Fic: The Land of Nod
Title: The Land of Nod
Author: Erin Giles
Rating: G
Words: 221b
Warnings: Implied character death
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Mary Morstan (implied), Sherlock Holmes
Summary: John Watson doesn’t always dream of acrid desert landscapes.
A/N: The lullaby that features is an old fashioned Scottish lullaby.
John Watson doesn’t always dream of acrid desert landscapes. Not everything that goes bump in the night is the sharp retort of distance gunfire and IEDs. Sometimes he dreams he’s falling, jerking himself awake, hands fisted in the bedcovers as he holds on for dear life. He can taste kung-pao chicken on the tip of his tongue and there’s adrenaline sweating out of him, making him feel slightly nauseous for the absence of logic.
John Watson sometimes dreams of the view of mountains through the gaps in the curtains of a child’s bedroom. Snow capped peaks visible between the swaying branches of a cherry tree, spring pink with blossom. He can hear a lullaby behind him, crooned softly as if to a child already halfway to the land of nod. He feels the tug of a smile as he closes his eyes against the summer sun; thumb unconsciously playing with his wedding band.
Ally, bally, ally bally bee. Sittin’ on yer mammy’s knee. Waiting for a wee bawbee tae buy some Coulter’s candy.
He catches himself the next morning, humming the tune over two mugs of brewing tea while Sherlock huffs around behind him. After he’s picked the teabags out the mugs he finds himself absently thumbing the place where his wedding ring used to be.
John sometimes misses the bombs.
Author: Erin Giles
Rating: G
Words: 221b
Warnings: Implied character death
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Mary Morstan (implied), Sherlock Holmes
Summary: John Watson doesn’t always dream of acrid desert landscapes.
A/N: The lullaby that features is an old fashioned Scottish lullaby.
John Watson doesn’t always dream of acrid desert landscapes. Not everything that goes bump in the night is the sharp retort of distance gunfire and IEDs. Sometimes he dreams he’s falling, jerking himself awake, hands fisted in the bedcovers as he holds on for dear life. He can taste kung-pao chicken on the tip of his tongue and there’s adrenaline sweating out of him, making him feel slightly nauseous for the absence of logic.
John Watson sometimes dreams of the view of mountains through the gaps in the curtains of a child’s bedroom. Snow capped peaks visible between the swaying branches of a cherry tree, spring pink with blossom. He can hear a lullaby behind him, crooned softly as if to a child already halfway to the land of nod. He feels the tug of a smile as he closes his eyes against the summer sun; thumb unconsciously playing with his wedding band.
Ally, bally, ally bally bee. Sittin’ on yer mammy’s knee. Waiting for a wee bawbee tae buy some Coulter’s candy.
He catches himself the next morning, humming the tune over two mugs of brewing tea while Sherlock huffs around behind him. After he’s picked the teabags out the mugs he finds himself absently thumbing the place where his wedding ring used to be.
John sometimes misses the bombs.