A/N: I know I know, two nightmare ficlets in a row… and no real fluff. But for an excuse, I have been recently inspired by both fanart and the actual Hounds of Baskerville episode itself (my favorite!) to write about a certain exchange between our boys. By the end of the episode John asks Sherlock about side effects and he dismisses it; it is not a huge scene but it left me wondering…
And the wondering will now take the form of a 2 (3?) part mini-series :D
I'll have fluff for y'all eventually, I promise. Have to get all this dark, angsty stuff outta my system I suppose… anywho, I hope you enjoy! Thanks to Sendai and TheReturned for lovely reviews :)
-p.s. the song I hear in my head for Sherlock's violin playing is You by Keaton Henson, just violin. Couldn't find a cover, so I just trust the instruments in my head!-
The Side Effects – Part 1
John was having a nightmare.
It was the mind where you were aware of the fact it was simply a nightmare, a figment created by an overly stimulated imagination, a lack of reasoning and a deep sleep, but even with the knowledge of it all, the unreal was still just as vivid, just as frightening.
It wasn't the normal type of nightmare he had, of a desert landscape and camo outfits stained with blood, of hot suns and burning eyes. No, those were tame; he was numb to them now. This was different, frighteningly so.
He was standing in the middle of a forest, cold and wet though he didn't really know why. The moon hung low and bright, illuminating the white mists of fog and deep green of the woods around him. John was looking around franticly; where was Sherlock? There was a dread in his belly, a deep feeling that spread slowly like black tar through his bones. He heard an owl who'ing, heard the rustle of some leaves and bushes. But he couldn't move.
That's what was most frightening; then inability to move a single muscle, no matter how much he screamed it to himself within his mind. It was… frightening.
Then he heard a growl behind him, heard twigs break and heavy breathing, heard an animal, a beast, a hound. Closing his eyes to it he repeated again and again, "this isn't real, it isn't real, it isn't real," but when he found himself opening them again there was a nothing in front of him but coal black fur, glowing red eyes, and teeth as sharp as a sharks. It pounced and…
He woke. Sweating, panting, heart racing like freight train, but awake.
Lungs panicky and breath shallow, he waits till his eyes adjust to the darkness around him, sees the outline of his desk, his wardrobe, the outline of the door; the creeping light from downstairs is a reminder someone else is there… but John stays sitting.
Sitting there in the dark is safer than going downstairs to try and find comfort in a man John doesn't even think knows how to comfort, how to sympathize with something as trivial as nightmares, bad dreams. Sherlock Holmes barely sleeps at all, what demons would dare haunt him?
John rubs his face and lies back down, willing himself to just breathe; in out, in out, slow and steady wins the race, Watson, don't let that heart get ahead of you. But even with the drooping eyelids, willful sleep and calming mantra, every time his eyes close in a plea for rest, he sees those bright red eyes and the dread comes back, a drowning wave of panic.
Just when he is resigned to a sleepless night, grabbing his laptop from the bedside table, he stops with his hand on the drawer handle.
He can hear the faint sounds of a violin, playing something that sounded… longing. High and low then lower, simple with a lack of flourish. Not exactly classical but… soothingly unrequited and quiet.
John lied down, his face towards the ceiling as to leave both ears open to the steady flow of weepy chords; the notes are a school of fish in the ocean of his mind and the waters are on their way to calming.
As sleep finally prevails and he feels the lull, the soft surrender to unconsciousness, John has a final realization, or perhaps an admittance: he wants, hopes and longs for Sherlock to be playing to him.