I wake slowly to the muffled sound of distress beside me. John writhes in some unknown agony, his sweat soaking the sheets as he gasps for the air that seems to be being starved from his lungs.
I heave my eyes open and drag my sleep-heavy limbs from the bed. Stumbling blindly across to my violin case, I pull out the glossed instrument and, stepping just outside the door into the living room, I place it against my neck and shoulder. I set the bow against the wood and slide it softly across the strings.
The gentle music floats through the air, beauty clashing with the pain-filled gasps from John's lips. But - as it did last night and the night before and even the one before that - the violin wins.
The gasps and cries of the war-dreams John suffers gradually fade into silence, until the night is once again disturbed by the rustle of bedsheets and the scuffle as bare feet pad over the carpeted bedroom floor.
I turn to the window watching headlights race by as John's tired hunched figure is dragged in an almost zombie-like state into the living room.
He sighs behind me, "Sherlock..."
The gentle tunes of the violin stop abruptly as I separate the instrument and its bow, before spinning to face the guy I love.
"Yes, John? Did I wake you?" I frown, "Well, I am sorry, but sleeping... it's just such a bore."
"You might think so, but I'm really rather tired!" He replies, a whisper through the darkness. Oh, John, my darling, don't I just know it. His eyes are surrounded by a brush of midnight-blue, the shade of the sky outside, and his sweat-drenched hair sticks up everywhere, mussed by his tossing and turning. "It's gone-three, Sherlock. You don't need to practise every night - you need to sleep - you never do. And so do I! Some of us have an actual job in the morning, saving actual real-life people!" He hisses, a shimmer of doctorly concern fluttering through his angry tone.
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my dear John-" I ignore his not-so-subtle dig at my cases, and nod to the coffee pot I put on last night on a timer for 3am, just visible in the soft glow of the streetlights. "-I have coffee," Maybe he thinks it a coincidence that I always practise at this time, but I know his sleep schedule - it's always now that he needs rescuing from his dreams.
I launch into a loud, springy tune composing as I go."Sherlock," He protests, "Stop that!" I ignore him.
"Sherlock! I have to sleep or I'll kill someone!" I merely let his anger fizzle to itself and begin to whistle along to my instrument - I'm beginning to quite like the song. Maybe I should note it down?
"Stop it! Every night! It's unnecessary, loud, and frankly, the height of rudeness!" I just stare at him as the bow dances over the strings.
"And you only just realised, John? You're just describing your favourite boyfriend." I give a cocky smile, though his words sting - but it's better than the alternative of admitting why 3 o'clock is my favourite time to practise. He'd be so embarrassed. I do worry about him, of course I do, but since he refuses my help all that I can do is wake him constantly, under the pretence of being the inconsiderate insensitive dick that the general public see me as.
He groans, and stumbles to the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug-full before staring into it dubiously. "No eyeballs, right?" He checks with a careful frown. I'm surprised, normally he fights more than this; I guess he really is tired.
I laugh, "No, no! Not today. I already put them in the microwave." He nods, begrudgingly, and takes a sip, grimacing as the strong black liquid burns a trail down his throat.
John slumps into his armchair and tucks his legs up in a very not-John way: something he picked up from Sarah - or was it Mary? Whichever the last of his girlfriends was before we got together.
I transition gently into a lullaby as I see the exhaustion hit him. He sets his mug onto the coffee table and sighs softly, twinging something in my heart, before drooping his head onto the arm of the chair as he resigns to my playing.
I play long into the night, until the birds begin their tune, and I can cease mine and set the glossed wooden violin back into its case, ready to come out again tonight.
(Based upon prompt #1749 by .com - "Sherlock 'practises' violin at 3 in the morning to wake John when he notices he is having nightmares. He lets John get angry because he's rather that than explain why he did it.")
