"I never knew daylight could be so violent"
John knew.
In Afghanistan, gun barrels had winked at John as they expelled their rounds, reflecting the light from the blazing sun and the blinding sand. Late-night skirmishes and bombings lit the night with their flaring fire, but it was the morning sun that illuminated the extent of the damage. What was previously hidden by nighttime shadows or obscured in moonlit murkiness was harshly exposed by the bright rays reflecting off of sand and streets. In the light of day, illusions can no longer veil reality.
John's nightmares were almost ironic. The fantasies took him in the nighttime, while gentle moonlight filtered through the small window, distorting his reality into the desert hell baking under the scorching sun. Even in total darkness, John was haunted by daylight.
Sherlock recalled the first time he had awoken John from a nightmare, in the early days of sharing the flat. He had been awake, mulling over a case. The doctor's strangled cries and the dull knock of wood against drywall had broken his reverie and arroused his annoyance. Sherlock was not surprised by the sudden sounds. He was aware of the nightmares. The lack of restful sleep was always more than a bit obvious the morning after a nightmare, when John took his coffee with a haggard face and haunted eyes.
They had never discussed John's nightmares previous to Sherlock's interference. John hadn't wanted to talk about them and Sherlock had been relieved to avoid the tense and emotional subject. The nightmares simply weren't an issue until they were forced into the open by Sherlock's meddling. Although, he reflected, it didn't seem as though he had much of a choice. Usually John woke himself from his nightmares. On this particular night, the hazy fantasies maintained a strong grip on John's reality. When Sherlock could no longer stand the incessant noise, he went to wake his flatmate. Mrs. Hudson would have been jarred awake by the noise shortly if he didn't.
He padded up the stairs to John's room, his feet moving automatically to avoid all the creaks. When he pushed open the doctor's door, he was struck by the image of John's sweat-sheened torso shimmering, illuminated by the bands of soft moonlight that that escaped the curtains hanging over the window. The hazy glow highlighted the contours of his bones and muscles painfully contorting and bulging beneath his skin as he writhed in terror. Sherlock turned on the overhead light and began gently swatting John while hissing his name, trying to wake his flatmate as quickly as possible.
John woke with a shout and shifted his panicked gaze between the light and the man looming next to him. When he came off the hot spike of adrenaline and took a calmer reading of his surroundings, he had heaved a long sigh and squinted up at Sherlock. He had then snapped at Sherlock to "turn off the goddamn light" and enquired as to "what the hell he was doing." By that point, most of the panic had ebbed from John's features, but it lingered in the stiff bearing of his left shoulder and the lines around his mouth and eyes. Sherlock had promptly complied, coolly answered John's questions, and retired to his chair in the living room, once again considering his case.
The following morning, when John came down for breakfast, he initiated a conversation with Sherlock about his nightmares and the best way to handle them. Sherlock learned about the nature of John's dreams and made a careful note to never try to wake him with the light again. John had said it was like trading a sleeping nightmare for a waking one, for which there really was no escape.
Author's Note: This is just an experiment in descriptive writing, I guess. I know the ending was a really quick, unsatisfactory wrap-up...This used to be part of a larger piece, and this section was just a reflection on the past, but I didn't like the direction the whole was headed and ended up abandoning it. But...there's value in putting yourself out there to be criticised, so if y'all have anything to say, good or bad, let me know!
