Sherlock leapt to his feet when he heard the screaming, or rather, a short scream that was quickly cut off by an even worse sound, a strangled “uhhh.” A sound one only heard when a person was in so much agony, he couldn’t get the breath to scream.
He yanked open the bedroom door and dashed into the room, stumbling over the mess that littered the floor. John’s arms and legs thrashed violently. His injured hand thumped against the wall. John gave another horrible “uhhh,” then his back arched so severely, it looked like he was levitating off the bed.
John had warned him to never interfere when he had a nightmare, but Sherlock worrieded that in his current state, he would injure himself.
He stepped forward. He tried to restrain John’s arms, but they were ripped out of his grasp. John took a swing at Sherlock. He managed to avoid the full force of the blow, but it still hurt like hell.
He took a risk and threw himself on top of John, trying to trap his arms and legs under his own. John wriggled like an eel. Sherlock’s unwillingness to hurt his flatmate put him at a disadvantage. John elbowed him in the solar plexus, and while Sherlock was still gasping for breath, climbed on top of him. He wrapped his fingers around his throat. Sherlock tried the trick of grabbing John’s pinkie and bending it back. He did not react. Sherlock jammed a fingernail up into the nailbed of John’s middle finger, again with no reaction. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. He arched and thrashed in panic, desperately clawing at John’s fingers.
The unfocused glaze left John’s eyes. He stared down at Sherlock in shock.
“What happened?” he asked. He rolled off of him to lie on his side. He curled into himself. Sherlock suspected his injuries were agony.
“You had a really bad night terror. I was afraid you were going to hurt yourself, so I made the mistake of trying to intervene.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse from the choking.
“That’s weird. I don’t remember falling asleep.”
“What do you remember?” Sherlock whispered.
“I wasn’t doing much of anything, just mulling things over.” He blushed and looked away, “Then I picked up that magazine on the table, then nothing. I must have dozed off while I was reading. Probably all that talk of torture stirred something up.”
He studied Sherlock’s face. “Why are you whispering?”
“You choked me half to death before you woke up.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry.” He touched Sherlock’s cheek. “Looks like I hit you too.”
Sherlock ignored him, “You should check your dressing. I wouldn’t be surprised if you tore a few stitches.”
John groaned, “I honestly don’t believe I can move right now. Every muscle in my body hurts.”
Sherlock pushed up John’s shirt and vest and peeled off the corner of the dressing. There was a small trickle of fresh blood, but the stitches still held. “Your stitches are fine.”
John didn’t respond. He had withdrawn to his own private world. Sherlock suddenly felt like he was intruding. He got up and went to the door. He turned, “If you need anything…”
John just stared straight ahead.
Sherlock did not have any first-hand experience with John’s nightmares beyond the occasional creak of bedsprings and muffled cries that filtered down the stairs. On really bad nights, John would come into the kitchen and drink cup after cup of tea and stare into space like he was doing now. Sherlock left him alone on those nights.
He came to the uncomfortable realization that in some ways, John was a complete stranger. Sherlock had no idea how to help him. Should he have stayed with him until he seemed a little more present? Should he have never gone to help him in the first place? Sherlock had no idea. Then a terrifying thought occurred to him. What if he’d made John worse?
Fill: No Refuge from Memory: 7b/?
He yanked open the bedroom door and dashed into the room, stumbling over the mess that littered the floor. John’s arms and legs thrashed violently. His injured hand thumped against the wall. John gave another horrible “uhhh,” then his back arched so severely, it looked like he was levitating off the bed.
John had warned him to never interfere when he had a nightmare, but Sherlock worrieded that in his current state, he would injure himself.
He stepped forward. He tried to restrain John’s arms, but they were ripped out of his grasp. John took a swing at Sherlock. He managed to avoid the full force of the blow, but it still hurt like hell.
He took a risk and threw himself on top of John, trying to trap his arms and legs under his own. John wriggled like an eel. Sherlock’s unwillingness to hurt his flatmate put him at a disadvantage. John elbowed him in the solar plexus, and while Sherlock was still gasping for breath, climbed on top of him. He wrapped his fingers around his throat. Sherlock tried the trick of grabbing John’s pinkie and bending it back. He did not react. Sherlock jammed a fingernail up into the nailbed of John’s middle finger, again with no reaction. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. He arched and thrashed in panic, desperately clawing at John’s fingers.
The unfocused glaze left John’s eyes. He stared down at Sherlock in shock.
“What happened?” he asked. He rolled off of him to lie on his side. He curled into himself. Sherlock suspected his injuries were agony.
“You had a really bad night terror. I was afraid you were going to hurt yourself, so I made the mistake of trying to intervene.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse from the choking.
“That’s weird. I don’t remember falling asleep.”
“What do you remember?” Sherlock whispered.
“I wasn’t doing much of anything, just mulling things over.” He blushed and looked away, “Then I picked up that magazine on the table, then nothing. I must have dozed off while I was reading. Probably all that talk of torture stirred something up.”
He studied Sherlock’s face. “Why are you whispering?”
“You choked me half to death before you woke up.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry.” He touched Sherlock’s cheek. “Looks like I hit you too.”
Sherlock ignored him, “You should check your dressing. I wouldn’t be surprised if you tore a few stitches.”
John groaned, “I honestly don’t believe I can move right now. Every muscle in my body hurts.”
Sherlock pushed up John’s shirt and vest and peeled off the corner of the dressing. There was a small trickle of fresh blood, but the stitches still held. “Your stitches are fine.”
John didn’t respond. He had withdrawn to his own private world. Sherlock suddenly felt like he was intruding. He got up and went to the door. He turned, “If you need anything…”
John just stared straight ahead.
Sherlock did not have any first-hand experience with John’s nightmares beyond the occasional creak of bedsprings and muffled cries that filtered down the stairs. On really bad nights, John would come into the kitchen and drink cup after cup of tea and stare into space like he was doing now. Sherlock left him alone on those nights.
He came to the uncomfortable realization that in some ways, John was a complete stranger. Sherlock had no idea how to help him. Should he have stayed with him until he seemed a little more present? Should he have never gone to help him in the first place? Sherlock had no idea. Then a terrifying thought occurred to him. What if he’d made John worse?