Author's Note: Massive problem with writer's block, guys. The cure? Reviews. It'd mean a lot to me! Of course, Sherlock does not belong to me. It belongs to its rightful owners. I have to be honest, I'm not sure why anyone puts disclaimers in their A/N. If you think about it, the fact that this is 'fanfiction' means that it's already proof it doesn't belong to anyone on this site. Huh. It's the little things, mates. Anyways, please enjoy and I would be so ever grateful if you dropped off a comment. Rated T for minor language, but be warned. John's memory had me frightened, as well.
John's pupils shrunk as the sky lit up in white and fire. His body took an instinctive course of action and dove for the nearest cover, tumbling into one of his brothers in arms. Thankful for not being alone, John released the breath he had been holding and tightened his grip on the rifle. Under his helmet, John's eyes scanned the area, watching his others brothers fall limply to the ground, bloodied and frail. The need to help and cure them arose, but the fear for his own safety held his feet in place.
That was the problem with war. A man's sincere fear dawns upon them. It teaches those who are dull and lifeless.
John's ears rung and screamed, the noises much too loud. Still watching the horizon of enemies, he commanded his fellow fighter to fall back. He waited unconsciously for a response, but received none. Confused, he turned to face him, but his eyes fell upon a much more horrifying sight. He had been leaning on a corpse, rather than his brother. John's eyes widened and his heartbeat drove him near mad. The corpse's face was pale and chalky; half of it was blown to hell. John didn't fear the disgusting smell or the blood and bodily liquids. He feared the eyes; fully open with dead pupils that he had once seen happily laughing. The sky lit up once more and John shut his eyes, afraid to see anymore.
"John." A voice echoed in the doctor's mind. He opened his eyes a final time to see the corpse smiling humorlessly at him.
o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o
The first thing John saw was the ceiling, but his body curved immediately upon waking and sat him up. John was out of breath and a cold sweat had broken out on his face. Even in the darkness of his room in 221B, the whites of his eyes were visible in the dim moonlight coming from the single window. He grabbed the sheets tightly, attempting to vent his emotions, but to no avail. His breathing slowed and his heartbeat no longer throbbed in his head. However, he was still very much frightened.
"John."
John inhaled sharply through his nose and his head spun to the side to face a dark figure standing next to him, just above eye level. John rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times in order to reveal that the figure was Sherlock. The consulting detective was nearly invisible in darkness, other than the glowing skin and pale blue pajamas.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John breathed out, palming his forehead and shutting his eyes. "Just how badly were you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Ironic," Sherlock scoffed with a small smirk, falling back in the chair beside John's desk.
John raised an eyebrow after wiping the sweat off his forehead. "Come again?"
Sherlock crossed his legs and laced his fingers together, leaning his chin on them. He spoke quickly and precise, as if excited to release the information. "You started screaming forty-six seconds ago. That certainly woke me with a start, wouldn't you say?"
John was baffled. Shocked, really. More humiliated than anything, though. He wasn't sure how to proceed with this unexpected conversation. He tried to steer the subject away from him, without giving it much thought.
"You were sleeping? That's a first!" John was even able to force a smile, but it faded quickly. That corpse was also smiling. He was afraid. So horribly afraid. He wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to simply leave him be and let him stare into oblivion, but how could he do that without sounding so… pathetic? There was a long silence with John staring across the room at the wall and Sherlock was staring directly at John.
After what felt like hours, Sherlock spoke gingerly and quietly, "Look, John-"
"Don't," John interrupted hastily, his voice quivering slightly. He shut his eyes and rubbed them with his index finger and thumb. He didn't want to hear Sherlock giving him a lecture on how 'the past was the past'. He knew that. He opened his eyes to a much brighter room. His eyes became used to the darkness and he could see Sherlock's face. His expression wasn't what the doctor expected at all; it was solemn and understanding. It wasn't mocking or in distaste.
"John, you have managed to walk through Hell and return in an almost-decent condition," Sherlock complimented. Well, John wasn't sure if it was a compliment or an insult. "I imagine those who have walked through its fiery paths return with many scars; physical… and mental."
John blinked at Sherlock's attempt to understand. He wasn't sure what to say, what to think, even. Sherlock was trying to express kindness, which John appreciated wholeheartedly, despite the rising blush on his cheeks.
Sherlock finally pulled his eyes from John's, scanning the dark room. "To have come back from those… circumstances," Sherlock returned his gaze to John, "you should be far from embarrassed. Talking about difficulties is the first and foremost way to solve them."
A small smile rose on John's lips and he playfully asked, "That's why you talk to a skull?"
John didn't expect to receive another small smile in return. "That's why I talked to a skull," Sherlock replied aggressively. "I have you now. It is much more interesting to have a conversation with someone who can answer."
John chuckled, "I agree."
That was when John realized he had stopped thinking about his years spent in Afghanistan. He was focused solely on the ridiculousness of Sherlock. When he had lived alone, he had no one to talk to about different things. Only his mind, which would betray him too often. Sherlock never betrayed him. And John had a feeling he never would.