Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had been living together for a year now. John has become accustomed to Sherlock's erratic schedule and late night chases while Sherlock has gotten used to John's need for basic human necessities such as sleep and food (something he has trained himself to be able to go days without) as well as John's occasional nightmare. At first, Sherlock was wary to go to John during his fitful rest as he felt he was intruding on something very private but as their friendship got stronger, he felt comfortable going up with a cup of tea and soothing his best friend into peace.
One case, the duo had to track down a notorious gang known for its violence. It was suspected that the group got a bunch of new people and their initiation was causing the particularly gruesome murders of young women with similar appearances that have been happening around town. The case had frustrated Sherlock because for just a gang, they covered their tracks well and led the Yard in many different directions. After a week of living with a nearly unbearable Sherlock, John spoke of something irrelevant which sparked an epiphany in the detective who ran out of the flat suddenly without a word leaving John in a brief moment of confusion before following his flatmate.
They rode to last crime scene in where Sherlock broke into the adjoining flat, previously untouched, to closely examine the furniture. John kept silent not wanting to disturb the man when he was so obviously close to solving the case. "Aha!" shouted Sherlock suddenly startling John out of his sleepy daze holding up a cotton swab supposedly with a substance John couldn't see from his distance. "Look, John! Sodium Chloride and Barium Carbonate!" John blinked. "They're at the- supposedly- abandoned warehouse near the Thames!" he informed, eyes alight with excitement. "C'mon." John followed him to the cab wanting this case to be over as soon as possible so he could get a full night's sleep without Sherlock waking him to use him as his muse.
It was a long ride to their destination as it was on the other side of town. After John had called Lestrade informing him of their latest clue and requesting back-up, the two men discussed a 'battle-plan,' as Sherlock had called it, that they would do when they arrived. They were to enter through the back entrance and hide as they observe the activities before the police come and "mess everything up by causing a ruckus," Sherlock sniffed. The plan went accordingly until the police got there when everything went to chaos. John heard gunshots range from handheld pistols to heavy-duty machine guns, bullets ricocheting off the metal walls creating a dangerous situation for all.
The army medic went instantly into battle-mode like in Afghanistan, his only goal to keep Sherlock and himself alive. The detective did his best with hand-to-hand combat disarming but it was barely scratching the surface of the large gang of trained killers. John kept shooting, before he felt a familiar sting on his left arm. He clutched the wound in reflex. "John!" came a concerned cry from behind him. "Are you alright?" asked Sherlock as he twisted someone's arm forcing the assailant to drop the pistol. The doctor removed his hand from the wound discovering that it was just a graze. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Superficial. Hurts like hell, though!" he chuckled lightheartedly, body coursing with adrenaline. " I be-" Sherlock's reply was cut short with a painful grunt. John whipped around to see a large man who apparently just bashed Sherlock on the temple with the back of his shotgun. He glanced at his friend lying still on the floor. "Sherlock!" he yelled as he put two rounds directly to the heart of the criminal. The doctor rushed over to his friend turning him over putting his fingers his neck. "Sherlock!" he yelled as he thankfully found a pulse. John put his hands on the face of his flatmate, ignoring the blood streaming from the bump that slowly increasing in size. "Sherlock, answer me!" The taller man groaned, "John." As he tried to force unsteady eyes open. "Stay still. You likely have a concussion-" John cried out as another bullet grazed his cheek.
"John!" Sherlock yelled weakly.
"I'm fine, Sherlock. Just another scratch," said John as he put round into the man who shot him.
"C'mon mate. Let's get out of the firefight." He said as he dragged the groggy Sherlock to the corner of the warehouse and hid behind some boxes. Due to the small space, the detective was curled in a ball practically on John's lap, his head on the shoulder of the soldier.
"Hey, Sherlock, stay with me. Can't have you falling asleep during a battle, now can we?"
"'M fine, John. Just a bump," slurred the dark-haired man. John sighed. 'At least he still knows me' he thought. "Sherlock. How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Two. Like I said, just a bump. 'm just tired…"
"Alright. Just stay awake mate."
John heard the second group of officers come and things started to quiet down but he stayed hidden until someone came and got them. Minutes after the gunshots stopped, Lestrade moved the boxes shielding them and after a smirk at the position Sherlock and John were in, he asked, "Alright then, John?"
"Yeah. Just bullet grazes to the face and my arm. Sherlock here took a pretty hard blow to the temple, likely concussion."
"Need a stretcher to get the bloke up?"
"Nah, thanks. I can get him out to the ambulance if you've got one ready for us."
"Yeah. 'course," said Lestrade as he waved of a team of medics approaching him and bent down to help lift Sherlock up while John got to his feet. Lestrade led them to the nearest ambulance. "Will you guys be alright? Want me to give you a lift home?"
"We'll just get a cab home, don't worry. Thanks Greg."
"No problem. Take care of yourselves. I gotta go assess the damage."
"Okay. Thanks. You, too."
"Yep." And with that, Lestrade was gone.
John took off his coat and shirt and sat still while one of the medics cleaned the small wounds on his check and arm while the other medic did the routine concussion check on Sherlock. John smiled as he watched because even in his state, his flatmate still managed to be snarky to the man and deduce about the affair he was having on his wife with John's medic. "OI, Sherlock." John barked before he went too far." The detective huffed but remained silent.
