Just because I found a comic depicting this and I wanted a fanfiction of it. A bit short, yes, I know, but deal with it.
Nightmares were one thing that John Hamish Watson was used to ever since the army.
He was a doctor, and if you didn't know, one of their worst nightmares is being unable to save their patients.
Captain Watson, we need you!
A million different calls from millions of different places, and he didn't know which way to turn. The dead scenery of Afghanistan was there every turn, and it didn't help the fact that he needed to hide, now, because there were shouts of hurt and pain and suffering and he could do nothing about it! Not to mention the fact that he was bleeding from his bloody shoulder and it felt like it was going to fall off.
Captain! He's bleeding out! We need you!
Gunshots. Great, just what he needed at that exact moment. More dead patients he couldn't get to and that would inevitably injure him further. There were more people, more red and suddenly there was a beeping sound and the last thing he heard was HIT THE DECK!
That one sentence echoed in his head before he woke up.
"Aghhhhh!" He screamed before he could keep it in and something next to him moved. It was Sherlock. They had started their relationship a few months ago, and now Sherlock insisted he sleep in John's bed (or vice versa). John really didn't know why.
There was a groan and a little bit of shifting and from under the sheets popped up Sherlock Holmes. His hair was everywhere and his blue eyes were opened the tiniest bit to allow John to see them.
"John?" Came the question. Sherlock blinked groggily and brought himself out more, to wake himself up.
"It- it's fine, Sherlock, just go back to bed." John's voice cracked on 'fine'.
"Mghf yff hsss nghmrgh," Sherlock mumbled and pawed at John with one hand.
"Sherlock, really, it's fine, go back to bed."
"John," Sherlock said, sounding a bit more awake now. "Come here."
Sherlock's open arms and warm part of the bed beckoned John and he snuggled in with Sherlock, feeling the long, pale fingers start to work their way through his short blonde hair. He sat like that for a moment and tried to calm his racing heart down, and put the nightmare out of his head.
"What was it about?" Sherlock suddenly asked, interrupting the silence.
"Afghanistan," John finally said.
"What happened there?"
"I... I got hit, with shrapnel, and a bullet, in my shoulder, and I couldn't get to any of my patients and they were dying and we were being shot at, and I... I couldn't help them, Sherlock! It was my job and I couldn't do it!"
He sobbed openly into Sherlock, all the while the hand was running through his hair, and he heard the continuous whispers, "It's okay, John, you're not there anymore, and it's not real anyways. I'm here, John."
John sobbed, because of his dead friends and his own wound that had disabled him until he met Sherlock, and because he couldn't provide the freedom for other countries that his had, and because they had died, because he couldn't get to them in time, because he was too slow and didn't deserve to help people like he wanted, and he was just a failure.
"You're not a failure," Sherlock gently scolded him, and John realized he had just said that all out loud.
"Yes," John sobbed. "Yes, I am."
The hand in his hair gently slapped him upside the head. "No, you're not, and I will have the Queen herself tell you that you are not a failure just because you got shrapnel in your leg while helping our country. Do you understand?"
John nodded his head and buried himself deeper into the Sherlock next to him. The mantra of words of comfort began again, and John Watson and Sherlock Holmes fell asleep in each other's arms.