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He squints as the sun seems to shine right in his eyes. He can't shift positions, not when the pain is unbearable. Any attempt to roll over is hindered by the protest from his wound, he wants nothing more to scream, all he emits is a groan of pain. A rock digs into his back; he must have fallen on it when the shot hit.
"John?"
The sound goes unheard among the commotion of fellow soldiers coming to assess his situation. More gunshots.
"John!"
A muffled sound breaks through reverie, a long past memory that his mind had to revisit nightly. Every time he was about to fall into slumber.
The sunlight fades into the dim shadows of his bedroom. 221B Baker Street. Eyes focus from the dazed vision of a recurring memory, focus on his flatmate shaking his shoulders in an attempt to break him from his nightly fits.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Sherlock."
He's not fine, he can see the scrutinizing gaze that Sherlock knows he's not fine either. He can practically see himself through Sherlock's eyes, the sweat upon his brow, the way his breath hitches, the tremble of his hands as he grips his sheet.
"Another one?" Sherlock turns away.
"Yes." He only watches as Sherlock leaves the room, returning with a cup of tea to help soothe his habitual nightmares. Because when it struck, Sherlock knew what could ease the pains, if only for one more night.