"Alright, mister Watson," the EMT started, face red with embarrassment. "Your arm is fine, just change the gauze every 12 hours. You're cheek will need stitches so I reckon you and your friend need to go to the hospital-"
"I'm a doctor, sir," John stated. "I can stitch my face myself and take care of him," pointing to the fuming Sherlock "so long as he isn't too bad?" he asked turning to Sherlock's bulky paramedic. "The bloke's fine. Mild concussion…"
"Yes, I can assure he'll be alright in my care." John stood up, shaking both men's hands and getting Sherlock up waling to the cab. "Thanks for your help."
John noticed the taller man was beginning to lean heavily and was grateful when they reached the cab.
"Stay awake, Sherlock." He said as they got in next to each other.
"I'm fine, John. I'm not tired anymore. Plus, that idiotic medic-" John tuned him out as his body started to lose its adrenalin and he began to feel sleepy. The dark sky and the hum of the cab taking the long trek back across London wasn't helping. Within ten minutes, John had dozed off and slumped over, his head now resting on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock cut off mid-sentence and smiled when he saw John's peaceful face resting on him. He silenced and stared out the window thinking about the case that was just solved.
After about an hour, though, John's sleep became fitful and he began to mumble things. As time went on the grunts got louder and words became distinguishable. Sherlock looked over at his friend's contorted face on his shoulder barking out orders in his sleep. 'He thinks he's back in Afghanistan.'
The detective began to worry as he didn't have his usual cup of tea ready and it was still a couple hours before they reached Baker Street. Sherlock just stroked the doctor's hair not wanting to wake him but hoping to sooth him back into restfulness. However, it was to no avail. John's cries still grew louder and before long, they became full-on yells. The scared cabbie looked back at them, wide-eyed. "Personal matter. None of your business. Keep driving," spat Sherlock. When he looked back at John, he noticed the soldier had tears streaming down his face arms moving in ways that only could be actions the man did all that time ago in the Army. The Consulting Detective began to panic, arms reaching out, grabbing his friend trying to bring him back into reality.
At that moment, John flinched back violently with a strangled scream filled with pain that Sherlock never wanted to hear come from that mouth again. 'Oh God, he's remembering when he got shot.'
Within seconds, John began to sob violently bringing his head to his knees and grasping his hair painfully.
Frightened, Sherlock removed his and John's seatbelt ignoring a half-hearted protest from the driver and moved colder to John putting his arms around the smaller man, stroking his hair and repeating "Shhh. I'm here. You're fine, John. It's just a dream. You're not There. You're here, with me, in London."
John looked up at Sherlock, red eyes focusing back into reality. "Sh'lock?" The taller man released his grip around him and put his hands on each side of John's face and looked into the dark blue eyes currently filled with fear. "You're okay, John. I'm here." John sniffed, tear-tracks reflecting in the moonlight.
"I- oh, God. I had a nightmare here? In the cab?" John clenched his eyes, this time in embarrassment and though he couldn't see it, Sherlock suspected John's ears were turning red.
"One of the worst ones you've had. I- I didn't know what to do," said Sherlock quietly, taking his hands off the doctor's face and looking at the floor.
After a moment, John scooted closer to Sherlock and leaned on him. "Thank you, Sherlock," he whispered. Though he didn't say it, both of them knew gratitude was meant for more than just this night.
"Of course," said Sherlock as he once again wrapped his long arms around his flat mate. The two leaned on each other in a cuddle-like fashion and stayed that way the rest of the long ride home.
Once they returned to 221B, John got out an icepack and demanded Sherlock keep it on his temple to reduce the swelling- that had now turned a nasty shade of purple- while Sherlock started the kettle to have some tea before bed. Once warm cups were in their hands, and Sherlock stopped complaining about how cold the ice felt on his head, John spoke. "I don't understand. Why did I have such a bad terror this time? We've been to confrontations with criminals almost as dangerous and I've obviously heard gunshots before. Nothing new!" Sherlock stopped picking at his ice pack and looked at John. "We're used to hand gun shots. I suspect the less common rapid fire of the machine guns brought back memories of the large guns used in Afghanistan. That, combined with the high-stress situation of the dangerous battle at the warehouse, your injuries, and, erm, your concern for me, all together subconsciously brought back visions of the War to which took over during your sleep when your adrenaline and your guard was down."
John nodded. A moment of silence passed. "How's your head?"
"Cold," Sherlock pouted.
"Well I've got go stay up to make sure you do."
"Nonsense, John. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Besides, you need your sleep," Sherlock stated with genuine concern.
"I'm fine. Anyways, I really don't feel like sleeping now. Not yet anyways." John said quietly looking at his tea.
"Quite understandable. Erm, telly?"
John looked up at Sherlock and smiled. "Sounds great."
Grabbing the spare duvet out of the closet, John and Sherlock curled up together on the couch sharing the blanket and flipped to Doctor Who.
Despite many cups of tea, the pair accidentally fell asleep, head resting on each others.
A/N: Thank you for reading! Hope you like it! Please R&R. :)