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The hot Afghanistan sun beats down on John and the rest of his battalion, as they wait for orders to move on the small village less than two kilometers to the north of their position. John feels a bead of sweat roll from his brow, down his cheek, stopping on the corner of his mouth. He licks it off with a flick of his tongue and flexes the hold he has on his rifle. He glances to his right where Johnson stands adjusting his helmet and that’s when everything goes white.
At first, the world is a lack of sound and there is nothing but a blinding light in his eyes. But it quickly clears and John can hear screaming around him; men shouting orders, some calling for help, and a high-pitched whistle that tells him another missile is headed their way. John tries to shake his head clear, to focus on who needs the most assistance. Another explosion erupts nearby sending up a spray of sand. As it rains back down to earth a slim man in a well-tailored suit steps through the dust, his snake-like eyes locked on John.
Moriarty.
John only has a moment to be confused as before his instincts kick in. He raises his rifle to shoot but suddenly his gun has been replaced by his walking cane, and he finds his feet suddenly sinking into quicksand. John knows he shouldn’t struggle but tries to break free anyway – to run away. Of course he only sinks deeper, now in up to his knees.
Moriarty now stands above him with a pistol – John’s Browning – pointed at his head.
“This is a turn up, isn’t it, Dr. Watson?”
Moriarty leers at John as he pulls the trigger –
John wakes from his nightmare with a gasp, sitting upright in bed. He quickly takes in his surroundings (bedroom – Baker Street – home – safe) before lying back on the pillow to catch his breath. Nightmares of Afghanistan are nothing new, but ever since being strapped with explosives that night at the pool his dreams have become an amalgamation of old terrors and new enemies. John takes deep breaths in through his nose, exhaling slowly, while he contemplates getting up to make a cup of tea to calm his nerves. That’s when he hears violin music floating up through the floor boards. It’s a gentle tempo and it gives John something to focus on rather than his own racing heart. He keeps breathing while listening to the notes his flatmate is coaxing from the instrument. He imagines Sherlock standing downstairs in front of their window in his dressing gown, long fingers moving across the strings.
Living with Sherlock is unlike living with anyone else that John has ever encountered. True to his word, Sherlock sometimes doesn’t talk for days on end. He doesn’t keep a regular sleeping schedule like other people, and very often he plays the violin when thinking. Usually John doesn’t mind because it is like soothing background music. Only occasionally does Sherlock abuse the instrument, picking notes out of tune with a harsh twang. In these instances John almost wants to say something about how annoying it is, but he knows it won’t make any difference. Sherlock only plays to entertain himself.
At least, that is what Sherlock would have everyone believe – although there are exceptions. He played for Mrs. Hudson at Christmas as she requested, performing popular songs that John was sure he must have deleted. And, though they never speak of it aloud, they both know that Sherlock plays for John whenever he has a nightmare. At first John thought it must only be a coincidence – that Sherlock must play every night. But he soon learned from the times waking up in the night only to visit the loo, that there was no music. Only when John needs it, is the soothing comfort of Sherlock’s violin there for him.
Tonight, as Sherlock’s melody continues, John can feel his breathing and heart rate returning to normal. It’s always the same piece each time he plays for John to sleep. John isn’t a big fan of classical music, so he can’t be sure if the piece is Brahms or Vivaldi. It might even be something that Sherlock has composed. All John knows is that soon his eyelids feel heavy again and he drifts off into a dreamless sleep.
***
The next time John and Sherlock encounter Moriarty the consequences are worse than John could have imagined. The good news is that John no longer has nightmares about Afghanistan and seeing his comrades shot in front of him. The bad news is that now almost every night he dreams about being at Bart’s and watching Sherlock fall. Sometimes it is a replay of what happened that day – standing on the sidewalk unable to move and unable to stop Sherlock before he jumps.
Sometimes John is on the roof and still can’t get to Sherlock fast enough. The worst is when he is on the roof to stop Sherlock and he reaches out to grab him only to feel the wool coat slip through his fingers just as Sherlock jumps.
