A/N: I have recently become obsessed with this show, so I'm just throwing in my two-pennoth. I find these two quite hard to write because they're so perfectly done on TV, so please tell me what you thought!


The War is everywhere. Behind him and in front of him, on either side, encircling him. Death fills his eyes and his ears and his lungs; he is breathing destruction. Gunshots, blood, the dying screams of a thousand men, all of it raging in a torrent through his head, unrelenting. His only comfort is that, above everyone else's agony, he will not be able to hear his own scream.


It is raining. He is on the streets of London now and it is raining, but he cannot feel anything. This world is grey, its surfaces flat, the people who walk by have not known War, have not lived. Instead of the fear and the pain there is the numbness, the emptiness, you miss the War, John, he cannot feel anything. He screams at the silence but it absorbs his curses, mutes them.


Now there's a familiar face, the picture of confidence, because the owner of the face cannot see what John sees. He sees what happens next. There is the glint of a sharp blade and a pool of blood and frantic gasps for breath and John's own voice saying no, Sherlock, not you.


A shudder, and he is awake.

"John. You were screaming. I'm trying to think. Do keep it down."

Moments later he is sitting in an armchair and a hot mug is being pressed into the hand which is shaking the least violently. "What's this?"


"I know that. From you, though? Bit domestic."

Sherlock takes his position in the opposite chair. "Social convention. Person A in shock, person B brings tea. I've read about it."

"Pretty clued-up, aren't you, for a sociopath."

"Drink the tea, John."

"I'm about to. And, er, thanks."

"For the tea?"

"And for waking me up. The end is always the worst bit."

"It's recurrent, then. The same dream."

"Mmm." It had been a statement, not a question. And remarkable though his flatmate's skills of deduction might be, John felt sure even he could have recognised these symptoms in someone else - the same dark circles under the same hollow, scared eyes which stared back at him from the bathroom mirror every morning, the same ridiculous tremor in the hand holding the toothbrush, the same flinch at the first sudden noise, the same dream.

"You said I was distracting you, but we're not on a case. What were you thinking about?"

The world's only consulting detective rested his chin on his clasped hands. "Possible cures for pathological sleeping disorders."

"Sweet of you."

"Not really. We won't be between cases forever and once I need to concentrate again, you're going to have to stop."

"Yeah, you were right, not so sweet." He looks at the clock on the mantlepiece. "Don't suppose it's really worth going back to bed again. Almost morning."

Sherlock rose from his chair. "Good, you're staying. I was just going to get Moses out of the freezer. He should be ready by now."

"If Moses is who I think Moses is - and, by the way, I find it still more creepy that you're giving them names now - then I'm changing my mind. Good night."

"Pity, I thought Moses was an apt name. Moses supposes his toeses are roses..."

"And if you're going to start singing about the disembodied feet, I'm definitely going."

"To be precise, it's more of a spoken children's rhyme than a song. But Moses supposes erroneously..."

"Good night, Sherlock."

"Good morning, John. Sleep tight." John turns to go, but pauses at the next remark, "One question, though."

"Fire away."

"Why was I there?"


"In your dream. Just before you woke up, you called my name. What was I doing in Afghanistan?"

John raises his eyebrows, "Sticking your nose in, probably. It's what you do best."