Set after 'Blind Banker' but before 'The Great Game'

Sleepless nights

Monster

The funny thing about the monsters under the bed was you'd think that they'd be the ones scared of Sherlock Holmes. As for the monsters out there in the streets of London…well…they were scared of Sherlock Holmes as well.

So when the gunshot went off at 2am John's immediate thought as he lurched awake was that the monsters had got over their fear.

Grabbing his handgun he hurtled downstairs only to draw up short in the main lounge. Sherlock was standing there in all his bathrobed glory, aiming a gun at the wall where a fresh bullet mark marred the surface.

First there was the relief, followed by the almost crippling anger for getting him so worried.

"What – the – hell?"

"John," Sherlock smiled at the wall and took aim. "Good morning."

"Holmes…" came the warning hiss as John tried to control his anger.

"I – couldn't – sleep," came the slow measured response. The gun jumped and the bullet thudded into the wall. Sherlock pulled the gun back into his body and turned to John, brow raised enquiringly. "What?"

"You said violin Sherlock. You said bloody violin!" exploded the ex-army medic.

"That was for thinking, this is an entirely different matter."

The detective strolled over to his desk and dropped the gun down, starting to rummage though the drawers.

"Oh – really?" John choked out.

"Yes," Sherlock said ponderously. "One of those wretched things you have all the time…." He trailed off and picked the gun up again.

"That I have?" John's voice rose slightly in surprise.

"Yeeees," Holmes glanced around the room with a puzzled look on his face. "How tiresome. I appear to have run out of bullets." He looked properly at John for the first time. "May I…?"

"No," John interrupted before the request for his gun was even completed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How dull."

"Anyway," John continued as Holmes took his search into the kitchen and the doctor trailed behind. "What did you mean 'wretched things I have all the time'?"

"I believe…" Sherlock dug deep in the cutlery drawer, examined a fork and tossed it into the sink, "the common term is nightmares."

Watson blinked and shook his head slightly. "Wait a minute…how'd you…?"

"I hear you John. Thrashing around. Crying out." Sherlock lifted his head and met John's eyes. "Not to mention the pacing at all hours and the frankly tired appearance you have most of the time." For a moment the slightest flash of emotion lingered there in the storm blue eyes. "About the war no doubt." He turned his attention back to the drawer before making a satisfied 'Ah!' and pulling out a clip.

Watson didn't even blink at the odd storage facility as Sherlock loaded his gun, nor did he remark that most of the time he looked tired because the tireless detective kept him up all night on cases, doing things like comparing the book collections of dead men, for example.

"So you had a nightmare? You?"

Sherlock twisted his head to look at John.

"Yes, I had a nightmare…now…" He powered towards the doorway the doctor was standing in but was brought up short by the smaller man standing in the way, eyebrows raised and arms folded.

Sherlock let out an exhale of breath and looked irritated. "Yes, odd I know, especially since I have been told that I don't have a conscious. Imagine my distaste to discover I must have since I appear to have a subconscious as well." He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes but the good doctor didn't seem about to move. It appeared he was waiting for something else.

"What?" the detective snapped.

John raised his chin a few millimetres and flicked his eyes away and then back.

"What was…" He paused and cleared his throat, curiosity wrinkling his forehead, and asked quicker, "What was it about?"

It felt to Sherlock like he had been doused in cold water. His eyes widened slightly and his face became a shade paler.

"What?" he asked again, this time a little quieter, a little hoarser, wondering why his throat was so dry.

"Your nightmare," John explained slowly, "what was it about?" He may not have Sherlock's quick deductive skills but he could tell when he'd touched a nerve.

There was silence for a beat and in that beat Holmes regained his composure. A quick condescending smile flitted onto his face. "John." There was a faintly patronising air that the doctor didn't really care for. "Do you see this gun?" He held the weapon up for examination. "I am firing this," he slanted the weapon, "so that I don't have to think about that." He tilted his head to one side, stare cutting as his eyes glinted sharply. "Am I understood?"

Basically that meant 'I don't want to talk about it'. The doctor sighed and gave an almost imperceptible nod, stepping away.

Sherlock billowed through the gap and once again took aim at the wall.

"Are you going to fire that thing all night?" John demanded.

"Hmmm," Sherlock steadied his hand. "Problem?"

John made a frustrated noise. "I would quite like to sleep."

"You wish to hurry back to your nightmares so soon?" Sherlock asked languidly.

John set his jaw as the cloud of annoyance swept over his face.

"Yes." Absent-mindedly he rubbed his injured shoulder. "The gunshots don't help."

Anyone who'd been paying close attention would have seen the flicker of emotion across Sherlock's face as his focus fell from the wall. His stance shifted and the gun dropped a mere centimetre lower. John however wasn't paying attention. He was already turning back upstairs.

"Night," he uttered carelessly and then he was gone.

The gun wavered in Sherlock's hand.

"Good night," he muttered and aimed surely at the target. Just the one then. He would fire just the one. As the bullet jumped from the gun and smacked the wall he imagined it thudding into the shadowed dream figure who aimed the crossbow at John. In his waking moments at least he didn't have to watch the bullet miss as the bolt buried itself into John's chest.

Sherlock smirked at the wall.

"Got you."