John woke up screaming. Slowly, the pictures of blood, the war, the rooftop of St. Barts and the dead eyes of Sherlock faded and made room for the dark ceiling above his bed. He panted, feeling the adrenaline curse through his veins and the cold sweat that had collected over his body.
His throat felt painfully raw and so he sat up and reached for the bottle with water on his nightstand.
He nearly dropped it as he saw the still figure of Sherlock sitting on the end of his bed.
Exhausted he let himself fall back into the soft mattress and closed his eyes. Now was really not the time where he could deal with his hallucinations.
"Go away", he murmured tired. He slowly opened his eyes, half hoping, half dreading that the Sherlock-image would have gone away. It was still sitting there, looking at him, not moving. Just then John realized, that the sheets were not compressed were he sat so that it looked, as if he was floating over the surface.
"Go away", he repeated. The fake Sherlock did not even bat an eyelash.
John groaned and buried his face in his pillow.
He rolled around so that he was laying on his right side and did not have to look at the image anymore. It was weird. On the one hand, the fact that he had hallucinations should frighten him, make him anxious and schedule a meeting with a psychiatrist – something Mycroft had been insisting on since the three months Sherlock was dead.
On the other hand, he did not really wanted it to go away. It was disturbing, yes. But it put him to ease. The mere sight of Sherlock, sitting on his bed and watching over him made the post-nightmare thoughts of fear and desperation go away. He cast a quick side glance on the figure, quickly returning to stare at the wall.
John would later say, that it had been the exhaustion – mentally and physically – which had made him drift to sleep so fast. But with the deep inner calmness at the thought, that Sherlock was watching over him, the fear of nightmares and worries he had just washed away.