Fic: How Incredibly Dense
Title: How Incredibly Dense
Author: crimson-adder
Rating: PG-13 (for swearing)
Characters: BBC: Sherlock, John
Word Count: 658
Notes: Written for the shkinkmene prompt: You know in the begging of the episode when Watson bolts up in bed because of his nightmare? Well I want him having a nightmare so Sherlock goes to wake up. Just when he leans over Watson wakes up and sits up suddenly and totally accidently headbutts Sherlock.
Warnings: I haven't slept all night, so this might be...crap. BUT oh well. I hope you likes it anyway. SPOILERS REGARDING WATSON'S INJURIES/PTSD. This is remarkably silly.
--
It's two A.M. and Sherlock can hear it when John starts to get restless.
John's bed is old and creaks. Sherlock doesn't sleep heavily, never has really, and any time John rolls over, the bedposts whine and pull like something far more exciting is going on up there.
He wasn't asleep of course, too busy, but the point is more along the lines of he can't even if he wanted to. The floors are apparently thin as paper as well - walls too, if the banging from next door has anything to say about it.
So of course he can hear it as soon as John stops rolling back and forth and starts positively wailing on his headboard, half-formed words tumbling out gruff and commanding. John didn't come back from Afghanistan without some damage. His shoulder not withstanding, he certainly did not start out with that lust for danger.
It's why he tried so hard to deny it.
So while he's converted, been remade into a thrill-seeking daredevil who jumps across buildings and has a steady hand in the most harrowing of times, there still remains the screams of the injured and the crack of AK-47's and the pop pop pop of IED's before they blow a man's chest open.
Sherlock knows this, because John has the same nightmares every night that he hasn't been dashing about London chasing serial killers. Which really doesn't happen as often as one would think.
But there's a crash, like John just knocked his alarm clock off his bedside table, so Sherlock puts down his beakers and bounds up the stairs on his grasshopper long legs, hoping to wake John before he can hurt himself rather than an inanimate object.
It's chilly in the upstairs bedroom, and John had fallen asleep with a sweater on over his pyjama bottoms. It's thick and wool and cabled, and so very unassuming that Sherlock has to take a moment to full appreciate the image, before he's leaning over the bed and whispering, "John. John?"
John's head flicks towards him, and his face scrunches up in mute protest, and he grunts.
Sherlock reaches out to touch John's far shoulder, his right one, not his injured one, and says slightly louder, "John. John! Watson!"
John wakes up with a yelp and a flail and sits up, smacking his forehead, his incredibly dense frontal bone, into Sherlock's nose.
"Oh, fuck!" And he's bleeding, he's fucking bleeding.
"Ow! What? Sher - what? What're you doin' in my bedroom?"
"Bleeding."
"Hah? Ooh. Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll just - "
He's up and out of bed like he never had a limp, psychosomatic or not, and is bunching tissues into Sherlock's nose with the amount of force common in a surprised, not-quite-awake, former Army surgeon. Which is to say, far too much, and Sherlock's almost convinced his nose is broken, and wouldn't that be inconvenient, because he broke it on DI Lestrade's fist not two years before, and that's more often than it needs to happen, really.
John's relinquished his hold on the tissues, and is rubbing his forehead, where a red welt is growing. "Well, what'd you do that for?"
Sherlock's eyes are a marvellous tool, and are remarkably adept at conveying complicated messages. Through the tissue he adds, seeing that John is not quite his brilliant self yet, "I dunno. Thought it would be fun."
John just stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, brow furrowed in that endearing and slightly exasperating manner, trying not-so-subtly to determine whether or not Sherlock's being serious.
Just as Sherlock's about to help him along with one of his witty comments of how incredibly dull it must be to be other people, John's head falls forward and he's chuckling his little giggle of a laugh, and then Sherlock's laughing along with him - through the blood, his nose probably isn't that bad anyway - and everything's fine.
--
Author: crimson-adder
Rating: PG-13 (for swearing)
Characters: BBC: Sherlock, John
Word Count: 658
Notes: Written for the shkinkmene prompt: You know in the begging of the episode when Watson bolts up in bed because of his nightmare? Well I want him having a nightmare so Sherlock goes to wake up. Just when he leans over Watson wakes up and sits up suddenly and totally accidently headbutts Sherlock.
Warnings: I haven't slept all night, so this might be...crap. BUT oh well. I hope you likes it anyway. SPOILERS REGARDING WATSON'S INJURIES/PTSD. This is remarkably silly.
--
It's two A.M. and Sherlock can hear it when John starts to get restless.
John's bed is old and creaks. Sherlock doesn't sleep heavily, never has really, and any time John rolls over, the bedposts whine and pull like something far more exciting is going on up there.
He wasn't asleep of course, too busy, but the point is more along the lines of he can't even if he wanted to. The floors are apparently thin as paper as well - walls too, if the banging from next door has anything to say about it.
So of course he can hear it as soon as John stops rolling back and forth and starts positively wailing on his headboard, half-formed words tumbling out gruff and commanding. John didn't come back from Afghanistan without some damage. His shoulder not withstanding, he certainly did not start out with that lust for danger.
It's why he tried so hard to deny it.
So while he's converted, been remade into a thrill-seeking daredevil who jumps across buildings and has a steady hand in the most harrowing of times, there still remains the screams of the injured and the crack of AK-47's and the pop pop pop of IED's before they blow a man's chest open.
Sherlock knows this, because John has the same nightmares every night that he hasn't been dashing about London chasing serial killers. Which really doesn't happen as often as one would think.
But there's a crash, like John just knocked his alarm clock off his bedside table, so Sherlock puts down his beakers and bounds up the stairs on his grasshopper long legs, hoping to wake John before he can hurt himself rather than an inanimate object.
It's chilly in the upstairs bedroom, and John had fallen asleep with a sweater on over his pyjama bottoms. It's thick and wool and cabled, and so very unassuming that Sherlock has to take a moment to full appreciate the image, before he's leaning over the bed and whispering, "John. John?"
John's head flicks towards him, and his face scrunches up in mute protest, and he grunts.
Sherlock reaches out to touch John's far shoulder, his right one, not his injured one, and says slightly louder, "John. John! Watson!"
John wakes up with a yelp and a flail and sits up, smacking his forehead, his incredibly dense frontal bone, into Sherlock's nose.
"Oh, fuck!" And he's bleeding, he's fucking bleeding.
"Ow! What? Sher - what? What're you doin' in my bedroom?"
"Bleeding."
"Hah? Ooh. Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll just - "
He's up and out of bed like he never had a limp, psychosomatic or not, and is bunching tissues into Sherlock's nose with the amount of force common in a surprised, not-quite-awake, former Army surgeon. Which is to say, far too much, and Sherlock's almost convinced his nose is broken, and wouldn't that be inconvenient, because he broke it on DI Lestrade's fist not two years before, and that's more often than it needs to happen, really.
John's relinquished his hold on the tissues, and is rubbing his forehead, where a red welt is growing. "Well, what'd you do that for?"
Sherlock's eyes are a marvellous tool, and are remarkably adept at conveying complicated messages. Through the tissue he adds, seeing that John is not quite his brilliant self yet, "I dunno. Thought it would be fun."
John just stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, brow furrowed in that endearing and slightly exasperating manner, trying not-so-subtly to determine whether or not Sherlock's being serious.
Just as Sherlock's about to help him along with one of his witty comments of how incredibly dull it must be to be other people, John's head falls forward and he's chuckling his little giggle of a laugh, and then Sherlock's laughing along with him - through the blood, his nose probably isn't that bad anyway - and everything's fine.
--