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Literature Text
Chapter One - Strange events
"No! No, no, no, no…!"
John was having another nightmare about his time in Afghanistan. Sherlock knew he'd be tossing and turning in bed, all the while muttering and sometimes shouting after his army colleagues, his friends, that he just couldn't… save.
"It wasn't your fault John." Sherlock said very quietly under his breath. He hated to see his friend like this. John would wake up insanely early, stumble downstairs and try not to wake his flat-mate who, although John didn't know it, was already awake and would start writing his blog or read a mind-numbingly boring book in an effort to chase away his demons and find some peace, only to found by his flat-mate, at 6am, asleep in the most awkward positions on his reading chair. No wonder why he always had neck ache.
John was having these nightmares every night now. He'd wake up drenched in sweat, wondering how the heck he managed to get back to bed after his venture downstairs in the middle of the night, not feeling any less tired than when he had gone to bed the night before. And he would still insist on following Sherlock, his flat-mate and friend, not to mention the world's only consulting detective, halfway around London just to prove points and sometimes catch some criminals in the process.
On some mornings Sherlock would find John collapsed in a heap beside his bed, an empty whisky bottle hanging limply from his hand. Sherlock never thought to blame John for turning to drink for some peace when it got really bad, but he did so hate to see him the next morning, struggling with an almighty hangover, yet another reminder for John of how his sister had ended up.
"AARRRGGGHHHH!"
The cry was so sudden that Sherlock actually jumped in his bed, jolting him out of his thoughts. He ran quickly to the upstairs bedroom that John was occupying, taking the steps two at a time. When he got to the landing outside John door, Sherlock wondered what exactly he was going to do and say, feelings and comforting were never his strong point, it was Mycroft's.
But Sherlock didn't get the chance to think of what Mycroft might do in this situation as another yell jerked him into action, throwing John's door wide open to find him struggling to fight off some unseen enemy.
Sherlock sprinted the short distance to John's bed and sat at the edge, wondering again what he should do before extending a gentle hand and placing it warmly on John's shoulder, his good one, Sherlock checked so as not to cause him any discomfort. Sherlock did try to be considerate, if only to certain people, but it didn't always show.
"John… John?" 'Oh what did Mother used to say?' "Um… It's… okay John, It's… It's over now." Sherlock said softly. 'What's wrong with you? You can always think of what to say!'
But the kind words seamed to have an affect on the troubled man beside him."Hmmm?" John muttered sleepily but did not wake up. Seemingly acknowledging Sherlock's presence as comforting, he stilled, his nightmare apparently chased away by his friend's mild touch. Finally the chance of a good night's sleep, John's exhausted body leaped at the chance.
Soon after, Sherlock too fell asleep, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his friends chest as he slumbered beside him. He vowed to get up before John the next morning, to save embarrassment. Even Sherlock knew how embarrassing this could be.
"No! No, no, no, no…!"
John was having another nightmare about his time in Afghanistan. Sherlock knew he'd be tossing and turning in bed, all the while muttering and sometimes shouting after his army colleagues, his friends, that he just couldn't… save.
"It wasn't your fault John." Sherlock said very quietly under his breath. He hated to see his friend like this. John would wake up insanely early, stumble downstairs and try not to wake his flat-mate who, although John didn't know it, was already awake and would start writing his blog or read a mind-numbingly boring book in an effort to chase away his demons and find some peace, only to found by his flat-mate, at 6am, asleep in the most awkward positions on his reading chair. No wonder why he always had neck ache.
John was having these nightmares every night now. He'd wake up drenched in sweat, wondering how the heck he managed to get back to bed after his venture downstairs in the middle of the night, not feeling any less tired than when he had gone to bed the night before. And he would still insist on following Sherlock, his flat-mate and friend, not to mention the world's only consulting detective, halfway around London just to prove points and sometimes catch some criminals in the process.
On some mornings Sherlock would find John collapsed in a heap beside his bed, an empty whisky bottle hanging limply from his hand. Sherlock never thought to blame John for turning to drink for some peace when it got really bad, but he did so hate to see him the next morning, struggling with an almighty hangover, yet another reminder for John of how his sister had ended up.
"AARRRGGGHHHH!"
The cry was so sudden that Sherlock actually jumped in his bed, jolting him out of his thoughts. He ran quickly to the upstairs bedroom that John was occupying, taking the steps two at a time. When he got to the landing outside John door, Sherlock wondered what exactly he was going to do and say, feelings and comforting were never his strong point, it was Mycroft's.
But Sherlock didn't get the chance to think of what Mycroft might do in this situation as another yell jerked him into action, throwing John's door wide open to find him struggling to fight off some unseen enemy.
Sherlock sprinted the short distance to John's bed and sat at the edge, wondering again what he should do before extending a gentle hand and placing it warmly on John's shoulder, his good one, Sherlock checked so as not to cause him any discomfort. Sherlock did try to be considerate, if only to certain people, but it didn't always show.
"John… John?" 'Oh what did Mother used to say?' "Um… It's… okay John, It's… It's over now." Sherlock said softly. 'What's wrong with you? You can always think of what to say!'
But the kind words seamed to have an affect on the troubled man beside him."Hmmm?" John muttered sleepily but did not wake up. Seemingly acknowledging Sherlock's presence as comforting, he stilled, his nightmare apparently chased away by his friend's mild touch. Finally the chance of a good night's sleep, John's exhausted body leaped at the chance.
Soon after, Sherlock too fell asleep, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his friends chest as he slumbered beside him. He vowed to get up before John the next morning, to save embarrassment. Even Sherlock knew how embarrassing this could be.
Literature
Watson Locked
John looked so cute. So peaceful as he slept, his arms crossed over his stomach, his mouth opened just slightly ajar, his breathing deep and gentle, one in a while swallowing and taking a deep, long breath. Sherlock never knew someone could look so at peace. He almost had second thoughts of waking the peaceful solider. But yet, he needed him... Needed to hear him speak, needed to have him hold him, needed to have John's warm lips brush his forehead with a kiss.
Slowly, Sherlock entered the room.
"John?" He asked softly, still unsure about waking him. "John?" He asked a little louder.
He knew John was a heavy sleeper... But still. He walked
Literature
Phobia
John Watson woke with a start to the urgent shout of his flatmate.
"J-JOHN? JOHN!" came the yell.
Ripping himself from blissful sleep, the military man leapt out of bed on red alert. Bounding to his dresser in a single step, he tore the top drawer open and felt around for the sleek, black gun he kept there. He found and yanked it out, threw open the door to his room and sprinted down the stairs.
"I'm coming Sherlock!!" He yelled at the top of his lungs, voice rough from sleep. Disengaging the safety on his weapon, the doctor leapt at full speed into the parlour, gun in front of him, pointed menacingly at
nothing.
He lowered the
Literature
What... - Sherlock, John
No one had any idea Sherlock and John were up in their shared flat, but then again, why would anyone care
Mrs. Hudson was gone to visit a friend, Sherlock wasn't in a mad dash to investigate anything, and John, well John had played hooky from work. It was a Friday, and he'd just wanted a three day weekend for once. Maybe be able to relax, read a good book. He slept in late, got up, had all intentions of making tea, and then couldn't make up his mind on which tea he'd like. So, he gave up on the whole thing altogether, and sat on the couch. He was reading an article in a magazine he'd picked up at the market earlier in the week when
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love it!