Not Panicking

*the bold is a new pov*

John.

The sky exploded in a fit of flashes and a deafening bang, causing one Dr John H. Watson to launch himself out of his slumber.
Gasping for air, his eyes darted frantically around his ink black room, searching for the enemy.

There was a loud bang- an explosion somewhere close. They must be near.

Shouted commands hammered through Johns head, telling him to get down and crawl.

However just as John was about to do so, he felt sheets between his fingers, and saw the stillness of his surroundings.
slowly realised where he was.

'A bed, no that can't be right,' John thought, 'I was in the trenches just a second ago... This room isn't the army base...
I'm not at war.'

Slowly his consciousness and recollection of the last year caught up to him, and he slumped back onto his stiff pillows, steadying his breathing.
'I'm in London... not at war. I'm in a flat... I'm safe... somewhat.'
Another ear-bleeding bang erupted from the sky, causing John to jump. Hard rain hammered against the windows, threatening to break the glass as gusts of wind swept it almost horizontally.

'It's just thunder, not an explosive...'

Unfortunately, John was quite used to these night terrors, ever since the war he had suffered with terrible flashbacks. Thankfully, the memories died down after he moved in with his flat mate, but storms were always a nasty trigger.

After a while of trying -and failing- to induce sleep again, John sighed in defeat and shuffled his way down stairs to 221b Baker Streets kitchen for a relaxing cup of tea.

John's eyes ached as he switched on the kitchens blinding light, and went about putting the kettle on. Shivers shot up his spine thanks to the flats heater being broken, and a slight scent of chemicals tickled his lungs. 
Bloody Sherlock, he never properly cleaned his stupid experiments, and it was his stupid fault the heater was broken.
John didn't really mind it though, as annoying as it could be he thought it quite interesting. Watching the famous consulting detective at work was always fascinating and quite honestly attractive. Snapping out of his daze, he glanced at the digital clock above the oven. '2:00am' it read.
'Nothing like an early morning start I guess,' John thought as he poured his tea.

He was just about to turn for upstairs when a muffled sob escaped from the living room. The wrinkles between Johns brows deepened as he slowly sat the cup on the dining table. It couldn't be his flare mate, he never 'sobs,' and he'd be in bed at this hour...
Bracing himself, John quickly flicked on the living rooms light, only to find what he least expected.
Sherlock Holmes hunched in the far corner of the long sofa, staring into the abyss with his hands against each other, elbows resting on his knees. He appeared to be deep-breathing, a terrified look plastered upon his perfect complexion, but as soon as he realised he wasn't alone, his head snapped up and the emotionless stare overtook.

"Sherlock?" John asked, slowly walking closer.
"John," Sherlock regarded him, his eyes darted over Johns figure, "another night terror I presume?"
"I- yes, but never mind that," John waved away, he was used to Sherlock's deductions, "what on earth are you doing up this late?"
"Just the reason you; it seems I'm lacking in melatonin tonight, and the storm isn't helping."
John sat down next to Sherlock, eyeing him suspiciously. Upon first glance anyone  would believe Sherlock's excuse, but John knew better than that. His usually perfect head of dark curls looked as if a bird had made a home on his skull, his face, although seemingly blank, held restraint, and his skin was a shade paler than usual. He looked rather adorable, but it was not the time for John to be crushing.