Nightmares & Comfort

John has a nightmare about the war. Sherlock comforts him. Fluff ensues.

1002 words

Trigger Warnings: Blood and gore, PTSD

It's happening again, the nightmares are coming back. I try to remind myself that it isn't real, that that part of my life was over. But it feels so real, gunshots firing an inch past my face, only to hit another soldier. The wounded men are screaming in agony, almost drowning out my own of fear. Almost.

"John..."

Somehow, a whisper of a voice cuts through the chaos, making me swivel my head to find the owner of the voice. Among all the dead bodies and plumes of smoke and dust, I see someone reaching for me in the distance. Instantly thinking they're in trouble, I jog over to them, only to stop in my tracks.

"John," repeats one of the dead men on the ground. He wore bullet wound on the side of his head, blood decorating the ground beside him.

"John," he kept saying. "John." He appeared right in front of me, but only to start shaking me violently. Blood is still pouring from his wound, getting all over my face, my chest. I feel like I was drowning. I'm begging for help, for anyone to get the dead man off of me.

"John."

"JOHN!"

I snap out of it, realizing Sherlock was the one shaking me. As soon as I sit up, he lets go after he saw that I was awake. My throat feels raw from screaming. My cheeks are wet with tears I didn't know I had cried. The sheets stick to my sweaty skin, making it hard for me to untangle myself for my bed. I start to thrash as I realize I can't get out. I'm trapped, I think to myself. My breathing becomes heavier, my eyes frantically looking around for another way out. Noticing my panic, Sherlock quickly wraps his long, warm his arms around me again, whispering little meaningless things in my ear. His warmth surrounds me, bringing me back from the darkness that had a hold of me.

"John, look at me," Sherlock whispered in a soothing, deep voice, bringing my gaze to meet his sky blue eyes. "Calm down. Just follow my actions, okay?"

I nod, trying not to let the tears slip through.

When he inhales, I inhale.

When he exhales, I exhale.

The first few times didn't help, but after about two minutes, I finally feel calm. We didn't speak, we didn't look at each other. Surprisingly, the silence was comfortable. So we just sit there in silence, my body still in his embrace.

Eventually, it has broken by the detective with the dreadful question.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I instantly shake my head, my legs becoming very interesting. I wasn't ready to show that part of my past with Sherlock yet.

The weight of the bed shifts and the warmth that had spread across my body slowly fades. I glance up to see Sherlock about to walking out of the room, his long, nimble fingers reaching for the door knob.

"Wait!"

The sudden out burst startles me (and by the looks of it, Sherlock, too), but I don't regret it. He stops his movements, but doesn't turn around to face me. So I say the only thing I've wanted since I moved into 221B.

"Stay with me."

This makes Sherlock turn around, his big, blue orbs shining in the moonlight. He looks so beautiful in this moment. His pale skin almost white, his eyes as blue as the sky. And his lips, so pink, so plump, so soft. He must have seen that I was staring at, because he suddenly walks forward, an intimidating look on his face. I don't bother to maintain eye contact. I don't want to see the the look of disgust on his face. Instead, I focus on his feet, only to see his body maneuver onto his knees, now at eye level with me.

He gently grabs my chin, and lifts it so can see emotion in his eyes. Not the anger or the disgust I had expected, but I see love in his eyes. I see compassion in his eyes.

I am abruptly pulled forward, and our lips meet.

It takes me a few seconds to process what was happening. Then it hits me. Fireworks. Fireworks are all that I can feel. However, just as quick as it had started, it stops, and Sherlock pulls away. His eyes are full of fear, fear that he had done something wrong. But he hadn't. It felt so right.

So I pull him back in.

I grab the back of his neck and pull him back into another wonderful kiss. It isn't lustful, just sweet and loving. I feel him relax and melt into the kiss, kissing more confidently now. Our lips tug and twist, fitting together like the last piece of the puzzle. Unfortunately, we humans have to breathe to survive, and we pull away from each other.

"John," he starts. "I--"

"I love you, Sherlock."

He stares at me for a few seconds, and I wonder if i made a mistake I was about to say something, but Sherlock interrupts me.

"I love you, too." His voice is so deep, his words dripping with emotion. "I always have. And I always will."

I stare at him in awe. That is the most emotion Sherlock has ever shown me and admitted he meant it that way. I want to show him feel the same thing.  I don't even have to tell him to get in, I just scoot over to the other side of the bed and invite him to lay down with open arms.

He looks at me with adoration, and slowly climbs into bed. Once he's under the covers, he pulls me in. I tuck my head under his chin, feeling safe in his embrace. Sleep overtakes my mind as I think of Sherlock, the man who loves me.