AN – Many thanks for all your support and encouragement, it's really helpful to know what people like about the story. This part has grown rather longer than the rest, so I'm posting the first half now, the conclusion will be up as soon as I've tweaked it sufficiently!
4. The Nightmares (Because there was nothing Sherlock detested more than a problem he couldn't solve)
Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes didn't like a challenge. He lived for challenges, he positively sought them out, he absolutely relished them, he pined when they were absent, it wasn't too much of an exaggeration to say challenges were his life's blood at times they were the only thing that made him feel positively alive. Without challenges his daily life would become mind numbing boring and that was a fate almost worse than death.
What he didn't like was a challenge that he couldn't solve.
He knew every stage of Watson's nocturnal distress. At first, there would be the usual human sounds as the man settled under the covers, found a comfortable position and then his breathing would gradually slow into sleep. For some time he would sleep soundly. This stage was unpredictable. Sometimes it lasted as long as four hours, other times it could be less than thirty minutes. As yet Sherlock had been unable to ascertain any pattern.
Then it would begin.
In the dim grey orange light cast by the myriad of street lights that passed for darkness in central London Sherlock found himself drawn to the firmly closed door as Watson's breathing grew quick and shallow. His movements became agitated, sometimes a hand or foot making contact with the wall with a discernable thunk. Sherlock's mind helpfully filled in the details he could not see, the sheen of sweat on the man's forehead, the clammy palms, the rapid eye movement.
"You should go to him you know," Mrs Hudson advised him, one morning when John, looking tried and drawn, had left for work. "When he gets like that., I mean. It might help him. Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"
"Of course I am, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock assured her absently. In the rather telling silence that followed he looked up to see her regarding him with a disapproving expression. He smiled innocently at her. It did not do to offend Mrs Hudson. "What were you saying exactly?"
"That poor man," Mrs Hudson nodded in the direction John had taken. "The way he cries out, night after night. It's not right."
"It's a perfectly natural reaction to a stress of being wounded in action." Sherlock did his best to brush her concerns aside. "I'm sure his therapist has it all in hand."
"And you calling yourself an investigator," Mrs Hudson tutted. "His face is all pale and he has those big black circles under his eyes. You need to take better care of him. A nice cup of cocoa, that's what he needs."
Never one to reject a hypothesis before he had had the chance to fully test it out Sherlock made free with the catering department at Bart's and assembled the items required to make cocoa in his lab. On his first attempt, he scorched the milk ruining the sauce pan. On his second attempt he put a metal spoon straight into the hot milk and water he had just pulled out of the microwave and barely escaped a serious burn as the mixture erupted. By his sixth attempt he had turned to the internet for assistance and was carefully measuring out the component parts as if they were a scientific experiment
"Eureka." He murmured.
That night as John Watson sat on his bed and attempted to calm his rapid breathing and slow his racing heart he looked up in surprise as his door opened. The sight of Sherlock Holmes wide awake and still fully dressed at 3am wasn't in itself at unusual. But the slightly uncertain expression on his face certainly was. John imagined it had something to do with the ridiculously large stripy mug gripped tightly in his right hand.
"It's cocoa." Was Holmes only explanation as he set the steaming receptacle down on the bedside table. Adding helpfully, in case there was any doubt. "It's for you."
"I see."
John looked at the mug. Part of him was mortally embarrassed that his flatmate felt he needed cosseting like a distraught toddler. Another part that was still reeling from his nightmare felt slightly defensive. He had seen the worst humanity had to offer. That couldn't be fixed with a warm milky drink. But then he hadn't known that Holmes even knew what Cocoa was, never mind how to make it. Where had he got the milk? Not to mention that absurdly ridiculous mug.
"Thank you," He found he was smiling.
Carefully he picked up the mug and sipping gingerly, fully braced for dreadful burnt milk and bitter cocoa. To his surprise it was really rather pleasant.
"It's good. It's very good."
"Of course it is," Sherlock's confidence returned in full force at the praise. "You'll be able to go back to sleep now."
Left alone in his bedroom, John sipped thoughtfully at the rich mixture of chocolate and full fat milk and thought that in this instance, as in many others, Holmes confidence wasn't misplaced. For the first time in a long time, the idea of settling back under the blankets and surrendering to his own subconscious didn't seem quite so unappealing.
However, Sherlock's elation at his successful intervention didn't last long. He may have doubled the amount of rest Watson was getting each night, by enabling him to go back to sleep after the nightmares. But that was only treating the symptoms not the cause. Feeling slightly disgruntled at this realisation Sherlock pouted for a bit before he noticed that Watson always slept more peacefully if he dropped off in the armchair.
So, he watched a whole lot of more of that dreadful telly stuff with him, hoping the sheer tedium would do the trick, he played deliberately soothing tunes on the violin to lull him to sleep, he actively refrained from exploding anything when Watson was taking his rest to avoid waking him, but still the man stubbornly decided more often than not to take himself off to sleep in his own bed, which did nothing at all to address the issue at hand.
