A/N: As a reward for everyone hanging in there when I was taking 10 days between posts, I will have a Regency Sherlock weekend! Today is the second of three posts in quick succession. The third will be posted by sometime Sunday night! Thanks ever so much for all the favorites and follows so far!
PS, to whoever commented about "hormone" being an unlikely word for Sherlock to use, you are RIGHT! :) I haven't fixed it in posting, but I did fix it in my copy. An etymology search proved me wrong, which is funny because I've used it quite to check up on the dates of certain words! And I think I even remember wondering about "hormone" when I used it. Bad author! ;o) Thanks!
It was hours later when Sherlock was startled away from the observations of the precipitate in one of the six test tubes in the rack in front of him. He lifted his head to monitor the silence of the house. Matthews and Mrs. Hudson had long since gone to bed and Sherlock had yet to see the meek little maid since his marriage, though he'd met her when he'd first moved in long enough to instruct her to never, ever, not once, not even to look, step foot in his lab.
The sound transpired again. This time, Sherlock heard it quite distinctly.
"Please, God." It was a desperate entreaty, half-sobbed. Sherlock rose without thinking anything other than, John.
The resounding crash of a considerably amount of glass shattering made him hurry.
"Get down! Get down! Murray, I need some help over here!"
Sherlock swung open the door. The lit lamp still flickered by the door, thankfully, and had not set the room ablaze. The victim had been an unlit lamp by the bed, though John was hovering precariously close to the pool of oil and glass.
"A tourniquet!" John barked from his position on the floor before he crashed to his side on the floor with a roar.
Alarmed, Sherlock flew to John's side, desperate that he not fling himself into the glass and injure himself.
"John, John, wake up. John Watson, it's Sherlock. It's Sherlock. We're home in Baker Street, in London. John!"
John's eyes were open but unseeing. His lips moved. Please, God, let me live, he said, making no sound. Please, God, let me live.
"John, John," Sherlock begged, bringing John's stiff body into his arms as close as possible. "You're alive. You're home. You're in London." Sherlock repeated everything he could think of to bring John out of his nightmare. "You came home to England. Your leg healed. You got married four days ago. I'm your husband, Sherlock Holmes. You're fine, you're fine, I've got you."
Sherlock could feel John's heart pounding much too hard and much too quickly. His breath came in wheezing gasps that sounded too much like Sherlock's when he'd been strangled.
"John, you're safe. You healed. You're fine." Sherlock held his husband tightly and John wasn't fighting his grasp.
"I'm not fine," John finally uttered. The words were weak, but they were conscious words.
"You'll be fine," Sherlock amended. "You'll be fine. Let's get you back to bed."
"Can't," John replied, shaking his head. Sherlock detected the strain in John's voice. He ran his eyes over John's body, quickly marking the twitching and tightened muscles in his scarred leg.
"I can help." Sherlock laid John's upper body back on the floor, then knelt beside him, careful of the glass nearby. He quickly determined the muscles contributing to the worst of the pain and laid his hands on the bottom of John's foot and the lower part of his shin. Pressing on the calloused ball of his foot stretched out the shortened calf muscle, the gastrocnemius muscle; bearing down on his shin kept his knee straight. He knew that John also often felt pain in the peroneus longus and brevis, the former of which had sustained some damage.
John gave a bit of a grunt, but soon let out a breath in relief. Sherlock continued his massage, rubbing the afflicted muscles until he felt them relax.
"It's always worst when they come together," John said, moving his arm over his eyes. "The pain heightens the dreams, makes them so vivid."
"Do you want to talk about your nightmares?"
John didn't respond.
"You were dreaming about getting injured, yes?"
"Yes. It's not always that, and I don't always lash out as much." John moved his arm from his eyes and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Sherlock lowered his foot to the floor and pressed his fingers into John's leg just above his knee. "Oh, I've broken the lamp."
"Don't worry about it. It can be replaced."
"I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, of course not," Sherlock replied with some curiosity.
John let himself slump down between his propped up arms. "I gave Harry a black eye once, when I first got back. I don't remember it happening; I was in the grips of a fever and didn't surface until it had healed, but he made sure to tell me."
"He deserved it."
Sherlock said this so mildly and matter-of-factly that John had to laugh, shaky though it was.
"Can you get back into bed now? It's awfully cold on the floor and you're only in your nightshirt and drawers."
"Yes, I think so." It was easy with Sherlock's help. He ducked under John's arm and lifted him back onto the mattress. The sheets and counterpane were entirely askew, so Sherlock stripped them free and remade the bed with John in it. Then he stirred up the fire while John stared resolutely up at the ceiling.
"I could get my violin and play for you, or read aloud. I know you like to read when you've woken in the middle of the night."
"You don't have to do that. I'm sorry to have interrupted your…" John flickered his eyes over Sherlock, still fully dressed with the clock near to striking two, "experiments." It was clear he hadn't been sleeping. Clever John, my deductive protégé. Sherlock almost beamed at him.
"It's fine. There is an occasional lull in waiting for a reaction. Nothing will set on fire if I don't return to it until morning."
"Morning?"
"I wish to try another experiment, John." Sherlock bit on his lower lip, not quite looking at John lying so comfortably in bed looking back at him.
"What sort of experiment?" John twisted his arm up behind his pillow, propping up his head just a little.
"Whether company in your bed helps you sleep better, or worse."
Sherlock had kept an informal mental log of John's sleeping habits along with the findings from his examination of his leg. His sharp gaze could certainly ascertain the weariness in John's eyes of a morning, the volumes John went through, and the amount of lamp oil spent to keep John aware of his surroundings in the dark of night.
"So you want to lay in bed and, what, watch me sleep? I don't think that will help."
"Don't be silly, John. I will sleep as well. Sympathetic somnolent sounds may be peaceful for you."
"My tossing will keep you awake."
"I don't need much sleep, John. It will be fine," Sherlock replied quickly. "If the experiment doesn't help, we will cease and I'll think of something else. Besides, it may be handier if something like this happens again. I will be alerted to your pain and your dreaming state and be in a position to help you much more quickly."
John picked at the counterpane and his facial expressions betrayed his uncertainty. Apparently, though, he could not think of a good enough reason to continue the debate, so he gave his assent.
"I'll change into suitable nightwear and be back directly, then." Sherlock was glad the low yellow glow of the lamp masked his blush. His stomach was flipping and he wasn't certain how he would endure the hours until dawn lying stiffly in John's bed.