After a very long night at the Yard, Sherlock and John finally opened the door to their flat. Exhausted, and emotionally worn, John made his way immediately upstairs only pausing at the door of his bedroom to call "goodnight" down to Sherlock, who responded with a small "Hmph." John shook his head and went into the room, closing the door behind him.
Without even bothering to remove his clothes or shoes, John fell face forward into his welcoming bed. He glanced over and saw that the clock read 5:02am. He was supposed to be to work at 9am. Perhaps I'll call in. I'm getting too old for this. He didn't have much time to contemplate his age or state and how it affected his criminal pursuit hobby, because he was quickly pulled into a dream-filled sleep.
John was working quickly and effectively. He finished tying off the last stitch for the soldier he was currently working on, then quickly called out "Next!" It was hard to hear over the sound of bullets and screaming that was a battle so close by. Sand and dirt blew into John's face, and stuck to the sweat that was pouring down in response to the extreme heat combined with the stress of operation. Nurses were bustling about, moving soldiers to and from operating stations, handing doctors their necessary tools, checking vitals, or trying to be helpful in any possible war.
The war in Afghanistan was horrific, but then what war isn't? John was an army doctor, meaning most of his day were spent performing meatball surgery while a hailstorm of bullets was raining down only a few yards away from him. He was a good doctor, and he saved most of the soldiers that had been brought to him. But he was always somewhat detached, like the people he was working on weren't his brothers-in-arms. He had operated on enemy soldiers and ally soldiers alike, never really feeling much of a difference.
As the finished soldier was carried away, another was brought over for John to repair. He glanced quickly at the man in uniform. He was tall and lean, but currently his most prominent feature was the gaping wound in his stomach. John began to formulate a plan of action, calling out to his nurse for tools.
He had been operating for about 5 minutes, which felt like hours in the desert heat. Not once had John glanced anywhere above the patients torso. But something compelled him to do so, and as he did he felt a wave of nausea and disbelief. He knew that face, he couldn't distance himself from this operation. He shook his head, hoping that he was seeing things, and that this wasn't really him. But the face wouldn't fade, and the name on the uniform confirmed his horror. "S. Holmes" it read.
John's head reeled, his hands began to tremble. He couldn't think, couldn't act. Never had he been sick when he was brought a wounded man, but this man was different. Simultaneously he felt the urge to run but was glued to the spot. Try as he might, he couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's bloody and bruised face.
Somewhere off to his right side, John was aware that the nurse was saying something, but he couldn't make out the words. A loud ringing filled his ears, and every other sound seemed to fade away. He gripped tightly to the stretcher they had wheeled Sherlock in on. The world seemed to distort, blacken at the edges of his vision. But he was yanked sharply back to the present, when he felt the stretcher being pulled away from him. He shook his head to clear the remanents of the ringing and finally make out what his nurse was saying.
"Captain Watson, you have to let go. You have to move on. He's gone. I'll go get the next one." John heard her words, but he was having trouble piecing together there meaning. All he understood was that she was trying to take Sherlock away. Finally, the realization dawned on him. She wanted to get the next patient because Sherlock had died.
The captain, normally so removed, so emotionally uninvolved, sank to his knees, pulling the stretcher down with him. Sherlock's body rolled onto the ground next to John. He pulled the lifeless form into his arms and held it close, letting tears push through his closed eyes.
John woke with a start, sweating and shaking. For the second time tonight he had to will himself to calm down. He sat up in bed for sometime, just trying to focus on his breathing. 1..2...3...4 exhale...1...2...3...4 Inhale. Only a dream. 1...2...3... Once he was able to get control of his breath again, he started to remember every detail of the dream. No, nightmare. He felt himself begin to shake, and he allowed himself to fall back into bed and begin to sob.
While John had been having his nightmare, Sherlock was downstairs on the sofa, curled about himself. When John had took his leave to go to bed, Sherlock had decided to remain awake and read up on the subject of forensic chemistry. The textbook he had been reading, which was written in French, had fallen to the floor when Sherlock dozed off. He hadn't meant to of course, but physical exertion and mental overload had finally won out over his will, and he had drifted into the land of dreams.
Sherlock's dream was considerably happier than John's, though Sherlock might not care to admit it. In the dream he was kissing John. Their bodies were flush against each other, and John had wrapped his arms about Sherlock's thin waist, pulling him closer. Sherlock was surprised at how warm and comfortable he found this embrace, and he was wishing to be held even tighter. John's lips pressed repeatedly against Sherlocks, leaving a light tingling sensation all over his mouth.
Of course there is a downside to being the incredible S. Holmes, he is a very light sleeper and so his dream was cut shot when he was awoken by the sound of John coming down the stairs.
Author's note:
Hi, so second chapter here. I had my boyfriend read over the first few chapters and he thinks they are too short and lacking in detail. I'm going to try and expand this chapter as well as the next few as well. Please let me know what you think. I'd appreciate it.