Hello Reader! This is my first JohnLock fanfiction so pardon my ooc-ness and spelling mistakes. This is in fact a friend's Holiday present and the theme was her idea, so full credit to her! This is a oneshot set in between season 1 and 2. Enjoy!
BANG! BANG!
That was the beginning. There were a few more bangs, quite a lot of shouting, then it seemed as though the bangs would never end. John didn't mind though; this was what he lived for: the blood rush, breathlessness, and exhaustion by the end of the day. John was born for thrill and since thrill never seemed to want John around, John would have to find it himself and cling onto it for dear life.
The bangs continued for a while until there was a great, big BOOM! More shouting commenced. Soldiers fell back. John was left to treat the wounded. Nothing devastating. The gunshot wounds were minor. The bomb didn't even look like it hit anyone, but looks can be deceiving.
Almost everyone could walk back to the camp on their own. The few who couldn't had a comrade help them after John did a quick treatment of the wound they received.
Before John returned to the camp himself, he and a few comrades did a quick look through to make sure no one had gotten killed. That's when John heard it - a low moan from where the bomb hit. Before John could even register what he had heard, he was kneeling by the man's side. His head was bloody and broken, his legs twisted at an odd angle, and when John was about to assess the long-term damage, the poor bloke started to cough up blood . John knew that the man wasn't going to be able to be moved alive much less last more than a few hours.
He called over the comrades that were helping him look and, because the comrades thought he was in danger, they were there in a flash. They were just as shocked as John was to see that someone had actually gotten hurt by the bomb that was so carelessly thrown by the opposing side. They sat there in silence for a few moments, all of them knowing that there was nothing they would be able to do, watching the poor man die.
John kept a brave face, but when the man tried to speak, John started to break. At first, none of the men could make out what the one lay dying was trying to say, then it became clear that he was asking for his parents, two girls named Abigail and Anne-Marie, a boy named Christopher, and women named Elizabeth. That is when John recognized the man. He was the one telling the others about his parents who died when he was a teenager, a baby sister name Abigail, a little brother named Chris, a wife named Elizabeth, and a baby girl named Anne-Marie.
John reached for the man's - Danny's - bloody hand and bit back tears. John lived for the thrill of the field and died at the thought of not being able to save everyone. This man - Danny - had siblings, a wife, and a baby girl that he cared for and they them. John? John had a drunken sister who he hardly ever spoke to. How was it fair that Danny - the man who lay dying - die and not he? John had nothing, Danny had everything.
John woke in a cold sweat and was shaking all over. He glanced at his clock which read 3:43am and groaned. It was the fourth night in a row that John had woken like this. Every time over a different haunting memory of the battlefield.
No getting back to sleep now, John bitterly thought to himself. Might as well have some tea.
John warily got out of bed and, as silently as he could, made his way across the room and down the stairs. He started the stove and put on the kettle. He sighed to himself knowing it was going to be a long day. John made his way over to sit in his chair but before he did he turned on the light. He almost shouted when he saw Sherlock sitting on the couch behind the coffee table.
"Jesus, Sherlock you almost gave me a heart attack!" John half-whispered half-said.
"This is your fourth night in a row up. You have had bags under your eyes for eight days now indicating restlessness when sleeping. You haven't visited your therapist yet which shows that you are either are trying to prove to yourself that you can handle this alone or you do not want me finding out about the nightmares. You haven't been eating as much which would make most lean towards the former. Which is it?" Sherlock said the second after his eyes flicked down John's body then back up to observe his face.
"Sherlock, it's too early for this. I am going back to bed." John said irritably sighing.
"No you aren't you have just put on the kettle." Sherlock said.
"Damn the kettle! If you don't want it to burn then you can take it off." John nearly shouted. It really was too early for this.
Sherlock didn't flinch. Instead he said, "We both know that the house will burn before I take off the kettle."
"Fine then." John said with his frustration growing. He then reached for the kettle to take it off the burner-without grabbing a mitt first. John let out a pained gasp and quickly turned on the faucet to run his hand under. As John turned off the faucet and dried his hand using a paper towel he asked, "Why are you badgering me about being up when you're up yourself?"
