Prompting Part XXXIII
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In the middle of the night, while in the grey zone between sleep and wake, John thinks he hears the sound of an enemy approaching to attack him. Forgetting himself, he jerks awake.
In his room, Sherlock thinks he hears the familiar ringtone/voice of a past abuser/criminal he put away/someone else and jerks awake as well.
Both are terrified, and irrational as it seems decide they need to go check on the other to be sure they're okay. They end up meeting in the middle and spend the rest of the night curled up together on the sofa, maybe watching horrible middle-of-the-night tv, maybe a movie marathon, reading, or just sitting/pretending to try and get some sleep (prefer no est. relationship, although pairing would be lovely).
Maybe they talk about it, maybe they just enjoy each other's company. I'd like some mutual comforting and some warm-fuzzies, please :)
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(Captcha says "miorati maternal". Is it just me, or does this sound completely wrong?!)
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Rating/Warnings: Rated R b/c of graphic descriptions of violence.
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It had been a dreary day, in every sense. Their latest case had just been closed, one of a serial killer who had sadistically tortured his victims and then left them to die, and when they had finally caught him this afternoon, he hadn't shown anything even close to remorse; instead he had laughed them into their faces, boasting with what he had done. Everyone working on the case had been visibly affected by the man's, this monster's demeanor, even ever so self-controlled and seemingly emotionless Sherlock Holmes.
Like in a bad horror movie, even the weather had fitted the general mood of the day; dark clouds hung over London, bringing occasional rain, icy wind, even menacing thunder further away, like a nightmare looming in the distance.
By the time Sherlock Holmes and his friend and flatmate John Watson got home, the storm had reached the city's center, keeping streets ( ... )
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"Mama, when I grow up I want to be a soldier," the boy, not older than nine, exclaimed when he walked into the kitchen, pose taut and childishly innocent features frozen to a serious frown, like he'd seen the men on the telly do it so often. His mother only smiled, a kind, loving expression that gave away her thoughts.
"Oh darling, you should only decide that when you're old enough."
"But I want to fight for Queen and country," he recited and did his best to salute, earning himself a gentle laugh from his mother.
"You will, John, but for now I want you to be my little boy who doesn't think about fighting," she told him as she crouched down and hugged her son, a gesture he returned fiercely, small arms clutching her tight...
...and he held on to his friend and comrade, begged him not to die. The sounds of battle, of victory and loss, of pain and death surrounded them as they sat in the bushes, hidden from the enemy. John tried in vain to still the bleeding of his friend's wound, but it was as if the red fuel of ( ... )
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...and stumbled backwards when not Rick, but suddenly another familiar figure lay on the ground before him. Sherlock. Battered, beaten, bloody, a broken heap of body on pavement amidst bushes and desert head, a gruesome personification of so many memories he kept locked away. It didn't make sense to him what he was seeing, what was happening; there was panic, unspeakable terror, engulfing him, a force wrapping itself around him, strangling him almost.
"John... help me," Sherlock whispered, trying and failing to lift a hand and reach for his friend. John heard the enemy close in, foreign voices surrounding their hideaway that would soon be spotted. Instinct made him reach for his firearm, but his hands were met by emptiness, a nothing where he expected their sole chance of survival. The voices were only a few meters away now, and John - John couldn't do anything. In vain he looked for his rifle, the weapons in form of knives hidden in his clothes. It was all gone. And when he wanted to ready himself to at least defend his ( ... )
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With a gasp, an almost-scream, John jerked awake, sweaty and panting hard, entangled in his sheets, mind not yet fully awake, eyes still seeing the faces, ears still hearing threatening voices, scuffling footsteps - and the pleading whisper of a friend.
Desperately the doctor shook his head; he needed to clear his head, get rid of the nightmare. This is not real, this is not happening, he repeated to himself over and over again, face buried in his hands, willing himself to forget the pictures, forget the past, the pain of lives lost; forget his fear of losing another friend.
The memory of the horrors of war soon vanished; he'd long since learned to leave that behind, at least in his waking hours. But the image of Sherlock Holmes, the man he by now called his best friend, of his broken body as he'd seen it in his dream, as he'd seen it more than three years ago on the street, stayed with him. Three years the picture waited, buried in his mind, to his own surprise never much bothering him - until now, now that his friend was back, now ( ... )
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In case there are problems with the links - my username on both archives is CKLizzy.
http://archiveofourown.org/works/980766/chapters/1931100
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9717808/1/Nightfall
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I accidentally posted the links above as anonymus, but that's where you'll find the rest of the story within the next few days. Hope you'll like the ending as well!
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