Hey guys! Here's Chapter 3! Let me know what you think :)
Chapter 3
John couldn't sleep.
Nor could he move. Every slight adjustment of his position created noises that were magnified by the stillness in the cabin. A slight shift was the rustle of bedclothes, the squeak of the mattress, or worse yet, the grating of metal from the bed itself.
The last boy must have fallen asleep at least an hour ago. As each of them had drifted off, John's feeling of anxiety had increased. The silence of being around so many sleeping people, each of them lost in their own world of dreams, was suffocating.
John had tried every sleeping technique in the book. Counting sheep was a failure. The sheep had just kept jumping, faster, and faster, and faster, until John's pulse was racing, and his eyes shot open from the panic. Equally disastrous was counting backwards. He was so worried that he would get to zero before he fell asleep, that the calming effects of the exercise were completely negated. Eventually he had just gone back to staring at the ceiling and trying not to move.
John remembered now hearing once that the best way to fall asleep was to think about one moment from your day. To build up from something basic, gathering all the small details and holding them in your mind's eye. He searched back through his day for the most striking memory. Was it his father, hungover, not even bothering to wake up to say good-bye, or was it Harry leaving without a backwards glance? These thoughts though were far from soothing; they were rough and chafed against John's emotions. He needed something happy, something calming. Maybe then it was the moment he had walked into the cabin, expecting to be excluded, but instead being welcomed with smiles and laughter.
John closed his eyes, but he did not see his new cabin of friends. Instead there was something more powerful; Sherlock Holmes. When John concentrated, reaching back for the most vivid image of his day, all he felt was the exhilarating terror of Sherlock's gaze. Those brilliant eyes were so full of cold contempt, and yet there was something deeper, a sparkling current, like the ocean frozen under the ice. They were transfixing, and John couldn't escape even within the confines of his own mind. No matter what memory John tried to picture, those eyes always appeared. He pushed back further and further, grasping at the tendrils of half forgotten memories, traveling down dark avenues full of shadowy figures, and searching for something, anything, more powerful than the gaze of Sherlock Holmes.
Nothing worked until unknowingly John opened a locked room in his mind; a room full of the suppressed images of a dark night a year ago. They came rushing forward now, all those images that John had carefully locked away, only to be visited in his nightmares. A swirling maelstrom of sensations and images. All fighting to be seen and noticed. A phantom pain seized John's shoulder, ripping and tearing at the flesh, and he sat up with a cry of pain. His eyes flashed open, staring at the dark around him, but seeing only the memories of his past.
John's breath came now in ragged gasps. He reached a hand up to his shoulder, fully expecting to feel blood seeping between his fingers, but instead encountering only his sweat soaked t-shirt. Not real then, they had been only memories, nightmares really. John lowered himself down to his pillow and fought to control his breathing. All around him his new friends lay sleeping, oblivious to the terror that had just consumed him.
John normally only experienced those memories while asleep, in terrifying nightmares that left him exhausted. But with the opening of that locked room, John now allowed himself to think of the real reason why he couldn't sleep. It had been floating in his subconscious all night, noticed but ignored. John was frightened. Yes, John Hamish Watson was scared. Not scared of the dark, or scared of the stirring animals outside. He was scared of himself. He was afraid that when he closed his eyes and let himself drift into oblivion that the nightmares would come. The nightmares of the accident that had killed his mother. And John knew all too well that when the nightmares came no one in his cabin would be peacefully asleep any more.
They would see John for the broken, fraying human that he was. And that was why John had come to camp. To avoid the sympathetic glances from those who knew too much about his past. He had wanted to get away from that, and make new friends who didn't know the source of his raw throat and dark circled eyes. A nightmare now would ruin everything.
John stifled the urge to beat against the wall in frustration. He sat up in bed, pulled the sweaty sheet down, and ran a hand over his eyes. Obviously laying in bed was getting him nowhere. Maybe some fresh air would do him good. And anyways, finally letting himself acknowledge his fears was going to cause a sleepless night. John sighed, the noise traveling across the cabin. Putting one leg over the railing, he climbed down, grimacing with every creak and groan of the metal bed frame. Despite the noise sounding unbelievably loud in his ears, no one in the cabin stirred.
John's feet touched the ground, and he padded barefoot across the cabin, sidestepping the various bags strewn across the floor. He glanced back once and saw Mike sleeping on the bunk beneath his. His back was to the wall, and he had an arm flung across his body, fingertips dangling over the edge. His breathing was deep and peaceful, and John felt a moment of jealousy. Mike just looked so… innocent.