Sherlock was shocked when he saw John come out from the behind the door at the pool. There was no way John was Moriarty. There couldn't have been. Sherlock tensed more when he realized John wasn't Moriarty, but one of his victims. It didn't seem as though Moriarty was coming out any time soon. If John could just hold out for a bit longer. Then John tried something that ridiculously stupid. He tried to make a move to save Sherlock. Sherlock screamed for John to stop but it was too late. There was a deafening BANG and then-
Sherlock woke up and immediately tried to contemplate his dream. Sherlock Holmes didn't dream. Dreams were reflections of what the subconscious desires. Nightmares were things that the subconscious fears most. Sherlock attempted to understand what would life be like now if he had been to late to save John. Or if John tried to do something stupid like save Sherlock. Most likely both of them would be dead, but what if?
Sherlock snapped out of his train of thought when he heard John rustling up stairs. Fourth night in a row. Sherlock thought. He hypothesized that the recent events with Moriarty and the bomb triggered John's PTSD to resurface. Sherlock was surprised to see John's limp fail to return. Sherlock had nothing better to do so why not go bother John?
John sat in his chair with an exasperated sigh. He was tired, he wanted tea, and he had burned his hand. Sherlock saw John's obvious signs of annoyance and decided to be nice for once. He got up and-using a mitt as a precaution-put the kettle back on top of the burner. John kept his eyes closed whilst Sherlock worked. Once the tea was finished Sherlock poured a cup of it for John and held it out in front of John for him to take.
"What's that?" John asked skeptical.
"Tea." Sherlock answered getting tired of holding the mug.
"You made tea?" John questioned a bit shocked, but took the tea nonetheless.
"I didn't want the water going to waste. You've seen our water bill." Sherlock said drawing his hand back to his side and taking a seat in his own chair.
John scoffed.
"What?" Sherlock snapped deffensivley.
"Nothing. Nothing." John mumbled taking a sip of his tea.
"You haven't answered my question." Sherlock stated after a moment.
"Sherlock, I don't have to answer to you, you know?" John sassed.
Sherlock stood, walked a few paces towards the door, and stopped. "Transient insomnia can lead obesity, anxiety, depression, irratibility, lack of concentr-"
"Why are you telling me this?" John interrupted.
"You have the warning signs." Sherlock stated. "And you obviously refuse to see your therepist so that indicates-"
"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Sher- I don't need to hear this." John said getting up from his chair.
"You had a dream about Afganistan." Sherlock rushed as John started to walk back to his room.
"What?" John stopped.
"Who's Danny?" Sherlock asked turning around.
"How did you know what I was dreaming about? How do you know about Danny?!" John asked, his voice rising.
"You talk in your sleep." Sherlock answered simply.
"I do not- Sherock, how did you know?!" John was on he brink of shouting. "How did you know?" John said, his voice cracking.
"I didn't know, I observed."
"Sherlock." John paused. "How could you have possi-possibly known about Danny?"
"Last week one of our clients names was Daniel. When he requested to be reffered to as Danny you tensed indicating a rough past with someone of that name. You've been having nightmares all week and tonight while you were talking in your sleep-"
"I don't talk in my sleep!" John defended turning fully to Sherlock.
"-you mentioned the name Danny." Sherlock concluded.
"Danny-Danny was a patient-a patient I couldn't-couldn't save." John choked out. He started to look anywhere other than at Sherlock. "Sherlock, I couldn't save-I couldn't save him, Sherlock. I couldn't-" John cut off when he felt slim arms envelope his torso. "Sherlock, what are you-?"
"This is what people do isn't it? When they see someone else hurt they comfort them. I've seen it on the crap-telly you got me into." Sherlock explained. Sherlock knew exactly what it felt like not being able to save someone. To see someone die right in front of him and able to do a thing. It was an enemy, but regardless. Sherlock started to think about what would have happened if he John tried to do something stupid or reckless. If whoever had called Moriarty when they were at the pool hadn't called, they would be dead. John would be dead.
Sherlock's arms tensed. John gone? That wasn't-
"Sherlock?" John questioned. "Sherlock, are you alright?"
Sherlock hadn't noticed John had wrapped his arms around his neck. Sherlock hadn't realized that John had been resting his head on the nape of his neck.
"I'm fine, John."