Chapter Text
A scream. A terrified, excruciating scream of agony abruptly wakes John from an uneasy sleep. There is something about the case Sherlock accepted today that feels...off. Well, not really the case itself, but something about Sherlock has felt off to John ever since they arrived back at 221b from the crime scene several hours ago.
“What the...” For a brief, sleepy second he wonders if that scream came from him (nightmares wouldn’t be a new occurrence) or if he imagined it.
Just then, another scream reverberates within the flat.
John leaps out of his bed within seconds and immediately reaches for his gun; encased inside the drawer of John’s bedside table. He ignores the fact that he is in nothing but his pants and rushes out of his bedroom. His heart is pounding hard with fear and worry. However, out of sheer instinct he initiated a calm and steady soldier’s stance at the prospect of danger (maybe someone has broken in?) and the sound of his best-friend clearly in distress.
There is no mistaken that voice he heard....Sherlock. John has never heard him scream like that before.
John descends the stairs as quickly as he can – his mind vigilant, eyes and ears fully alert, listening and watching intently for any other unusual sounds or noises – without risking alerting a possible intruder.
He reaches the door leading into the kitchen and pauses in front of it; he gives the room (the table a complete mess piled with the remains of an experiment of Sherlock’s from this morning, there is a layer of crusted...something covering one end of the kitchen table than doubles as Sherlock’s personal laboratory, just one of the many realities of living with the mad, brilliant genius John has learned to accept; though he of course still gets frequently annoyed, as well as routinely amazed) a cursory once over before deciding it’s clear.
After deciding the living room (also a delightful example of chaos that John is honestly grateful to call home) is also clear, John tightens his grip on the gun and turns to head in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.
Bang!
Sherlock’s bedroom door is suddenly flung open and out strides the man himself.
“Sherlock! What the hell happened? Are you okay?” John’s relief – still tinged with worry – at seeing his friend unhurt is short-lived however as the man pushes past John as though he wasn’t even there.
John ignores that for the time being and swiftly runs into Sherlock’s room; holding up his gun in a traditional stance. There’s...Nothing. John relaxes his grip, confusion quickly taking over. Nothing...then why did he –
John’s thought is interrupted as a loud bang originates from the direction of the living room.
He swiftly heads back the way he came.
“Sherlock! What the hell is going on?” John calls out loudly, as he reaches the living room via the open sliding doors of the kitchen.
Sherlock, wearing nothing besides a pair of inside-out grey pyjama bottoms, is standing beside the now upturned living room table; steadfastly ignoring John.
It’s dark, so John can’t see Sherlock’s face. All he has to go on is the horrible scream – it most definitely was Sherlock, had to be – he heard before, which John can’t see any obvious reason for.
“Do you mind telling me why you screamed and why you’re tearing apart the flat at three in the morning?” The latter is nothing unusual, the former is. John is mildly irritated, but there is something not quite right here that has him feeling more concerned than bothered. Did Sherlock have a nightmare? Why is he ignoring me like this? Again, this is not unusual, but that feeling of something being off – though different now – is still present.
Sherlock gives no indication that he even heard John. All John can hear are the twin sounds of his breathing and Sherlock’s...which, now that John is listening, sounds awfully rapid.
“...Sherlock?” John says quietly.
Sherlock turns and walks unsteadily towards the sofa. He bends down and tightly grips the edge of the low table in front of it.
Sensing what Sherlock is about to do, John rushes forward and grabs Sherlock’s arm (not too tightly) in an attempt to stop him.
The second John’s hand touches Sherlock, the latter spins around and punches John firmly in the chin.
“Fuck!” John swears loudly. Ow! The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth and he staggers backwards in shock from the much unexpected blow. He can’t tell – too dark – but Sherlock appears to be staring past him, saying nothing. “Why did-” John starts to speak but abruptly stops as something registers to him....when John touched Sherlock’s skin, it was extremely sweaty and hot, and the man was ferociously shaking.
Oh.
John disregards the ache and pain coming from his jaw and mouth and reaches behind him to flip on the light switch. As light washes away the darkness of the room John immediately looks at Sherlock. His concern triples as he takes in his friend’s appearance and observes the symptoms; screaming, eyes wide and alert, though unfocused from his surroundings, rapid breathing and most likely an elevated pulse (John won’t risk touching him again to be sure, unless necessary), violent reaction to being touched, autonomic arousal, he doesn’t appear to know who I am.
John knows what this is, has experienced this himself though not for a long time; night terror. Why would Sherlock be having a night terror? The idea of Sherlock trapped in this terror is frightening and baffling to John; he can’t shake the growing feeling that this is somehow related to their new case. Only twice before has John ever seen Sherlock look this afraid, the first was during the Baskerville case, the second was eight months ago when Sherlock returned 3 years after his supposed “death” and John refused to move back in with him to Baker Street (at the time John had been living in the flat he and Mary shared, his wife. She had died the year before) and said he never wanted to see him again (John didn’t really mean that even then, he was just so...so angry at the time). It certainly didn’t help that when Sherlock came back, he initially acted like nothing was wrong...nothing! Oh let’s just go back to normal...not bloody likely. Two months later John started speaking to Sherlock again, and two weeks later John moved back to Baker Street; the only place that has ever truly felt like home to him.
John knows that has more to do with his flatmate than the flat itself. He also knows even though Sherlock and John have their good days, occasionally there will be times when contention reaches a high crescendo. Just like before. Except now there is additional tension and uncertainty that didn’t used to be there.
However, those two fears were very different compared to what John is seeing now, which is significantly more intense; the blinding fear of one caught in a night terror. The state Sherlock is in now is so vastly different compared to his normal (a part of John scoffs inwardly with a fond smile at the word ‘normal’) demeanour it’s almost surreal.