It was unexpectedly frustrating.
"So, how is he doing really?" Mike Stamford asked, the morning after he had been out for a beer or three with Watson in a local pub. "I mean, the cane's gone, the hand's stopped shaking, he's started dating and he's back to being as mad as a bloody hatter. But he's still seeing a therapist."
"It's the nightmares." Sherlock supplied.
"Ah," Stamford considered that. "Any idea what they might be about?"
"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock was at his most sarcastic. "Being shot?"
"I suppose that would do it," Stamford agreed equably. "And obviously the therapist's not helping. Or he wouldn't still be seeing her. Can't you do something? You seem to have fixed everything else?"
"I made cocoa." Holmes defended his actions.
"So, that's what happened to all the milk, in the canteen" Stamford smiled. The idea of Holmes concocting the bedtime drink was oddly endearing. But on its own it would hardly solve the problem. "You know, when my children have nightmares, I usually try to head them off before they become enough of a problem to wake them."
"Really?" Sherlock tried not to look too interested. It wasn't good for his reputation. "And how might a person do that?"
That night Holmes didn't hesitate. As soon as Watson's breathing changed he silently turned the handle and eased the bedroom door open. His brow furrowed as he surveyed the bedding, wrinkled and twisted around in a way that could not possibly be comfortable. Moving to the edge of the bed, he reached out a hand, letting it hover uncertainly in thin air before laying it carefully on Watson's arm and giving it a tentative pat.
"There, there." He realised he should probably add some thing else. "Go back to sleep."
To his surprise, Watson quickly settled under his touch. Sherlock felt an unexpected surge of warmth as the other man's expression smoothed over and slid back into a more restful sleep. Sinking down on to the bed, Holmes took in the resulting even breathing, slack expression, and stillness of movement as Watson now slept soundly with no small degree of astonishment. Who could have known it would be that simple?
He really was very good.
Except, of course, he quickly realised there was a flaw to his solution. It only worked when Watson was near at hand. On those nights when he slept on Sarah's couch or Holmes was unexpectedly called away from 221b Baker Street Watson continued to suffer from broken nights. Deciding John would sleep better if he was physical exhausted, wherever possible Holmes took a detour, went the long way around, ran as as fast as possible, leapt over rails and jumped across buildings.
However, to his chagrin he had neglected to take into account that Watson had previously been a career soldier. Once his body had re-adjusted to having a sound leg and a functioning left hand all those years of military drill and PT had come to the fore. His natural physical fitness had ensured that he could clear any obstacle and sprint across deserted car parks, as fast as the next man, even if the next man was Sherlock Holmes.
"He's still not sleeping well," Mycroft observed shortly afterwards on one of those occasions when he turned up unannounced at the flat to solicit Sherlock's help in some government crisis or other. "You really need to address that. We both know that your activities can have certain inherent risks. He needs to be fully alert."
"Dr Watson is not your concern, Mycroft." Sherlock's tone was clipped.
"I'm merely thinking of your welfare," Mycroft retorted smoothly. "And his well being, of course. That really was quite a nasty injury he sustained."
"Bullet to his left shoulder," Sherlock supplied. "Yes, I know."
"Then you won't be requiring this," Mycroft surmised, as he pulled a manila envelope out of his inside pocket and slid it smoothly across the table between them. "Or will you?"
Sherlock looked at the envelope. He immediately knew what it contained. Everything Mycroft's contacts had been able to uncover about Dr John Watson. Family background, schooling, further education, early career, military service, girlfriends, significant others, and most importantly the report on the shooting that ended his military career and all subsequent surgery, psychological evaluations and ongoing treatment.
His fingers almost itched to take it. Information was the key to helping Watson. Armed with that much background he could ensure that the man never suffered another nightmare as long as he lived. But he already knew John well enough to realise that the man would see this as a huge breach of his trust and privacy, enough to fracture their growing friendship for good.
"Piss off, Mycroft." He declared irritably.
"As you wish," His brother pocketed the envelope and rose smoothly to his feet. I'll admit you have made some significant progress in addressing his other issues. However, I think you may find his nightmares, rather more of a challenge, if I might offer a word of advice?"
"Would it make any difference if I said no?"
Mycroft carefully schooled his expression. Sherlock's tone had been anything but receptive. Yet he had not actually refused to hear him out. It was as close as he would get to his little brother admitting that he needed his help. He really must be quite concerned about his new friend. And that in Mycroft's opinion was a more heroic achievement on Dr Watson's part than anything he had achieved during his military career.
It would seem that Sherlock did have a friend, after all.
"You might find it advantageous to tackle him directly about his specific problem," Mycroft supplied, as he prepared to make his exit. "Have you tried asking him what the nightmares are about?"
