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"Captain! Captain get the fuck out there!"
The voice of Bill Murray pierced through his ears, but Watson couldn't hear him. His hands already bloodied by the soldier oozing his life below him.
"I can't leave him Murray!" Yelled the captain back. He was a bloody doctor damnit and he would do what he was trained to do, save someone.
"I'll call Smith! Go and get your ass on the field!" He wasn't supposed to speak like that to a superior officer, but at the moment Bill was asking the help of a friend, not his captain.
Exasperated, Watson tied one of the few remaining gauzes around his soldier's thigh and pulled it tight, ignoring the yell of pain he heard from under.
Swiftly picking his med backpack, Watson sprinted out of the barracks and into the desert.
Spotting a fallen soldier, the medic tried to run his way, but John found he couldn't move. He was frozen in place, his laboured breaths loudly echoing in his head. His bag fell on the ground below him.
Suddenly there were gunshots all around him, an explosion going off right behind where he was standing, but Watson still couldn't move. His ears started ringing, his nostrils filled with the smell of gunpowder, his skin scratchy from the sweat.
John slowly lifted his hands to look at them. His palms dripping blood. His uniform's sleeves soaked in the crimson liquid, his fingers rough from the overuse of a scalpel, his left forefinger slanting from the daily pull of a trigger.
He couldn't stop the tears from running, he really tried to, but he couldn't. And then..
A yell.
No,
A scream, a bloodcurdling scream. It sounded so loud, could it have come from him? Unconsciously he turned to his left. The sight causing more tears to be shed.
His left shoulder was drenched in his own blood, a horrific wound bleeding before his eyes. Panicked, Watson tried to lift his right arm to block the blood flow, but it also wouldn't move. He was left alone, in the middle of a battlefield, with bullets flying all around him, bleeding whilst standing up, crying his soul out.
Sherlock was awoken by something squeezing his shoulder in a death grip. He turned his head on the pillow to glance at whatever was holding him with seemingly no intention of letting go.
His eyes were met with the sight of John Watson, his beautiful, brave and intelligent lover, leaving wet patches on the duvet from his sweat. His face littered with tears that were still running down from the doctor's eyes.
Sherlock lifted his right arm to grasp John's which was still holding on to his left shoulder, weaving his fingers under the blogger's own thicker ones, in order to uncage them from their grip.
The detective sat up on his elbow, having blinked the drowsiness from his eyes as best as he could. He turned to flick his bedside lamp on and faced his lover once again.
John was unfazed by the change in illumination. He was still thrashing about, sweating and letting off grunts as if he was in pain. His left arm was holding onto his pillow, squeezing it like he was previously doing to Sherlock and his right was now freely flailing around, searching for something to hold to, as if his doctor was (without realising it) trying to get a grip in reality in whatever way he could.
Sherlock was shocked. It had been weeks since John had last had a nightmare and it seemed like this one was causing a little more than simple discomfort to his partner. The detective scooted closer to the edge of their bed, in order not to get anymore accidental swats and opted for calling out to his lover.
"John?", "John!" "John wake up!", "It's just a dream, we're at home, at Baker Street, in our bed. It's me Sherlock."
"John please wake up" pleaded the detective. John was still unresponsive and was now panting wildly, no longer whimpering. He seemed as if he was short of breath. Sherlock damning any advise the doctor had given him in relation to his night terrors, the detective decided that waking his lover up, was more important than getting a stray hit.
"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, reaching for the blogger's upper arm and holding onto it.
The doctor's eyes flashed open, gasping for air as if his airway was closing up. Heaving, John glanced around with a glazed look, searching for whatever had pulled him out of his torturous slumber.
He eased up as soon as he locked gaze with his beloved detective, still holding his arm tightly.
John untangled his shoulder from Sherlock's grip and covered his face with his hands, exhaling his exhaustion. The blogger's face was wet with shed tears and his lips dry from his constant heaving.
"John?" Sherlock whispered this time. "John my darling?"
John remained silent, his expressions hidden and his chest rising slightly slower than before, having seemingly somewhat calmed down.
The detective reached to grasp his lover's right hand and brought it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss to the doctor's worn knuckles. "Don't hide from me now my John, we agreed."
They had agreed, they had agreed that whenever one of them was tortured by demons of their mind, they would never close up. Despite everything they had gone through, they were in this together now.
John was silently cursing that agreement at the moment because the last thing he wanted was to explain what he was just trying to get out of, but Sherlock was looking at him so sweetly it made the blogger's heart swell. His detective deserved nothing but the truth and honesty.
John swallowed around the lump that had formed in his throat. Removing his other hand from his face, he turned to look at his partner. On his face an expression of defeat, of tiredness.
"Just the usual love, sand, shots, blood, we've had this conversation before." John answered in a whisper, as if the peace he was hunting after in his sleep would break and shatter were he to speak louder.
Sherlock laid back down on their bed, his head on John's good shoulder. He lifted his right arm once more to place on his lover's left cheek, running his thumb through one of the wrinkles adorning the doctor's face. "I couldn't wake you John, you wouldn't listen. What was it this time?" Spoke Sherlock equaly as lowly. Running his nose up and down the blogger's neck, the smell of dried sweat and John's aftershave filling his nostrils.
The doctor turned to nuzzle his face on his lover's thick and messy curls. Sherlock's expensive conditioner further grounding him, landing him back to their bed.
"I saw Murray calling me to run out into the field. When I went outside the tent i stopped and i couldn't move anymore, I was stuck, my limbs unresponsive. I don't know why, but i started crying and then I for some reason turned to look at my left shoulder, which was freshly bleeding on my uniform."
Having said his dream out loud, John was grateful that Sherlock had nudged him to share it in the first place. Describing it gave him an outside view of the events playing inside his mind not fifteen minutes ago. John felt a surge of control running through him, as if telling his detective his nightmare had somehow helped the doctor conquer the terror he had felt.
Sherlock slightly lifted his chin in order to be able to look his partner in the eyes. "You've seen something similar to that before, what was it today that had you so immersed that you wouldn't even wake up?" He inquired.
John sighed. He nuzzled into the palm stroking his cheek and closed his eyes. "I don't know love, it was just a really bad dream. That's all."
The detective searched his doctor's expression, trying to find anything that might give up more information as to why John had such a bad reaction, but his own tiredness combined with the odd hour wouldn't allow him to observe as much as he would like. Instead Sherlock decided to drop the subject for now, laying his head back down his lover's chest, right above his now calmly beating heart.
John noticed the hand on his face had now dropped to softly cradle his neck and his beautiful detective's eyes falling closed on his high cheekbones, right above his breastbone. His pulse now running not only through him, but through his lover as well. His incredible Sherlock, the self-proclaimed 'high functioning sociopath', who had awoken in the middle of the night to soothe him of a night terror. His breathtaking angel, sleeping on top of him, holding him close.
John closed his eyes and hoped for sleep to come.