Given this current situation, John is leery of going to sleep. He starts to keep the kinds of hours that Sherlock used to, staying awake as long as his body will allow to avoid sleep altogether. When he does sleep, he sets an alarm to only sleep for a few minutes at a time so he won’t go into REM sleep – just enough to keep his body functioning.
It’s not long that John can keep this up before his body finally collapses. It’s about two weeks or so after Sherlock falls when John does finally succumb to sleep, and it is not in his own bed. Although he won’t admit it to anyone else, John finds that napping in Sherlock’s bed is a comfort. He is surrounded by Sherlock’s belongings and the smell of him still clings to the sheets. When he finally does sleep, he dreams of that day once again.
The light is cold and grey, and it feels like it’s pushing down on John’s chest as he steps out onto the rooftop of St. Bart’s. Sherlock is standing on the edge of the roof looking down at the pavement below. John wants to shout to him to step back, but he feels like his throat is closed off. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out.
Sherlock must sense that someone else is on the roof with him and he turns so he is facing John but still standing on the ledge. He gives John a smile, but John knows it’s the fake one he uses when he is scamming a client.
“Ah John, so good of you to join me,” Sherlock address him as if he were joining him for tea.
John is still incapable of speaking but he continues to advance towards Sherlock slowly, hoping he can grab him before it’s too late.
“John we both know you’ll never reach me in time,” Sherlock taunts.
John freezes, licks his lips, tries to speak again – to whisper, to shout, to say anything to make Sherlock stay.
“Goodbye John.”
Sherlock steps backwards off the roof and seems to be suspended in mid-air just for a moment. John rushes forward though he knows he will be too late –
John jolts out of sleep before he can see Sherlock hit the pavement, which is a small blessing. It still doesn’t stop the sheen of sweat that has broken out on his forehead or the feeling that his stomach is trying to crawl out of his throat. He lies in Sherlock bed just trying to breathe, and hold back the tears that are stinging his eyes.
Just when he feels like he’s about to snap, John hears it – the same slow melodic song that Sherlock used to play for him. That is all the stress that John’s sleep-addled brain can take. He starts sobbing in Sherlock’s bed, turning into the pillow to breathe in his scent. He starts muttering incoherent words and due to his exhaustion he doesn’t hear the violin music stop or feel the slight weight that settles on the bed behind him.
Eventually, John feels an arm wrapped around his torso, and fingers brushing through his hair.
“I’m sorry my playing couldn’t help you sleep this time John,” a gentle, familiar voice whispers in his ear.
John thinks, if this is a dream he could have all the time, then maybe he would sleep more often. His sobbing slows and his breathing evens out.
“Why Sherlock? Why did you leave me?” he asks.
“I had to John. It was the only way to keep you safe. Moriarty would have killed you if I hadn’t jumped.”
“Still didn’t have to jump,” he retorts almost petulantly, “we could have solved it together.”
“I’m sorry John. But I’m here now.”
“No you’re not. It’s just a dream. Won’t be here when I wake up,” he responds, close to tears again.
“But you’re awake now John.”
It takes a few moments for that reply to sink in. John rolls over in bed and finds himself face to face with strong cheekbones and gray eyes set on a familiar face. John’s disbelief is so strong he doesn’t have an immediate response. He feels that he must be still dreaming because this cannot be possible. And if it is real, then that means Sherlock lied to him and put him through hell for weeks.
Sherlock must see the flash of anger in John’s eyes because he responds quickly and before John knows what is happening Sherlock is pressing his lips to his in a chaste kiss. No tongues, just a light pressure to keep John grounded and to prove he is really there. It only lasts a few moments but John still feels like a slight electrical current has passed though his body.
“If you allow me John, I believe an explanation is in order. And I promise I’m not leaving again, if that’s alright with you.”
John doesn’t even hesitate to answer.
“Shut up and kiss me again you idiot.”