December 18: "Don't mention the war." (from Riandra)
Sherlock Holmes had assumed when he'd taken Watson along with him on this case out of the city that sleeping in the same room would not be so different from sleeping in the same flat. After six months, they had lived together long enough that the initial awkwardness of sharing rooms with a stranger had long since worn off. And the room had two beds, which did away with any potential awkwardness regarding pointy elbows or personal space.
When they went to bed that night, Watson in the bed near the window and Holmes nearer the door, Holmes fell asleep quickly and slept soundly, at first. At some point during the small hours, though, he gradually became aware of a variety of small noises: a grunt, the shuffling sound of bedsheets on bedsheets, a small cry, a sniffle. As Holmes drifted towards wakefulness, he realized the sounds were coming from his companion. He opened his eyes and rolled to his side. A narrow swath of moonlight from between the not-quite-closed curtains cut a sharp line across the twitching and murmuring figure on the bed beneath the window. His face was pale and glistened with a sheen of sweat, brow furrowed and jaw locked.
Holmes stared for several beats, frozen with indecision. Watson was suffering and ought to be awakened, but Holmes did not want to embarrass him. The doctor was very private about the manners in which he carried the weight of his past with him. Holmes was aware of his nightmares within the first week of living together, but he had never made any indication that he knew. He preferred instead to make small gestures that could be plausibly unrelated to his flatmate's physical and mental complaints, such as putting an extra log on the sitting room fire or taking up the violin to play a pleasant melody or two.
But now, how could he awaken Watson without acknowledging the nightmares? He could drop an object on the floor, cough loudly or find some other manner of making a loud noise. It would be obvious, however, what he was doing. Watson might not have the deductive capacities of a Holmes, but he was no fool. Best to awaken the man directly rather than playing an awkward game of pretended ignorance. Holmes braced himself, then slid out of bed and approached his companion, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Watson inhaled sharply and his eyelids snapped open. His eyes darted around for a moment until they latched onto Holmes' face. "Oh," he croaked and scrubbed at his face with the back of his sleeve, his cheeks flushing a deep pink. "I must have disturbed your sleep—I'm terribly sorry, do I need to find another room? I—" He trembled and made to sit up.
Holmes shook his head. "No, no need. Go back to sleep, Watson. I wish you a more peaceful sleep this time."
Watson gave a curt nod and settled back into bed. Without making the conscious decision to do so, Holmes found himself grasping the comforter and pulling it up to cover Watson, who murmured a quiet thanks.
Holmes stood over him for a moment, then returned to his own bed. He felt something just then, an emotion he could not readily identify, a painful sort of tugging in his chest. Best not to dwell on it, he decided, and settled back in for the rest of the night.