Prompt: Holmes helps Watson through a particularly grisly nightmare. Now, after regaining his friend after three long years, Watson finds himself returning the favour., from JackofCats

My ordeal in Her Majesty's service in Afghanistan left my health in ruins and my finances destroyed, but I had thought that with enough determination, I could easily overcome both these obstacles. Regrettably, my health proved more difficult to regain and, unable to work, my finances remained stagnant even after I took to sharing rooms to alleviate the burden of rent.

I had always considered myself a steady fellow, and to find myself sunk so low was a struggle I did not know how to overcome. I found, to my displeasure, that my temper was often irritable and my mood low. I endeavored to hide this as much as possible, for I did not wish to drive my new fellow-lodger away, but this was harder to do than I imagined. It did not help that my memories of my time in the army proved as difficult to shake as the Jezail bullet in my shoulder.

I had never been given to flights of fancy, but a side effect of my enteric fever was nightmares of the more extreme and grotesque kind. I had not had such terrible dreams since my childhood, but lately my dreams were full of enraged battle horses and the sound of bullets. I often woke in the middle of the night, sweating profusely, certain that I would wake up on the dusty field of battle instead of my bed at Baker Street. The relief when I found this was not the case was overwhelming. One can imagine this did not help my mood, as I was now frequently exhausted in addition to my other ailments. I still attempted not to let on to Holmes, who had turned out to be as eccentric as Stamford had promised, yet altogether a decent fellow who it was hardly a trial to live with. Yet, he was so very cold himself, more in a way denoting a disinterest in emotional cares than a true unfriendliness, that I hesitated to let on to what I was certain he would consider a shameful emotional weakness.

I succeeded in doing so for several weeks until, exhausted one afternoon after a particularly bad night, I dozed off in front of the fire. I do not remember much of the nightmare that followed, only flashes of terror and a burning pain in my shoulder and the knowledge, bone-deep, that this time I would not survive, that Murray would not carry me away from the battlefield. I awoke gasping, drenched in cold sweat, and it took me a moment or two to register that I was in the armchair by the fire.

"Watson? Are you quite alright?" Holmes was halfway out of his chair by the chemistry table, almost as if he was unsure if he should look concerned or not. He had been most solicitous of my recovery thus far, and tactful in assisting me when I required, but I was loath to accept further ministrations from someone who was meant merely to be my fellow-lodger. Besides, such emotions were no doubt unacceptable to me, and I did not wish to embarrass myself further.

"It is nothing," I said. "Childish, really."

Holmes was already pouring a glass of water from the sideboard. "It is clearly not nothing," he said, handing me the glass, which I sipped gratefully. "If you do not wish to talk about it, I understand," he added. "But you are hardly the first veteran to suffer from nightmares after what he has seen."

I looked up at my companion, more than a little surprised. He had not struck me as the type of man who easily accepted emotional considerations.

Holmes smiled at my look and answered my thoughts, as I had noticed he had a habit of doing. "I am a student of human nature, Watson. It is essential in my line of work, and I have more than once dealt with former soldiers who were visited by unimaginable horrors in their dreams."

I confess my interest was piqued by his words, for I had spent much of the past few weeks attempting to work out what it was Sherlock Holmes did for a living, but my curiosity was to go unrewarded, for he simply went on, "In my experience some of these men might qualify as the bravest in their fields. It seems to me to be a mark of the violence they have suffered, more than an individual failing."

I sighed, somewhat calmer now that I knew I was safe in my rooms, with the sun shining through the window. "I dreamt I was at the Battle of Maiwand again," I said. "Only this time my orderly was not there to bring me out of it."

Sherlock Holmes looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "The mind is a curious thing, Watson. You have recently returned from military service, alone in the world, waiting to recover from an injury and illness to which you nearly succumbed. Is it any wonder your unconscious mind interpreted that by reliving the moment that was the catalyst."

"Except by adding that I am now indeed alone," I said. "Once I left my company I had no one."

"And this is why I train my own mind so harshly," Holmes said. "The human mind often gets things wrong and ignores what is in front of it in favor of its own fears. In your case, Watson, your mind is convinced you are alone, and is expressing those fears subconsciously through dreams and memories."

"I don't follow you, Holmes," I said.

"Well, you are hardly alone, are you, Watson?" Holmes said. "Perhaps remembering that will serve to quiet your mind's fears."

Holmes would later be most disparaging of the burgeoning science of psychology, but in my experience, he was adept at the subject himself, being such a student of human nature. On that early occasion, he had stumbled across a mental exercise that did indeed work, for ever after I reminded myself before retiring to bed that I was not alone, for Holmes was just downstairs, and my nightmares soon stopped of their own accord as I recovered further and began to take part in Holmes's cases. A purpose proved to be what I needed, along with the reminder that I was not so friendless as I had thought.

I never forgot Holmes's early assistance to me in the matter of my nightmares, though he did not bring it up, gentleman that he was. I remained rather embarrassed of it for some time, for although he did nothing to indicate he thought me weak, he was so completely in control of himself and his emotions at all times that I could not help feeling as if I did not live up to some sort of expectation he held of all humanity.

Imagine my surprise, then, one Sunday morning shortly after my return to Baker Street upon Holmes's return, when I heard my friend gasp for breath in his bedroom as I was pouring my coffee. "Holmes?" I cried, afraid that some assassin had got in while my back was turned.

"It is nothing, Watson," Holmes said, waving me away and smiling wryly. "You are no longer the only one beset with nightmares, it seems."

"Let me get you some tea," I said, and when I had brought him the cup, I waited. I knew from long experience that Holmes did not speak when prodded.

"I have never had nightmares before," he began. "I confess I do not find them as interesting as I once thought. They are banal, even. One's fears repackaged in, at times, nonsensical ways, yet while asleep there is no defense one can leverage."

"You dream of Moriarty," I guessed.

"More of Moran," Holmes said. "Moriarty was at least a gentleman, and our fight was that of equals. Moran was a hunter, a villain with no morals and no compunction about killing. I cannot tell you, Watson, how many times I nearly ran afoul of him only to be saved by some chance."

I understood well how such a thing could be so upsetting to him. Used to his intellect allowing him to remain several steps ahead of the rest of us, finding it of so little use would have been alarming.

"I had often said I wished to test my intellect against a true adversary," Holmes said. "It proves the foolishness of youth, Watson. It was a strain, to know that if I failed I might not depend on anyone but myself."

"I can well imagine," I said. "You did not look healthy when you appeared in my waiting room." Holmes had, thankfully, regained some weight and looked much more like himself, though clearly, the experience had not left him.

"No, I suppose I did not," Holmes said. "Still, the ordeal is over and I should not be living it over in my dreams."

"It is not a failing," I said. "You once said something very similar to me, that it is more to do with what you experienced than any weakness of mind."

"Good old Watson! So you remember," Holmes said, smiling somewhat wanly.

"Of course. You helped me immensely that night," I said. "Perhaps you need reminding, too, of what else you told me: you are no longer alone, depending only on yourself."

"Yes," Holmes said. "Yes, of course, you are right. I would do well to remember it."

"They were your words to begin with," I said. "I am merely reflecting them back to you. But as a doctor, I have my own advice: a good breakfast."

Holmes laughed, finally, "Very well, Watson."