Woo, second drabble! This one has been written by Wessi and is slightly more h/c than the last. Thanks Wessi! Go read her other stuff! Tis awesomes. Neeway. Hope you enjoy this one. The next will be slightly more insaney so savour the sanity while it lasts XD loves to all reviewers. We'd love to know what you think XD xXxXx

The worst thing about it was the smell, the god-awful stench that clung to the heavy canvas all around them, to their clothes, to their hair, even to their skin. The heat of Ghazni in the midday sun didn't help, adding an element of body odour to the already nauseating scent of blood, and death. You never got used to it. Not even if you spent every waking hour in the stiflingly hot hospital tent, not even if you had been there for the past six weeks, before the sun came up, until after it had gone down. Not even if you slept there.

Watson glanced towards the entrance of the tent. Another three coming in. He looked around, seeing if they had any room, or any doctors for that matter. They didn't. He rolled his eyes. 'Bloody war…' He glanced at the man on the operating table. They could use his bed now at least. Poor boy, he only looked about twenty, it was ridiculous, the offensive they were on now. Half the soldiers weren't trained for this kind of combat, and the other half was dead. Still, it was in the interests of the empire, and their Queen. They had to continue. He called an orderly over.

'This one's gone, we need to clear the bed,' he muttered then sighed and moved on to the next bed, glancing over the man lying there. Nothing they could do. He smiled half heartedly at the man, 'Someone will be along in a moment. Hang in…'

Gunfire. Close. Too close. He ran out of the tent, looking around. They were under attack, everywhere was chaos, troops running out of their own tents, being shot down and bayoneted almost as soon as they were out. It was the first attack he had seen, terror coursed through him, flooding his mind with panic. He had no idea what to do, a brilliant surgeon, brilliant in the training sessions, a brilliant marksman, and he had no idea what to do. He should know what to do. He should be in control, if not of the situation, at least of himself. He breathed in deeply, then out, then in, out, in, out. He was hyperventilating, panicking, he couldn't breathe. Gunfire everywhere, people screaming, shouting, dying.

A man laid on the floor, a few feet from him, a splinter of wood from… somewhere, through his right thigh. He was stirring now, moving about too much. He was making it worse. Watson started towards him as he began to attempt to remove the shard. 'Don't!'

Holmes got up, he had never been one for spending the whole nights asleep. He wandered around his room, bleary eyed, still half asleep, searching for his violin, then… 'Don't!' .Watson spoke sharply in the next room, but from the panicked edge to his friend's voice he could tell it was not the usual vaguely irritated objection he was so used to hearing from the doctor. He went over to the wall he shared with his friend, and put his ear to it and counted three minutes. Watson was hyperventilating; his loud breaths interspersed with quiet, but still panicked muttering.

He had heard enough. He left his room silently, making sure his door did not creak as it was sometimes accustomed to. If it was a night terror he shouldn't wake his friend. That could be dangerous for both of them. He walked quietly into his friend's room, past the meticulously tidy desk, marred only by an open notebook filled with illegible shorthand, past the curtainless window and over to the bed. He watched the sleeping form of his friend. Aside from his irregular breathing, and occasional muttered words, he looked fine, but Holmes knew Watson better than that. The man was usually a sound sleeper, if there was any change to this routine, there was something wrong.

He touched the doctor's shoulder, still scarred from their last case. Watson reacted fiercely, swatting the hand away, shuddering. This shaking did not stop, instead becoming so violent the whole bed began to shake. Holmes breathed in sharply. He didn't know how to deal with this… He could make huge assumptions based on the mundane in real life, but he had no idea what his friend could be dreaming about that was so…

Unless… He was dreaming about his time in the army. That was… interesting. He would have to research this more… But for now? He placed his hands firmly on Watson's shoulders, and started to speak.

'You know, old boy, that was at least four years ago now," he spoke as calmly as he could, "Right now you're in London, which is possibly more traumatic, but obviously not as overtly scary… though you are in a room with me which could be equally terrifying. But I do hope not, I may be somewhat irritating at times, but I'm not likely to shoot you. I hope you realise that I have no idea if this is helping…'

Watson struggled violently against his hands, kicking and punching the air. Holmes moved quietly out of the way, narrowly avoiding a punch in the eye. He positioned himself behind his friend, and this time caught one of his friend's hands.

'Watson I'm not attacking you, I hardly ever do that, and when I do it's usually for your own good, or because I'm drunk… But I'm not that drunk now. I am being completely honest with you as well, which I don't often do. You are dreaming.' He carried on, not saying much, just talking; trying to wake his friend without shocking him. He checked Watson's pulse. It was still racing, at least twice its usual rate.

Watson reached the man, and knelt beside him. He had completely ignored his warning, and his leg was now bleeding profusely.

Watson rolled his eyes, 'I did warn you,' he muttered, pressing the man's wound with one hand, tearing his shirt with the other. He wrapped the fabric around the man's leg, above the wound creating a tourniquet before rising again, looking around for something… anything else he could…

A bullet hit him in the stomach, knocking him off his feet. For a moment the world around him became bright white as he was blinded by the pain. Then he could see again, and it was worse. The stabbing pain in his abdomen blurred his vision, meant he had to concentrate harder to see. He was dying. He was sure of it. He no longer had the strength to stem the flow of blood from the wound. In his head he was already imagining what the bullet could have done; which vital organs could be torn, how that would kill him… But even through this there was something at the back of his mind. A reassuring murmur that everything would be alright…

Holmes continued to speak to his friend. The struggling had stopped, but the shaking had come back. Holmes was overwhelmed with the urge to stop it, no matter how he had to stop the shaking. He gripped Watson's hand tighter, but it made no difference. He put his hands back on his friend's shoulders… nothing. The shaking was getting worse. Watson's body was wracked with convulsions, Holmes wondered for a moment if there might be an underlying illness causing this, rather than simply a dream, but he dismissed the notion. Theorising was not helpful right now, he could do that later. He sighed. Only one option let. He paused for a moment, considering, before enclosing his arms around his dearest friend in a bear hug, constricting his movement.

They stayed like that for around half an hour as gradually the shaking stopped. A few minutes later Watson opened his eyes still breathing heavily, clearly still terrified. 'I… I'm in London? It's ok? Everything's fine?'

Holmes looked at his friend, somehow childlike in that instant, pleading, 'It is indeed old boy. Though I think you may have woken Nanny, so it won't necessarily be ok in the morning.'

Watson nodded, his breathing becoming steady. They stayed still for a few moments, before Watson pulled away, 'Holmes?'

'Yes?'

'What have you put on my head.'

'A tiny hat.'

'Holmes…. I…' he sighed 'fine.'

They were silent. A minute passed. Watson looked at the clock.

'It's morning,' He spoke quietly, sleepily.

Holmes nodded, and stood up, 'I'll go and see how cross Mrs. Hudson is that you woke her.'

Watson sighed, watching his friend leave.

'Sherlock,' He spoke just as Holmes was about to close the door. 'Thank you.'