And dream you shall (1/1)
Title: And dream you shall
Fandom: Sherlock (2010)
Pairing: hints at John/Sherlock
Rating: PG
Summary: One cool October night, John Watson wakes with a shout.
One cool October night, John Watson wakes with a shout. Having always believed people did not wake like that, John can feel the guilt and embarrassment kick in even before his rapidly beating heart has a chance to slow. As his nightmare slowly begins to fade, a faintly glowing imprint on the back of his eyelids, the perspiration on his forehead too, cools, making him shiver all over. His duvet has been kicked away and even his pillow lies askew, but John is still to preoccupied with trying to calm down to actually notice.
The dreams about his military service have never been nightmares. They have been dreams of the hot sun burning his neck, of the never ceasing sounds of gunfire, of shouting and of his own trembling limbs, unsteady with adrenaline.
The dreams of London, with frost crunching under his feet, with faceless murderers and the deep and ever confusing blue-green of Sherlock's eyes, those dreams are nightmares.
John hears his bedroom door creak and hopes it isn't Sherlock, at a loss for words, never havingbeen a man with words of comfort at the ready. John can deal with a lot, he can deal with shooting people and severed limbs in the kitchen, he can deal with Mrs Hudson's affectionate bickering and even with the screeching noises of an ill-played violin in ungodly hours of the morning, but he can not and will probably never be able to deal with Sherlock Holmes stunned to silence.
Sherlock however, does not reconsider and return to bed. His long limbs look awkward in the door frame, his back ever so slightly hunched so he won't hit his head, his bathrobe a thin shadow around his body.
John tries not to focus on him and turns his head away to listen to the faint traffic noises of Baker Street, the honking cabs, the tires of a National Express catching in a ditch. A woman's high heels, rhythmically clicking on the pavement.
"John."
At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John gives up pretending. It's not about tricking him into believing John is asleep, that is impossible, it has been more about Sherlock taking the hint to leave him and disappear back to his own room, but John knows-- he knows that is just as impossible.
Sherlock comes in without an invitation. Three quick steps with long legs and he is by the bed, and before John can protest he sits down on the edge of it.
"What are you---" John tries to say but does not get to finish his sentence. He seldom gets further than that.
One hand grabs John's right wrist, fingers lightly curling around it while the other hand comes down to rest on his forehead.
"You have a fever, John," Sherlock says, and the other shivers slightly at emphasis on his name.
It is a curious thing, Sherlock saying his name, because he says it like no one ever does. Like no one ever could.
"I have a job interview tomorrow," is all that John can think of replying.
"Rest."
"I--" he tries, but Sherlock shoots him a glare that is visible even in the darkness of the bedroom.
John surrenders and eases himself back down, grabbing for the pillow with a lazy hand.
He is suddenly glad, so glad that Sherlock cares.
Fandom: Sherlock (2010)
Pairing: hints at John/Sherlock
Rating: PG
Summary: One cool October night, John Watson wakes with a shout.
One cool October night, John Watson wakes with a shout. Having always believed people did not wake like that, John can feel the guilt and embarrassment kick in even before his rapidly beating heart has a chance to slow. As his nightmare slowly begins to fade, a faintly glowing imprint on the back of his eyelids, the perspiration on his forehead too, cools, making him shiver all over. His duvet has been kicked away and even his pillow lies askew, but John is still to preoccupied with trying to calm down to actually notice.
The dreams about his military service have never been nightmares. They have been dreams of the hot sun burning his neck, of the never ceasing sounds of gunfire, of shouting and of his own trembling limbs, unsteady with adrenaline.
The dreams of London, with frost crunching under his feet, with faceless murderers and the deep and ever confusing blue-green of Sherlock's eyes, those dreams are nightmares.
John hears his bedroom door creak and hopes it isn't Sherlock, at a loss for words, never havingbeen a man with words of comfort at the ready. John can deal with a lot, he can deal with shooting people and severed limbs in the kitchen, he can deal with Mrs Hudson's affectionate bickering and even with the screeching noises of an ill-played violin in ungodly hours of the morning, but he can not and will probably never be able to deal with Sherlock Holmes stunned to silence.
Sherlock however, does not reconsider and return to bed. His long limbs look awkward in the door frame, his back ever so slightly hunched so he won't hit his head, his bathrobe a thin shadow around his body.
John tries not to focus on him and turns his head away to listen to the faint traffic noises of Baker Street, the honking cabs, the tires of a National Express catching in a ditch. A woman's high heels, rhythmically clicking on the pavement.
"John."
At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John gives up pretending. It's not about tricking him into believing John is asleep, that is impossible, it has been more about Sherlock taking the hint to leave him and disappear back to his own room, but John knows-- he knows that is just as impossible.
Sherlock comes in without an invitation. Three quick steps with long legs and he is by the bed, and before John can protest he sits down on the edge of it.
"What are you---" John tries to say but does not get to finish his sentence. He seldom gets further than that.
One hand grabs John's right wrist, fingers lightly curling around it while the other hand comes down to rest on his forehead.
"You have a fever, John," Sherlock says, and the other shivers slightly at emphasis on his name.
It is a curious thing, Sherlock saying his name, because he says it like no one ever does. Like no one ever could.
"I have a job interview tomorrow," is all that John can think of replying.
"Rest."
"I--" he tries, but Sherlock shoots him a glare that is visible even in the darkness of the bedroom.
John surrenders and eases himself back down, grabbing for the pillow with a lazy hand.
He is suddenly glad, so glad that Sherlock cares.