There is very little John can do, except try to be calm, wait for it to pass (night terrors in adults don’t typically last longer than a few minutes) and make sure the bloody man doesn’t injure himself.
“Sherlock, it’s ok. It’s me, it’s John. You’re going to be alright. I’m here and I won’t harm you.” John speaks in the calmest voice he can; his heart still pounding from the worry and intensity of the situation. He slowly lowers his gun onto the end table behind him and holds out his hand in a comforting gesture.
He knows Sherlock can’t hear him and likely isn’t even aware of what’s going on, but John speaks anyway in an attempt to settle his fear, and to keep Sherlock from doing anything stupid that could potentially harm himself or John.
Sherlock raises his arms up high and grips the sides of his head tightly; his breathing still rapid. Again, he gives no indication he even heard John.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe. I...promise.” John feels a lump form in his throat and his words come out shakily as old guilt and pain roils in his stomach; reminding him of how he felt after Sherlock...fell. “Sherlock, I’m your friend, I’m here.” John takes a cautious step forward.
Sherlock drops his hands and looks around the room frantically, his eyes never once settling on John. His mouth is partly open and the breath leaving him is coming out in quick, wheezing gasps.
John watches (making sure his body is well covering the view of the gun), feeling completely helpless as he continues to murmur comforting words.
With one arm Sherlock tightly hugs his stomach, with the other he appears to be reaching desperately for something. John can faintly hear pained whimpers coming from his friend; he feels a deep pang of sympathy for the distress his friend is currently under.
Sherlock finally moves to gaze at John. Though John is doubtful Sherlock is actually looking at him. Dozens of droplets of sweat are beading on his friend’s forehead, his pale chest is also covered in high amounts of sweat, and kaleidoscope eyes are filled with such strong emotion beyond the realm of unusual for Sherlock, and his entire body is continuing to tremble.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” John repeats. “You’re safe.” In any other situation, John would feel odd saying those two words to Sherlock in that particular tone of voice. In fact, John feels with absolutely certainty that if he were saying these things to Sherlock while the man was fully himself, it would earn him an infamous look and frown. But right now, even if Sherlock is currently unable to understand him, John needs to help him...or at least try.
“Wh-d-nguh-thg...” Sherlock begins muttering a string of nonsensical words and syllables as he continues to stare at John with glazed over eyes.
John feels a strong urge to take the quivering man in his arms and hold him close, but he resists it and instead tries to smile reassuringly.
John sighs deeply with relief when he notices that Sherlock’s breathing is slowly returning to normal, the thudding vein in this taut neck less pronounced as his pulse slows down. The look in his eyes is changing, slowly.
Feeling a bit more confident he won’t receive another punch to the chin, John slowly walks forward and gently wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. The tall man still doesn’t seem to be truly aware of John, but there is no indication that Sherlock will be lashing out any time soon.
“See? You’re alright now, let’s get you back to bed you git.” John adds the last word as a term of endearment; a slight smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.
Sherlock sags against John. The latter manages to carry the weight of the lean, yet muscular man; greatly trying to ignore the fact that both he and Sherlock are embarrassingly close to naked.
John puts aside his confusion, worry and concern over this whole episode and instead focuses on his current plan which involves taking care of Sherlock, encouraging the man – currently very much at risk of falling asleep on John’s shoulder – back to bed and bring down his own pillow and sleeping beside Sherlock for the rest of the night. It is possible that he will have another night terror in the same evening, and John wants to keep an eye on him.
John would be lying if he said he hasn’t been feeling a bit more protective of Sherlock in the past several months, he’s surprised Sherlock hasn’t yet commented on it. Being the master of observation and deduction, he must’ve noticed it. In fact, he seems a bit more subdued in some ways since John moved back in with him...though no less eccentric or his flamboyantly arrogant self though.
It takes some, though not too much, effort to cajole the near unconscious form of Sherlock into his bedroom and onto the bed. John briefly recollects the last time he did this which was during the Irene Adler case.
“I’ll be next door if you need me.”
“Why would I need you?”
“No reason at all.”
John carefully arranges the limbs of the consulting detective into the recovery position and pulls the blanket over Sherlock’s form and up to his neck. His friend’s eyes are closed now, heart rate and breathing returning to a sleeping norm. John briefly touches his forehead, sticky with drying sweat, and without thinking about it he brushes a lock of curly dark hair away from Sherlock’s eyes.
John thinks no more of his small gesture and makes his way back towards his bedroom, turning off the living room light as he does so. He also makes a mental note to take advantage of a clinic free work day to tidy up in the morning.
As John gathers up supplies from his bedroom (pillow, blanket, etc), he goes over some of the possible causes that could’ve caused Sherlock’s night terror; poor diet and poor sleeping habits are certainly two that could’ve attributed to it. However as far as John knows, Sherlock has unhealthy eating and sleeping habits for years and to John’s knowledge Sherlock has never had a night terror, however that doesn’t mean those reasons couldn’t have attributed to the night terror now. John is still vastly unaware of what happened during the three year gap in which Sherlock was “dead” (a time John prefers not to think about), but again, there has been no indication of Sherlock having night terrors since coming back until tonight. The only thing that has changed today was this new case. Another cause could be emotional stress. Is Sherlock...stressed about the case? Could that be what was off today? John isn’t sure; all he knows is that there was something strange, and not the usual Sherlock strange that is a part of John’s life every day, but something different altogether.
John sighs deeply. There are other causes that can predispose a person to night terrors, but given the mysterious and enigmatic nature of his friend...John wonders what could’ve ultimately triggered Sherlock Holmes to experience a night terror?