Insomnia Or Walking In War
John knew he was awake and knew his dreams were over, yet he could not suppress a whimper. His shirt was damp and he buried his fingernails deep into his pillow as he tossed himself around. Though he could see the cloudless sky outside of his window he could not push the unclear pictures, most likely memories, away back into the darkest corner of his mind and neither could he realise he was not dreaming anymore.
He believed to see death again, the bullets in the air and the choppers, the explosions and their horrors, and blood and pain everywhere. Walking in war was not as good and pleasant as people said it would be. Havoc and sleepless nights. So much pain.
Sand was crunching beneath his heavy boots and burning in his eyes. He could barely breathe. Sweat was running down his tanned and dirty face, and then he felt one of his friends pushing him roughly to the ground, then a shock wave causing the earth to shake and a Hand touching his shoulder.
"John," said a familiar voice. It sounded far away. As he looked down at himself he saw his leg drenched in blood. Warm, red and dark blood- his own. A silent scream escaped his pale lips. Someone was pressing their hands forcefully onto his left shoulder and pain shot through his entire body.
"John!"
He could hear shouts. The image before his eyes was blurred and dizzy, darkened and yet so frightening bright. Please God let me live. It became so hard to keep his eyes open. He was so tired.
"John!"
It took John much effort to open his eyes again, and as he did he was back in his bedroom at 221B Baker Street, London, United Kingdom. Far away from the war in the desert.
He sat up straight as he saw a dark figure of a tall and skinny man standing in the door way. "Put that gun away, John," said the man in a soothing voice. He sounded very calm.
John blinked in confusion and looked down at his hand, which was indeed holding his gun and was, as Mycroft Holmes had pointed out weeks ago, perfectly steady. Then he put the gun away and hid it under his pillow again. Clearing his throat he asked hoarsely "What the hell are you doing up here?"
"Lestrade called," explained Sherlock, gesturing towards his mobile. Saying "He has a case," he turned and went down the stairs.
John took a deep breath and shook his head, taking off his shirt. Though he felt far too exhausted to chase another murderer through London's streets he knew it would be the best way to forget his dreams.
The war did not haunt him, but his own helplessness and the life of his friends slipping away under his fingers- they haunted him at night.
He was walking in war again. This time, however, next to the only Consulting Detective in the world: Sherlock Holmes, who was his friend. And John would not like to have it any other way.