"Sherlock. Can you hear me?"
He'd opened his eyes by the time I had burst into his room, but he still stared straight ahead, those crystal blue eyes darting back and forth, searching for something only he could see. He clutched handfuls of the duvet as if it would keep him from drowning in an unseen ocean.
"Sherlock," I repeated. "It's time to wake up." I reached and lay my hand gently on his shoulder. He jerked beneath my touch, but after a moment he exhaled in a rush and his shoulders slumped. I knew he had slipped from the dream's clutches.
"All right now?" I asked.
He turned to me, blinking rapidly. "Have you been standing here the entire time? Staring at me like I'm a specimen in a jar?"
"You cried out in your sleep," I explained. "I wanted to be sure you were all right."
Truthfully, I wasn't certain he was all right. His cheeks were flaming red. He had very nearly shrugged out of his robe entirely during the night terror; his chest was bare and sticky with perspiration. There was a smear of blood beneath his nose and across his cheek.
"Are you feverish?" I reached to touch his forehead, but he pushed my hand away and shoved the duvet aside.
I waited patiently as he stomped into the bathroom and closed the door with a slam. The toilet flushed, the water ran in the sink. A few moments later he emerged, his face freshly scrubbed, wearing fresh pajamas and scowling as he passed me by.
As soon as he'd settled himself in bed again, I held out his water glass. "Drink, Sherlock. You were heavily perspiring, so you've lost fluids again. You need to drink."
"If you wouldn't be forcing fluid down my throat every millisecond, perhaps I would have been able to sleep without getting up," he said.
I lifted my eyebrow. "Oh, is that what you were doing?" I asked. "The whole screaming-to-wake-the-dead bit, that was just because you needed to relieve yourself?"
"That's right, I'm just a madman screaming in the night," he bit back. "I should see a psychiatrist.
"No wait…. Perhaps I'll just move into a flat with one. How bloody convenient."
I smiled. "Ah. I see we've moved from denial to anger.'"
"I'm not angry," he snapped.
"My mistake." I held out the glass of water again.
He huffed at me and rolled away, pulling the blankets up over his head.
"That's fine," I said. "There are plenty of IV fluids in the emergency room down the hall.
"Although giving subcutaneous fluids has never been my strong suit," I mused. "I think it's because the needles are just so large… And I can never seem to find the vein on the first try. It usually takes three, four stabs before I can nick it just right…"
He rolled on to his back, threw off the bedding and snatched the glass from my hand. After draining half of the contents, he handed the glass back and burrowed under the covers like a mole.
I was about to leave him when I spied the colorful, odd little scarf pooled on the floor. He hadn't noticed he had dropped it, but I didn't want him to panic if he woke to find it missing. I picked it up and folded it gently.
"Sherlock." I tucked it next to his blanket-covered head. "Here you go. You dropped this."
One hand snaked from beneath the blanket, and his fingers tightened around the fabric.
"There you are," I soothed. "Try to get some rest now."
For a moment, I envied him, curled beneath the warm bed covers. I knew my bedroom featured the same, cream-colored, gender-neutral duvet and I yearned to climb beneath it and sleep for a very long time.
However, that room seemed too far away from my patient, and so I settled myself on the office sofa, covering myself with a scratchy afghan that didn't seem nearly warm enough for this chilly, rainy night.
I fell asleep, listening to Sherlock's muffled snores, reassured by every steady breath.