After the Fall

by katydidit

He could tell when John was dreaming about the war and when he was dreaming about The Fall. Tonight was another Fall dream. In fact, every night since Sherlock had made his cautious return, the doctor had been plagued by Fall dreams.

"Sherlock, no!"

Before John can do anything to stop him, Sherlock's body is flying through the air. He sees his limbs circling, flailing in freefall, searching for any handhold to save him. The sounds are in his ears over and over again, the sickening sound of his best friend, his lover hitting the ground. He is running through quicksand, encased in marble, trying to get to him but prevented at every step of the way. His Sherlock dies there on the ground at the foot of the building, bleeding and broken and so utterly alone.

John opens his eyes miserably, and he moves to sit up, wipe the sleep away, maybe get up and make some tea (or something a bit stronger) when something in the bed next to him catches his eye. It is Sherlock himself. John exhales slowly as his brain finally catches up with his body. It was a nightmare. The whole ordeal one long, overly-real nightmare that had finally—finally—come to an end only a few weeks ago. He settles back into the mattress, curling himself around Sherlock's warm sleeping figure. He is unable to fall asleep, unwilling to risk the nightmares even now that he is holding Sherlock.

Sherlock frowns in the darkness. He could tell when John was dreaming about the war and when he was dreaming about The Fall. Tonight was another Fall dream. In fact, every night since Sherlock had made his cautious return, the doctor had been plagued by Fall dreams. The first night he hadn't actually awakened, just lain there sobbing in his sleep until, unable to bear it any longer, Sherlock shook him awake. They had clung to each other that night, each seeking the comfort and the familiarity and, of course, the love that the other gave them. The following nights had been filled with similar instances—John would wake with a gasp or a shout, or he would simply moan his way through the nightmare as it ran its course, and then he'd move closer to Sherlock and fall back asleep.

Sherlock hated that John had the nightmares, but there was nothing he could do to stop them, short of insisting that John speak to someone—a therapist. The idea was laughable. They would both just have to wait for things to settle back into routine, wait for John's subconscious mind to work through his trademark trust issues. Sherlock knew he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon: he just had to wait for John's mind to understand that too.

Sherlock lay very still and kept his breathing steady as John began tracing patterns into his skin. There was little physical evidence of his Fall, of course—which meant that John was touching him simply to touch him. He was reassuring himself that the dream was simply a dream.

"Sherlock?" His voice was soft, apologetic. It cracked with sleep and made Sherlock want to turn around and press John down against the mattress, kissing the pathetic sound away. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Could you...tell me again?"

The second night, Sherlock had explained exactly how he'd done it. He pointed out to John what he'd thought he'd been seeing, what he'd actually seen, who was who, and then explained what had happened later, behind the scenes. He didn't talk about what he'd spent his time doing after Molly had patched him up—indeed, he quite wanted to forget that himself. As he spoke, he rolled over onto his back and pulled John closer. With John's head on his shoulder, his breath caressing his chest, his arm slung around his hips and Sherlock's hand in the soft blond hair, that day couldn't have seemed farther away. And that was exactly how they needed it.