Work Text:
“Common Ground”
By: haking17
Nightmares weren’t a new phenomenon for John. The ghosts of his time in the Army still made their appearances; though, those had gotten fewer once he moved into 221B Baker Street.
A recent poolside adventure at the insistence of a madman, however, was currently breeding a new genus of night terrors.
It had been far too close. John could still, at times, feel the weight of the explosives on his torso. When this feeling came back, usually at night, its weight would push the oxygen out of his lungs. Almost as if he was there all over again.
Watching the red dot of a sniper’s gun dance over the face of a man he was still trying to figure out; watching eyes that normally were so unreadable crinkle with…fear.
****
John sat up with a start, breath staggering with sweat dotting his forehead. It took him a moment to recall where he was—safe in his own bed, in the sanctuary of the flat.
The scent of chlorine tickled his nose and churned his stomach. He barely managed to keep down that night’s dinner.
He tossed back the covers, swung his legs to the side of the bed, and sat for several minutes trying to calm his breath and quell the nausea.
He couldn’t remember the details of the nightmare; the emotions were strong enough. He wasn’t as steady as he wanted to be as he stood, using the moonlight through his window to make his way out of the bedroom.
The room felt too small.
There was a dim light on in the sitting room. Had he left it on? No; he was sure he hadn’t. Sherlock had still been up, fussing over something under the microscope when John had decided to turn in for the night.
He can’t possibly still be up.
Even as John thought that he knew how wrong he was.
****
“Your tea is on the table.”
John’s gaze went to the kitchen table, widening. Since when did Sherlock make him tea? And, how did he even know he’d want—
“It’s supposed to be relaxing, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s own gaze stay fixated on his laptop screen at the table near the window.
“Um, yes. It is,” John fumbled, picking up the cup and taking a tentative sip. “Why are you still up? Did you get a case?”
John walked into the sitting room, taking the couch so he was across from Sherlock. Piercing eyes peered over the top of the computer screen.
“No.” Sherlock didn’t offer anything more. He returned to typing whatever it was he was working on. “This is the fourth time this week.”
“Pardon?” John asked, the tea cup stopping just at his mouth.
“The nightmares. You’ve had four just this week.”
John had never discussed his nightmares with Sherlock. Even the ones he had prior to their encounter with Moriarty. John had convinced himself that Sherlock wasn’t aware of them.
Should have known better; he notices everything.
“It happens,” John shrugged in hopes of appearing nonchalant. He took another sip of tea, thankful for the warmth that helped to quell the rising nausea.
“There’s no shame in it,” Sherlock spoke as calmly as if reading a menu. “Post-traumatic stress is an expected outcome when faced with a life or death situation. It’s not limited to a certain amount of time after said incident. In fact, many soldiers have been known to have the effects of PTSD decades after their military lives.”
“I’m quite aware of that, thank you.” John sat down the now empty cup. “And, thank you, for giving me something to look forward to.”
“These nightmares aren’t from Afghanistan.”
Eyes mimicking the colors of the ocean held onto John’s once more.
“So, now you know what I dream about?” John attempted sarcasm but the anxiety of having to discuss his dreams cracked his voice.”
“Not the details obviously.” Sherlock closed his laptop, folding his hands in front of him as he gave John his full attention. “But, I can deduce the context.”
“And, how the bloody hell can you do that?”
“Because I’ve had the same.”
Silence drew out between the two though their gazes remained steady. John wasn’t too surprise by the admission itself (how could one do what Sherlock does and not have an occasional nightmare?) but by the fact that it was admitted in the first place.
“I never felt the need to bring it up before,” Sherlock answered John’s unspoken question. “Our nightmares weren’t of the same content.”
“That’s why you’re still awake.”
Sherlock broke their staring contest, shifting to stare out the darkened window.
“I’ve never had a reason to discuss the side effects of a case. Firstly, it’s irrelevant. It doesn’t change or alter what happened so why waste the effort? Secondly, there wasn’t anyone who cared—“
Sherlock stopped there, shifting again and John caught the rare appearance of insecurity.
“Do you have them often?” John asked.
“No,” Sherlock seemed to relax, turning his attention back to John. “It’s rare but it’s been more frequent. Lately.”
“It was an intense situation,” John conceded.
“Yes, but—“Once again, Sherlock stopped, his hands twitching restlessly. John waited for him to continue, knowing from his own personal experiences that prodding would be futile.
“No one’s ever risked their life for me before.”
John had a dozen retorts on his tongue for that but silenced them. The look of utter confusion and hesitancy colored Sherlock’s face. In the dim light, he looked years younger, smaller.
“Well, it’s bloody hard to find a decent flat mate nowadays.”
They shared a grin that soon became a round of chuckles. John stood, gathering his cup. His bed was sounding more and more comfortable.
“You plan on staying up much longer?”
“No; I believe I have enough excitement for tonight.” Sherlock stood, walking past John towards his bedroom. He paused, causing John to nearly collide into him. He looked over his shoulder. “In case I have neglected to say so, thank you, John, for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome. Just don’t go making it a habit. People will start talking.”
“They already talk, John.”
The End