Bad Dream

The sound of gunfire rang through the air and large chunks of rock and rubble flew over the soldier's head. He stumbled around blindly as his vision blurred and swayed and he yelled in pain suddenly as he felt something heavy and hard collide with his chest. Another large rock had been flung through the sky as a bomb exploded and had narrowly missed him, skimming his chest.

Breathing heavily and looking round, he heard a shout behind him, and as he turned he recognised a fellow soldier. He was just about to reach an arm out to him when suddenly he could do nothing but watch in horror as a bullet was fired through his temple. He yelled out in shock as it remerged with a spurt of blood from the other side of his head.

He could now hear nothing but a dull, constant thumping that he recognised as his heartbeat and a loud ringing in his ears. He watched on as the soldier, his friend, fell to the ground face-first and he shut his eyes tight, screaming as suddenly-

John Watson awoke from his nightmare to the comfortable silence of 221B Baker Street. He rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes on the back of his hand, keeping it there over his face in the darkness as he suddenly felt a pang of shame that he couldn't even remember the face of the fallen soldier he'd seen in his flashback.

He whimpered silently and a moment later felt so thankful for being at home in his bed, rather than the awful war which he'd experienced in his last. But it suddenly felt even more awful, as he remembered the dead soldier's name.

Johnson. Samuel Johnson.

John closed his eyes and sniffed louder than he intended, holding back a sob. However a moment later he froze, as he instantly became aware of another presence in the room. He slowly opened his eyes and sat up in bed, flinching at the first thing he saw, which just so happened to be his friend and flatmate Sherlock Holmes, sat in his favourite silk dressing gown on the floor in the doorway, and watching him intently.

As soon as he made eye contact with him John jumped with surprise and hurriedly turned on the lamp on the bedside table. There was a click and the room was immediately filled with a comforting orange glow, and John observed his friend. He had dark rings around his eyes and looked shockingly pale, which John thought was unlike him. He must not have gotten any sleep.

John sighed with relief and cleared his throat.

"You startled me," he stated quietly, his voice surprisingly hoarse.

"I can say the same to you," Sherlock replied flatly. "You started yelling in your sleep about fifteen minutes ago. Something about 'Sammy', whoever he is."

John looked down at his hands abruptly and nodded, his eyes shut tightly. "Yeah," he said quietly. He snapped himself out of it, shaking his head slightly. "I mean- Yeah. Samuel was in my regiment in the Fifty Northumberland Fusiliers. I, um..." He coughed. "I saw him get shot."

Sherlock nodded and John scratched the back of his head, looking back up at him. "It was just a war flashback, Sherlock, that's all. I wouldn't expect you to understand. Just try to get some sleep."

"I don't see much point," Sherlock stated with a shrug. "As soon as you go back to sleep you'll be yelling again. I know how flashbacks work." He yawned. "Besides, you can't sleep with an active mind, and judging from your current appearance you now aren't the least bit tired, either." John guiltily noticed his pale face and dark eyes, knowing he'd deprived him of sleep with his sleep-talking.

"I'm sorry to have kept you up," he said apologetically. Sherlock smiled tiredly, his eyelids drooping as he slowly stood up but immediately sat on the edge of John's bed again, losing his balance.

"It's all right," he said as he tried to stand up again, failing to do so miserably. "I was actually awake anyway, before you shouted."

"Really, why?"