John managed to walk up the stairs but accomplished it as if he'd never used his legs before. Sherlock made sure he cleared the stairs safely before sneaking off toward the living room. He kicked off his shoes before sinking his feet into the plush carpet and marched to the computer desk. He collapsed into the leather rolling chair and turned his attention to the black, polished rotary phone placed next to the flat screen computer monitor. He grabbed the phone, dialed his brother's number, and waited.
"Hello, Sherlock," he answered cheerily. "How is your vacation going?"
"Fine," he replied shortly.
"What's wrong, little brother? Something not up to your standards?"
"Nothing like that. You know why I'm calling."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't play with me, Mycroft. What were you and John talking about earlier today?"
"Sherlock, I-"
"MYCROFT!" he shouted, loud enough to make his point but not loud enough to carry.
"I can't tell you," he sighed.
"Why not?"
"John made me promise."
"As if that would stop you from telling."
"Yes, sure, but I wouldn't tell even if I hadn't promised. This is something you need to hear from him, not me. Give him time to think."
"Should I be worried?" Sherlock asked, panic surging.
"Calm down, little brother. Go to bed and enjoy your vacation. Good night."
Mycroft hung up before Sherlock could respond. He sighed and dropped the phone back on its hook, running a hand through his hair. He resigned, defeated; he would just have to wait and hope for the best. He left the room and dragged himself up to their bedroom, unsure of how he could face John without showing that he knew something. When he opened the door, he was met with a bit of luck to find John passed out on the bed, fully clothed.
"John?" Sherlock called to see if he was truly asleep. "John!"
He didn't stir. Sherlock smiled as he undressed for bed. John, while a strong man, couldn't handle liquor very well. When he finished undressing himself, he rolled the doctor onto the back to help him with his. He pulled of John's shoes and socks before sliding off his jeans with reasonable ease. His shirt was more difficult, having to sit him up to remove it. John's body rested limply in his arms, like an oversized doll, but he looked so peaceful in his drunken stupor that Sherlock couldn't resist planting a kiss on his forehead. He removed John's dog tags, the last item to remove, and held them in his palm, warm from John's body heat. The tags were the one part of his hallucinogenic nightmare that he didn't cringe at.
He carefully placed them on the nightstand, pulled back the covers on John's side, and tucked him into the bed. Sherlock crawled in on the other side and quickly fell into a fitful sleep. He fell into a nightmare about war.
He and John were soldiers fighting against faceless warriors made of rage. Sherlock was wearing a suit and John's dog tags, fumbling with an automatic weapon. John stood clad in his military uniform, killing the evil soldiers with perfect mark. Bullets flew at the two from every angle as the desert started brewing a sandstorm. Sherlock kept firing but he wasn't able to hit anything. As the faceless soldiers drew closer, John turned to him and said something but he couldn't hear because of the wind. He looked disappointed as he reached down, ripped the dog tags from Sherlock's neck, and left him to die.
Just before a bullet ripped through his flesh he woke up, heart pounding so hard it felt like it could've broken his ribcage. Sweat covered his body, causing it to glisten. He struggled, feeling restrained, until he realized the restraints were John's arms. In his sleep, he had managed to cradle Sherlock to comfort him, the detective seeming so small and human cuddled to his chest. In any other situation, Sherlock was as large and powerful as a god but not in that moment. The darkness seemed a little less dark as he buried himself in John's embrace and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Sherlock awoke to a loud crash and a pained groan. His eyes snapped open as he looked around the room for what might've fallen but there was nothing. John was still holding him but he was making noise like he was dying, with his eyes squeezed shut. Another loud crash and he groaned again. It was thunder, Sherlock concluded as he heard the soft tapping of rain on the windows. He pulled himself away from John and sat up in the bed.
"Have a headache?" Sherlock asked, staring down at him with concern.
"Yes, dear. I have quite the hangover," he replied softly, cringing at the noise.
"I'll go make you some tea," Sherlock said, stepping out from under the covers.
"You're going to make tea?" John laughed, regretting it shortly after as his head exploded from the movement.
"I can make tea! I've made tea," Sherlock said, offended.
"Good tea?"
"Tea is tea! Don't complain unless you want to make it yourself."
"No, I'm very grateful," he said sincerely. "Anyway, I think if I move I'll be sick."
"If you want, you can be sick in Mycroft's study," he suggested.
"I'd die on the stairs on my way," John replied, sinking into the covers.
"All right, I'll be right back," Sherlock said as he walked around the bed toward the door.
He didn't bother dressing as he glided down the steps in his blue and black boxers. He found his way to the kitchen, just beside the library, and was immediately overwhelmed by its size and the amount of appliances. The kitchen at the flat was so simple and he could easily make tea but he couldn't even spot a kettle from where he stood. Everything was black and white and obscenely clean. He didn't know what to do with himself. Luckily, in his dumbstruck haze the kitchen staff noticed his presence and appeared to help.
"Anything we can do for you, Mr. Holmes?" a middle-aged woman in a chef's coat asked.
"Tea. Please," he added after remembering the common social manners John had been trying to teach him.
"Any specific type?"
"Something good for a hangover…" he said, looking around again, lost in the sheer amount of technology.
The staff member understood and set to work. She rushed around the room, pulling a steel kettle out of nowhere, and returned to Sherlock with a mug of tea in five minutes. Sherlock nodded his thanks, carefully walked up the steps so he didn't spill anything, and presented the mug to John. John smiled and accepted the tea gratefully. As soon as the fumes hit his nostrils, he smiled.
"This was the kitchen staff."
"Maybe," Sherlock said, slightly disappointed in himself. "But you try and find your way through that train wreck of a room. There's too much useless junk."
"I know what you mean," John grinned, sipping his tea. "Come back to bed."
Sherlock walked around the bed and slid back beneath the covers, their warmth a shock to his body after walking around almost naked. He didn't snuggle up to John, instead he kept his distance and watched him drink his tea in silence. When John realized he was being watched, he eyed Sherlock for a moment before speaking.
"What were you dreaming about last night? Whatever it was, it didn't seem good."
Sherlock gazed down at his lap. He felt weak and useless when he thought about his fears. "I don't remember," he lied.
John looked at him suspiciously. Sherlock always remembered his dreams when he experienced them but he dropped it. If Sherlock wanted to talk about it, he would've. He just ended it with a simple, "You can talk to me, you know," and returned his attention to his tea.