Hello there, everyone :)
I'm happy to see you just stumbled across my little story about Sherlock and John. I think it's really interesting to take a closer look at John's past as a soldier and his traumatic experiences in Afghanistan. Sherlock thinks the same here ;) Because of that, this story will deal mostly with John's memories of the war and how Sherlock helps him overcoming his nightmares.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Sherlock Holmes. They all belong entirely to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't earn a single cent with this story - all just for fun.
Rated: T - might evolve into M later on... ;)
Pairing: Sherlock X John
Have fun reading and as usual: comments are candy ;)
Nightmares and Rainfall
"Please God, let me live!"
Annoying... it is so annoying...
He was counting the rain drops falling lazily against the dirty window, dripping down the smooth surface until they formed little rivers of rainwater running down the glass, which quickly moved out of his field of vision. They immediately got replaced by new drops. Drops and drops and even more drops until there were just too many to count them anymore.
He pressed his lean body deeper into the warm cushions of the worn out armchair, fighting against the cold air surrounding him. The fire in the chimney had long ago reduced itself to nothing but smouldering ashes, thus he could feel icecold shivers creeping up and down his spine while he was sitting there motionless, facing the window in order to distract himself for only heaven knows how long.
Drip, drip, drip.
He really tried to concentrate on the sound of the rain, to let his mind wander and unravell some great, unsolved mysteries in the process, but all his efforts were entirely in vain.
It doesn't work.
He could taste the coppery flavour of his own blood slowly filling his mouth, when he had bitten a little too hard on his lower lip in pure frustration.
He hated it when it didn't work… to put it mildly, it pissed him off to unknown limits.
What a senseless waste of time...
The cigarette between his fingers was slowly dying down, he had lost interest in it right after the very first drag of nicotine but he liked the feeling of it between his fingers. So nostalgic. He didn't mind the ashes falling on the floor. So completely uninteresting.
A small, malicious sneer tugged at his mouth's corner when he realized that the rainfall had intensified, a silvery curtain of water was pouring down into the dark night right behind the window. He liked the sound it made, a soothing sought that made you content and drowsy. Yes, it could have been such a relaxing evening, just sitting there, listening to the rain, solving some elaborate enigmas and riddles just for jolly, while the fire was licking at the heavy logs in the fireplace. But once again it didn't work. Because he was repeatedly distracted from it, everytime he tried to focus on something else, his mind was mercilessly drawn back to this goddamn distracting factor with a vengeance, making it impossible to concentrate. Even for him.
Again and again there were these screams.
Screams of terror and pure agony echoed through the little flat and were reflected by the bare walls of the corridor like an infinite loop.
Involuntarily he winced. Winced everytime when these horrible sounds reached his ears.
What a terrible, nerve wrecking noise...
Groaning in sheer frustration he covered his face with his bony hands, meanwhile letting his head fall against the back of the chair. He had to think. Think, damn it!
Jesus Christ, what shall I do?
The simple fact that he had to ask himself this question at all was the worst about this whole situation. He always knew what to do. The sensation of being clueless was something outright knew to him and he didn't like it. Didn't like it at all.
Without even wanting it his mind was working on its own, was wandering back to the first time he had heard those strange noises which had quickly revealed themselves to be screams. To his shame he had to admit that they had almost scarced him to death. So entirely unexpected they had startled him in the middle of the night, caused him to bolt upright in his bed, heart beating heavily against his ribs and his pulse rushing through his veins, violently pulsing behind his temples. A throbbing pain. He had tried to listen, forced himself to focus and concentrate to decipher if it wasn't just his dream spilling into the reality of his dark bedroom. But after a few seconds he had realized it wasn't, it couldn't be a dream and the screams and groans were as real as the perfect darkness surrounding him.
It weren't sentences. No, not even words. Just incoherent fragments of words once said and orders hectically shouted. Sometimes it was impossible to make even this little sense out of the sounds. Most of the time it were just groans of pain which were always going over into muffled screams and finally increased until they became cries of agony.
When he had decided to get up that night to take a look after the cause of this racket, the sight had tied up his throat. He didn't know why it suddenly had been so damn difficult to breathe...
But he saw it. And he understood. The for a man fairly small, slim figure was tossing and turning between the sheets, sweat was glistening on his forehead, the face a distorted grimace which had almost no resemblance to the usually gentle features of the person he called his only friend anymore at all.
He had just been standing there. Listening. Watching. Stoically leaning against the door frame with arms tightly crossed in front of his chest, not knowing if he should wake him up from the nightmares that were haunting him or if the confrontation with them would just make matters worse. He had decided to let him sleep, even though he obviously wouldn't find any rest or relief in it.
And now this is going for weeks straight...
He was sure John didn't even know he was screaming at night. The morning after Sherlock had heard the screams for the first time, John had staggered into the kitchen as usual, tired but his usual self, friendly wishing him his usual 'good morning' and pouring himself a cup of coffee while smiling softly. As usual.
So yes, Sherlock was pretty damn sure that John had no idea about how he was passing his nights. The only clue the doctor had noticed himself was that he was constantly getting more and more tired, the dark bluish circles under his eyes which had always been there, ever since the very first day Sherlock had laid eyes on John, steadily intensified. Unlike before they never vanished entirely over the course of the day. Like a silent reminder of the dreadful nights the violet circles always stayed in place.
John didn't seem to notice.
The sound of the now heavily pelting rain drops brought Sherlock back from his silent musing.
He sighed. The rain almost sounded like the barrage of a machine gun.
The screams upstairs got worse.
It can't go on like this…
Decidedly Sherlock jumped out of the armchair. Throwing the already extinguished cigarette stub into the untouched cup of freezing cold coffee, with long stride he walked right up to John's bedroom.
Yes, it wasn't just his imagination. Since the rain had started to fall the screams were continously getting louder... Just when he wanted to open the door he froze in the middle of the motion. He felt like he had been petrified, like his heart had missed a beat when, for the first time, he could clearly distinguish words in his friends cries behind the wooden door and it hit him like a ton of bricks, his own words were flooding back into his racing mind:
If you die, if you've been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?
Sherlock knew the answer, the answer which was shouted over and over again right on the other side.
"Please God, let me live!"
To be continued... I hope you had fun reading :) Greetings and see you soon! Eisteufel