A/N: Let me preface this by saying that this story took a weird turn. Sometimes when I write, the story takes a turn that I never expected it would and I surprise myself. Bear that in mind when you read. Thanks!
I run down a hill, screaming and explosions engulfing my senses. At the base of the hill, I'm met with a mass of mangled flesh. Those left living shriek my name and reach out to me, their pleading faces slick with blood. My comrades crawl towards me, pulling at my legs and making me fall. I notice a man lying next to me. I grab him to see if he's alive when he bursts into flame. The others combust in turn like echoes and melt into the grass. Smoke rises from the remains and solidifies into the upper half of a naked man. His skin is mangled and burnt and he holds a gun pointed at me. I barely have time to scream when Sherlock shoots me in the shoulder.
There is a hand the same shoulder and I shove it off, shimmying away from it and curling into myself. "John! It's just me," the owner of the hand says. I blink to adjust to the darkness and look to see Sherlock sitting on the edge of my bed. "You were making loud noises and I came in to see you thrashing," he tells me. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, just a flashback turned nightmare," I mumble, trying to play it off like it was nothing. "No big deal."
"It is a big deal if you're having flashbacks again," Sherlock counters. He shifts so he is closer. "I'm worried about you, John."
"Me? You're the one with the marred chest and obvious psychological damage from that incident and the preceding solitude, not to mention-"
"Shh," Sherlock coaxes. "Shh. Calm down, John. You've been traumatized as well; you did watch me kill myself. And the war..."
We sit silently for a few moments. I think of something, anything to say, but come up with nothing. Finally, Sherlock lies down next to me.
"What're you doing?" I ask, taken aback.
"I'm going to sleep with you," he declares.
"What? Why?"
"In case you have any other nightmares."
"I'm fine Sherlock. Really."
"Really, you're not. Now go to sleep, Doctor. Dream of tea and woolen jumpers."
I sleep soundlessly for the rest of the night and wake with my head on Sherlock's chest. I quickly sit up and immediately wish I hadn't as my vision temporarily blacks out. I wonder how long I've been like that. Sherlock is still sleeping soundly, and it's a wonder he hasn't woken in pain yet. I blink rapidly and press a finger to my temple and wait for my vision to clear again. When it does, I get out of the bed slowly and walk to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
As I wait for the water to boil, I think on what Sherlock said last night. That he's worried. That I need watching over. It's Sherlock who needs help, not me. Right?
The kettle wails and I pull it off the stove, pouring the water into a mug. I think more as I wait for the tea to steep. If Sherlock was confusing before, it's nothing to the damn enigma he is now. I grab the mug to add cream and sugar, but inexplicable pain stabs my scar and I drop the mug. It shatters and spills at my feet, and suddenly the dark brown tea turns dark red blood, and the mug shards turn into the corpse of one of my best friends from the army. I stare at him in disbelief while another soldier grabs my arm and drags me away.
"Come on, Watson!" he screams, right before he's shot in the head. Brain matter splatters on me and leaves me frozen until more shots are fired. I run with the rest of the men until I fall when a bullet hits me in the shoulder. I scream and hold Sherlock tightly.
"Shh," he whispers. "It's alright. You're safe. There's no war. This is 221B. You're okay. You're okay."
"My friends, Sherlock," I whimper, "my friends."
"I know," he says. "But they're safe now. You're safe."
I bury my face in Sherlock's shoulder and try to control my breathing and swallow back tears. But with the memory of the day fresh in my mind, I can't help it. Luckily no one walks in on us; they'd have a sight to see: John Watson crying like a baby and clinging to the illustrious Sherlock Holmes.
Time is irrelevant. Sleep comes when I can't focus any longer. Food and drink happen against my will. I can never be sure if I'm fully in reality anymore. Sherlock tells me that it's been a year since he came back, but I don't remember asking a question. Plenty of time, I heard a doctor tell him, for the past to fester and take over. I constantly relive the war and Sherlock's death and the endless solitude. I remember Sherlock apologizing to a mother's child, telling her I can't control myself or my actions and he is terribly sorry that I hit her. Then the girl and her mother both turned into Sherlock and all three jumped of the hospital roof, splattering on the pavement.
I used to know what was real and what was not. I used to know day from night. I used to understand. Now I can barely control myself. When I'm not at war or watching people commit suicide, I find myself crying and clutching to Sherlock. When this happens, I can be sure I'm in reality. He always tells me I'm safe, that he's there and it's okay, but all I believe it that he is there. I remember waking up to see him sitting at the window, his face in his hands. Then I fell asleep again.
Sherlock tells me it's been three months since I last asked.
Sherlock tells me it's been a year and a half since this started.
Sherlock tells me I've been in a coma for a week.
Sherlock holds my hand and cries.
A doctor tells me the hallucinations and flashbacks shouldn't happen ever again.
Sherlock puts a blanket over me.
Sherlock yelps and cries when I finally manage to croak out his name.
Sherlock tells me that it's okay, that he's here.
A doctor tells Sherlock that I will make a full recovery.
Sherlock smiles for the first time in my coherent memory.