Dismissing the thought with a shake of the head, John opened the door to the cabin, stepping out into the warm summer night air. He started moving towards a bench against the wall of the cabin intending to sit and let his mind calm when his thoughts were interrupted by a deep, baritone voice.
"An insomniac, or someone scared of their own imagination?"
John started, eyes searching the dark for the source of the words.
"hmmmm… the latter I believe. Yes, I remember you now. Standing behind Anthea in line. I said then that you were traumatized. Haunted by the images of your mother's death. I see now that I was correct. As only to be expected I suppose."
John saw him now. Sherlock was leaning against one of the support posts of the cabin. His dark hair tousled by the faint wind, and a faint smile highlighted by the moon.
Sherlock must have followed John's line of sight for he now said, "Waxing gibbous. Should be full in a few days time. The moon causes the tides you know." John said nothing, and Sherlock did not seem to expect him to. "Amazing though that something so far way can have such a profound affect on something we humans perceive to be so vastly large. Of course it can all be explained using angles and gravity. Logic can explain anything if used by the right mind."
John was confused by this shift in Sherlock's personality. Earlier he had been all sharp words and lightening quick deductions.
But now Sherlock seemed quiet, introspective even. It was as if he knew John was standing a few feet away, but he wasn't really aware of his presence. He looked as though he were lost in his own thoughts.
John spoke now, moving to sit on the bench furthest from Sherlock's leaning form. "How did you know, Sherlock? How did you know about the nightmares?"
"It's all there to see, if only you know where to look."
"That's not much of an answer."
"Is it not? I think so." Sherlock said nothing more, and John did not press him for answers.
John leaned back against the wall, letting his muscles relax. He found that he was not angry that Sherlock knew about the nightmares. Somehow he knew that the taller boy would not tell anyone. Mostly because Sherlock did not seem to be interested in other people, other than to make fun of them, and show off his intelligence. John's thoughts drifted back to the moments after Sherlock had first entered the cabin.
Levi had received the brunt of Sherlock's insults, as could only be expected. John remembered the hurt on Levi's face. It was obvious to everyone that Sherlock had managed to hit him just where it would cause the most pain. Sherlock had made some disparaging comment about the source of Levi's limitless happiness. Something about the harmful words of others, and Levi's need to make others happy in order to feel joy himself.
The mood of the cabin had been altered the moment Sherlock walked in, and not in a positive way. Glances had been exchanged between the boys, and eyebrows raised in questioning looks. Who was this boy, and how did he know so much? Eventually everyone had just come to the mutual silent agreement to ignore Sherlock and his strange comments, and Sherlock had fallen silent.
Now though John was confused, where had the boy of this afternoon gone? Because this figure leaning against the cabin support was certainly not him. Was this boy some sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Thoughts and hypotheses swirled through John's head, erasing the last vestiges of fear and anxiousness from his time laying awake in the cabin.
Meanwhile Sherlock stood immobile, his face an impenetrable mask. The silence grew, but John said nothing. This silence was calming, unlike the stifling atmosphere of the cabin.
Eventually Sherlock came and sat on the stairs. Even a genius has limits as to how long their legs can support their body weight.
How long the two of them remained like that John had no idea. Him on the bench, and Sherlock on the stairs. Sherlock did not even seem to remember that John was there.
Eventually John found that the idea of sleep was quite appealing, rather than the opposite. He rose to his feet, staggering a bit from the lack of circulation that comes from sitting in the same spot for too long. Yes, sleeping sounded good now, and John had the peculiar feeling that tonight there would be no nightmares. He would only get a few hours, but that was better than nothing.
Sherlock did not look up as John slowly made his way to the door. His hands were pressed together at the fingertips, and the index finger was lightly touching his lower lip. The position was one that conveyed deep thought.
John reached out for the doorknob when Sherlock spoke.
"Might want to massage those legs. I imagine they are hurting a bit from poor circulation." Sherlock did not even turn around.
"Er, ah, yeah thanks Sherlock I will." John paused with his hand on the door.
"Goodnight John."
"Night Sherlock."
John went in the cabin, leaving Sherlock sitting in the exact same position. That night he didn't have a single nightmare.
And there it is! Hope everyone enjoyed. Please leave a review and let me know your thoughts. Any questions or suggestions would be great! :)
