A Little Night Music
A/N: Consider this an interlude to my other story even though it is in no way related. It's an idea that has been floating around for a while in my head, so I decided to write it down.
When John awoke to the sound of bullets, those were the worst nights. He would sit up gasping in his bed, his body covered in sweat as he tried to contain his breathing to a normal rate. Sometimes a hoarse yell would escape his throat.
The first time this happened, Sherlock raced to his room, thinking someone was breaking in. When he saw that it was only John he left the room quietly, not wanting to embarrass the man further. He didn't go far though, he sat outside the door, leaning against the skirting board until he was sure that John's breathing had been reduced to normal.
From that moment on, he knew. He knew whenever there were nightmares. He could tell, from the abrupt movement that said John had woken up from the grips of Afghanistan.
One night when it happened he had his violin near him. It had never occurred to him to actually attempt music at such a late hour. He picked through his repertoire for a piece. As he pulled the bow along the strings gently he felt himself becoming calmer. He stopped, and listened. Johns breathing was still laboring, he could hear it faintly. So he kept playing, it was a fairly long piece and when he finished he simply went on to another.
The music reached Johns ears merely minutes after he'd woken up. It was the same melody every time. Slow, calm, serene, the very opposite to the battlefield. He let himself sink back into the mattress of his bed, the night music serenading him back to sleep.