"Watson!"

The harsh, dry, dusty air blew over the Afghanistan ground. He was hiding behind a clutter of rocks, which were the only thing that stood in between the lines of life and death, along with his gun that he and the other few men among him with faces caked with mud and dust held tightly to their chest, fingers on the trigger. Silence hung over air, and John closed his eyes and waited.

"WATSON!"

Blood; there was so much of it, and the loud bang of gunshots and bullets flying in the air. He could see the soldiers next to him laying on the ground, and their blank eyes staring up at the merciless sun and breathing their last breath, fingers stained with sweat and blood and John was making it worse, by killing others too, even if they were on the enemies side, other people with families and children and their blood was on his hands and-

"JOHN WATSON!"

He was a doctor, for God's sake, and he couldn't save the people around him who were dying, so many people dying. John could feel his heart beat like a drum and the sweat all over his face, and he feel something fly past his ear and burying itself deep in his shoulder. He can feel pain blossoming, and when he reaches to feel it his hand comes back red, covered in his own blood and he feels himself fall to the ground and he thinks he's going to die, he is going to die, so he closes his eyes and thinks Dear God, please let me live, and the only thing he can think is pain, pain…...

"JOHN WATSON!"

And John wakes up in his own bed, gasp caught in his throat, and finds himself clutching his blanket. His forehead is covered in sweat. After he catches his breath, he looks around the room. The blank walls stare back at him. The window near his bed is the only source of light in the room, and John looks outside of it to see the array of buildings and the sounds of cars and people.

The nightmares about his war still haven't left, even after he moved out and gotten a flatshare with a genius, that gets high on nicotine patches and keeps eyeballs in the fridge. And the fact that for the first time in a few years he pull out his gun and killed a man, (even though he was a serial killer,) didn't help his nightmares.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes and laid down again, willing himself to go to sleep.

After a few minutes, the door to his room creaked slightly open and let some light in from the other room outside. John sits up only to see the stupid, arrogant genius he decided to share a flat with staring down at him, leaning against the door frame.

John sighed slightly in relief. "What do you want?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes and twists his lip slightly. "I heard noises."

"Well." John mumbles, turning his back towards Sherlock and laying down on the bed once more. "It doesn't matter. Go away and sleep, or play with human body parts, or...smoke, whatever it is you do."

"I don't smoke," he argues, pulling down his sleeve. "Nicotine patches, remem-"

"Yeah, alright, I get it." John huffs and pulls his blanket over his head. "Go and let me sleep."

Sherlock crosses his arms and leans against the doorway, observing John. "You were dreaming about the war again." It wasn't a question; it was a statement, and John curses himself for letting him move into a flat with an annoying genius for the billionth time that day.

"Yeah, genius deduction, and I'm fine, just...leave." John forces himself not to turn around to see the smug grin over the bastard's face, the one Sherlock makes after he know's he's right.

Sherlock pauses and stares down at him, and John shifts uncomfortably at the silence. After a few minutes, Sherlock walks over to the other side of the bed silently, and pulls up the blanket and lies down on the bed next to John.

"Hey-Sherlock, wait-what are you-people don't usually do this-don't-" John argues, but Sherlock ignores him and puts his arms under the pillow and begins to close his eyes.

John stares hopelessly at him, wondering if he was strong enough to lift Sherlock up and drag him outside. After a moment, John decides to just sleep, because he's too tired to deal with a grown up man that acts like a five year old. He pulls up the cover and drops his head onto his pillow, and his eyelids begin to droop.

He hasn't had any nightmares about Afghanistan ever since.

Romantic Johnlock or totally 100% platonic bros? Up to you to decide.

Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed this short fic!

I'd be honored if you left a comment, but if you're busy being chased by zombies or fighting some an evil army of dragons and somehow had the time to check this out, don't feel the need. I'm still very honored you read this.

Thanks for reading!