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Once, Watson had only dreamed of Afghanistan. The faces of the men he had been unable to save haunted him, both those whom he had lost in surgery and those he had been ordered to abandon.
And when he didn’t dream of his failures as a doctor, he dreamed of agony, of Jezzail bullets tearing into his body. His own screams echoing in his ears, the stench of blood everywhere, the certainty that he was about to die.
These days, though, he dreamed less often of Afghanistan. He would have liked to put that down to some sort of healing, perhaps courtesy of Holmes so logically reassuring him that running away from a fight had been the best option. In one of his published stories, he might have framed it thus.
But that was not the cause of his changing dreams. The cause, unfortunately, was that he had simply replaced the old nightmares with brand new ones. None of the things he dreamed about now were fit to publish, not without the public assuming that he and Holmes were both mad.
He jolted awake out of another dream, shuddering, and looked around desperately. Grey morning light peeked from behind the curtains. This was his own bedroom, not some dark chamber or teetering lighthouse.
In the dream, Holmes stood at the center of a ring of bloody cultists, his arms raised in unison with theirs. His eyes were glowing white, his face drenched in sweat as he chanted in some strange language that Watson could not understand. And as he chanted, shadows had risen up all around, towering over them as if intent on smothering all life…
Watson shuddered and dragged a hand through his sweaty hair, sitting up. “Just a dream,” he whispered to himself. “Just a dream. Holmes is right here.”
“I am indeed,” Holmes said from just beside him in bed, voice thick with sleep and sedatives. “Is… is something wrong?”
“No. No, I am just fine.” Hand shaking, Watson dashed away the tears and tried to catch his breath. He could still hear the chanting even now, although the words had lost their clarity. “I had an odd dream.”
“A nightmare, rather, I presume.” Still moving slowly, Holmes stirred and pushed back the blankets. He looked almost as ill as he had in the dream, with dark circles under his eyes and his face ashen. “I fear I had a little nightmare of my own. Shall we have an early morning?”
“Yes, I think we should at least stay awake, even if we do not rise. I have no wish to…” Watson’s voice broke, and he almost began to sob. No, he had no wish to return to the horrors that awaited him in sleep.
“My poor John. I am so terribly sorry.”
It was only after a few deep breaths that Watson could speak. “Sorry? What for?”
“I presume I took the center stage in your dreams.” Ashen, Holmes struggled into a seated position. He swayed a little, gave a heavy sigh, and leaned against Watson’s right shoulder. “Or was it Afghanistan?”
“It was not Afghanistan,” Watson admitted quietly. “I think you may have started a cult. In my dream, I mean.”
“Ah. Charming.” Holmes still seemed a little groggy from the sedatives Watson had given him before bed, but he sounded very much like himself. Watson smiled, just a little. “Nothing so interesting happened in my own dreams. It was just my usual tumble into the endless abyss.”
Watson shuddered, but if Holmes wanted to make light of it… “I suppose there isn’t much to do in the abyss.”
“Nothing at all, except falling. It is unspeakably boring, Watson.” With another sigh, Holmes patted Watson’s hand. “Well. Since you have undoubtedly had the more distressing dream, perhaps I could tend to you for a change. Do you need anything?”
He sounded terribly hopeful, which was sweet. He might not know how to help, but he was certainly trying. “I don’t know, really. Just having you here helps most.”
“Then I shall certainly stay right here.” Pulling back just enough that they could see each other, Holmes gave a small smile. “I would offer to play a bit of music for you, but I fear my violin is in the sitting room. Perhaps later?”
“I would like that very much.” The tears still welled, and Watson wiped them away. “By Jove, I cannot believe how much this has affected me! You’d think I would be getting used to these dreams by now.”
“Hm. I admit, I’m not entirely certain that trauma works that way.”
“You are the one who has suffered trauma, not I.”
“Do not be absurd, John. I can hardly claim to be the only one affected by our… experiences.” Holmes gave a small wave of the hand, as if trying to indicate all those horrible things. “Additionally, your entire life has been put on hold while you nurse me back to health. Hardly conditions that encourage stability.”
“I suppose not,” Watson said, reluctant. “But—”
“Ah! I shan’t hear another word of protest. You, my dear fellow, are quite entitled to have the occasional moment of distress.” Eyes keener than they had been in a long time, Holmes searched his face. “And to have a little cry, if you feel so inclined.”
Watson opened his mouth to protest that he certainly did not feel so inclined, but it seemed that he was wrong. A low sob escaped, and a few tears. “My apologies, Sherlock, I do not mean to…”
“No more apologies. Please, John.” Still moving slowly, Holmes wrapped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him close. “There is no need to be sorry at all. You have certainly spent plenty of time holding me in recent months.”
“True enough.” More tears slipped free, and Watson failed to choke them back. He curled against Holmes, still feeling at least somewhat guilty. “It has been my greatest privilege to care for you.”
“I know,” Holmes said simply. “I feel quite the same.”
The tender reply brought on a few more sobs, Watson’s heart aching at how remarkable his partner was. Sometimes, Holmes lacked social graces, and he had an odd grasp on emotions. But he truly did care, and he showed that care even when struggling himself.
And oh, it did feel so very good to be held like this. The terror of the dream faded, and Watson found himself able to breathe again. He sniffled, trying to collect himself at least a little. “I’m all right now, thank you.”
“Hm. Somehow, I doubt that you’re entirely all right.” Holmes drew back and ran another quick, searching look across him, fingers drumming restlessly on the blanket. “You do look much better, at least. Perhaps a little breakfast will revive you further?”
“Breakfast does sound very good,” Watson agreed. “But perhaps not for a bit. If the offer is still open, I would very much like to listen to your violin playing.”
“Excellent! The offer is very much still open, and I do believe I am awake enough to play adequately.” Smiling slightly, Holmes wiggled his fingers, then offered his hand. “Shall we help each other to the sitting room?”
Watson took the offered hand, reassured. It had not been a good night, but already the day was looking brighter. “We most certainly shall.”