John hasn't cut himself in the process. One hand pushing the door wide open, Sherlock stands in the doorway for a few moments, surveying the dimly lit scene.
As he suspected, the silhouette of the lamp is missing from the far bedside table. Along with the small digital clock radio. And John is thrashing about in the blankets, a confusing mix of words and half words and animal-like whimpers of fear erupting from his mouth every few seconds. Sherlock recognizes a few of the murmured phrases.
Intense fear and aggression- military call signs- active combat- deployment. Flash back heightened by fever.
Broke lamp without waking- unable to wake fully- doped to the gills. Stuck inside the nightmare due to heavy medication.
Sherlock quickly decides that calling from the doorway is not going to do him any good. Will, in fact, only waste his time that could be spent in his kitchen-cum-lab. He chooses the quicker, more effective plan.
Direct contact. Risky, but the only option.
A few steps and Sherlock is at John's bedside, hand reaching out. He's prepared for a strike, most likely a blind swing at his face. Thankfully John's pistol is not beneath his pillow, but stashed away properly in the desk drawer in the sitting room. A bit of foresight on Sherlock's part. Sherlock raises his arm to protect his upper body. He firmly grips John's left shoulder -careful of the scarring- and gives a shake. " John!" Loud whisper in the dark. " John, wake up!"
He is not prepared for John's garbled shout. Or the sudden lunge around the middle that tackles him to the ground.
Sherlock has the breath knocked from him, back of his head bouncing on the carpet. A heavy weight presses him against the floor, pinning him, practically smothering him. The heat emanating from John is unbelievable, the fever raging unchecked. Sherlock begins to struggle, careful of the man above him, but struggling nonetheless, against the arms and chest and hands attempting to hold him down. John responds by curling tighter around Sherlock's shoulders and head, words pouring non-stop from his mouth. John's hand awkwardly presses a wad of bedclothes against Sherlock's midsection.
It takes Sherlock several long seconds before realization sets in and he lies still on the cold floor. John is covering him. Protecting him from whatever hellish war is playing out in his memory.
Not only protecting him, but attempting to save his life. Sherlock stares at the dark figure that raises up just enough to give him a bit of room to breathe easier, glazed eyes half lidded. " Stay with me... Sta-Hold dis! Hold dis!" John's voice is rough, from the illness, from the strain. Slurred by the drugs. Sherlock takes the tangle of bedding from John's grip and keeps it in place on his stomach as ordered. Apparently, he is suffering from a rather traumatic abdominal wound in John's dream.
He should physically wake John. Wake John up and get him back into bed. Get himself back downstairs to collect his data. Time the failures so he can piece together the next part of the case.
Sherlock should wake him. This is... not interesting.
But it isn't dull. Not in the least.
Sherlock watches John perform a clumsy pantomime of combat triage over his sprawled form. Notes the steadiness of his hands despite the attempts to use imaginary medical supplies. A true soldier, a medical man, through and through.
And notes the tremor in John's voice. " Is'alright, Ollie. G-going to get you outta here... please, dear God, dear God..." Tiny stammer, shaking breaths. Panicked. Another stream of bitten off military speak. Calling for pick up.
Sherlock doesn't like listening. Doesn't like watching. But he can't help but observe.
Ollie- short for Oliver (Harry/Harriet, but I doubt there are many 'Olivia's on the front line)- soldier- nickname implies certain level of seniority and fondness on John's part- tone implies certain amount of responsibility taken on- most likely younger than John at the time. Rooky taken under John's wing.
Focus on midsection- lots of 'bandages'- lots of pressure- great urgency in tone- massive injury to internal organs in abdominal area- most likely explosive in origin. Fatal strike.
Something hot and wet dripping onto his face. Sherlock loses his line of thought as John leans down, resting his sweaty forehead against Sherlock's at an awkward angle. Frighteningly hot. John sobs quietly. Tears and snot smear across Sherlock's skin. " So s-sorry, 'Msorry..."
And Sherlock wonders just how long ago this occurred. How long has John repressed it? Or has John's subconscious chosen it to express a newer fear, a more recent emotional trauma?
A muffled crash downstairs. Porcelain breaking on the hard kitchen floor.
Sherlock mutters a curse under his breath. His tea cups are falling. John flinches. Two ticks later and Mrs. Hudson's voice calls from two stories below. " Sherlock? Really now!"
Apologies!" Sherlock shouts toward the open door. Practically into John's ear, who startles at the loud voice and jerks upright. Flushed face still wet. Gaze a bit clearer. Sherlock continues to lie on the floor like a proper casualty and observes his friend's rise from the depths of delirium.
John looks about the room, obviously confused, and finally settles his gaze on Sherlock. " Sherlock?... Are you... stealing my blankets?"
" No."
" Ta."
Sherlock sighs and sits up, tossing the bedclothes back onto the mattress. He's actually a bit amused by John's conclusion and seeming acceptance of Sherlock's simple reply. Sherlock gets to his feet and manages to get John off the floor. For someone his size, John is deceptively heavy, though very malleable in this sleepy state.
Sherlock rolls the man back into bed, sloppily arranges the blankets over him. Pulls an exasperated face as John immediately buries his face into the pillow and babbles incoherently. Knows John will most likely not even remember this little episode in the morning. And there is no reason for Sherlock to ever bring it to his attention. Even if he hasn't deleted it in favor of something more relevant by sunrise, which is highly probable.
Right now, Sherlock's only concern is getting back to his kitchen to see which adhesive failed first. If he hurries, doesn't waste time washing off the sticky fluids drying on his cheek, then perhaps he can-
A series of sharp cracks. Tea cups shattering.
John jerks in his sleep, breathing labored.
Mrs. Hudson's door slams open. " SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock grinds his back teeth and heads down the stairs to snatch a nicotine patch from the medicine cabinet. He needs one. Maybe even two. For the lecture from Mrs. Hudson, the night of playing nurse for John, and the inevitable reset of his experiment in the early morning hours.
end.