Johnlock - Oneshots

Nightmares (sample)

AN//: This is the first 3 parts of my book 'Nightmares' if you guys enjoy it, feel free to check out the rest!!

There was a scream, followed by a blinding flash, and then John Watson took off running. He moved as fast as his feet could carry him, slowed by the weight of his uniform, of the medical kit strapped to his back, and the gun gripped in his hand. He kept running towards the source of the explosion while all others ran the other way. There was another blood curdling scream and suddenly he was upon him. It was Mark, he knelt on the ground, propping himself up with one knee, his other leg was gone, nothing but a pile of flesh and charred cloth, blood pouring out of what little remained of his thigh. He was gripped from behind by a man with a scarf covering his face, the cold metal of a handgun digging into Mark's skull.

"Please." he begged with them, "he'll bleed out, let me treat him, please."

The man in the scarf let out a deep, throaty laugh. The gun went off with a bang, the bullet ripping though Mark's skull with ease. He slumped forward into John's arms, his body cold, dead.

He could feel the gun against his temple, heard the sound of the chamber click. But he didn't move, he didn't look at the man in the scarf. His eyes were on Mark, the man that had trusted him with his life and paid the price for it.

BANG.

———

John awoke with a start, jumping into a sitting position, the gun that lived under his pillow poised to shoot. But there was nothing there, nothing in the room but the light of the moon, creeping it's way through the curtained windows.

He laid back down, feeling uncomfortable due to the thick layer of sweat that now plastered his hair to his forehead. His bedsheets were a mess, tangled in every direction. It had been a bad dream. It was just a bad dream.

But it hadn't been a bad dream, it wasn't a nightmare. John had experienced all of it before, everyday in Afghanistan and every night since his discharge. His body was no longer on the battlefield, but his mind was still fighting. He was still holding onto it, haunting himself with his failures.

But Mark wasn't dead, he hadn't died, John had saved him. Sure he did lose a leg in a firefight but he wasn't dead. He had been discharged, he lives in Birmingham with his wife and two teenage daughters. John had seen them not even a month ago. So why had he dreamt of Marks death?

Dream Mark died the same way everyone died in John's dreams. He would find them injured, damaged by the thing that John couldn't treat, the reason that they returned home in a box. But they wouldn't be dead, not at that point, they could look John in the eye, showcase his failure to the whole wide world. And then there was the man, he was always in the dream, but John had never encountered him in Afghanistan. John would plead with him to save the soldiers, to save his friends, but every time he would just laugh, a deep sinister laugh. And every time he would pull the trigger, John could never convince him not too. Then the man would press the gun to John's head, and John would refuse to look him in the eye, one last act of defiance before the man would finally kill him.

It was the same every night, the only difference was the person that died. They had all been people John was unable to save, Luke, Aaron, Andy, and all the other nameless soldiers that died on the operating table. Dennis, Badih, Anthony, Scotty, gunned down in the battlefield, dead before they even hit the ground. These people were his ghosts, the deaths that he was responsible for, they were the things he had to live with, the things that plagued his waking moments, and would distract him from cases with Sherlock.

His personal ghosts. His dead people. His waking nightmares.

But why had he dreamt of Mark? 

———

John laid awake for serval hours, listening to the quiet shuffling of Sherlock downstairs. Had he even slept at all? He supposed he hadn't, they were on a case after all, and sleeping would only slow him down.

Eventually John made his way downstairs, mumbling a greeting to his flat mate before heading to the kitchen to make tea. He busied himself with the task, hoping to not be dragged into looking at dead bodies before he had a chance to make breakfast.

He had no such luck.

"We're heading to the morgue as soon as you're ready. Hurry up." Sherlock stated, in his usual "cheery" manner.

He learn over John to pick up his tea, their arms brushing ever so slightly. And that's when the flashes started happening. Gunfire, bullets, shrapnel, explosions, hands wrapped around him, pulling him down and away from enemy fire. Those same hands wrapped around him later, in much different circumstances. The dead of night, in the back of a supply truck, calloused fingers running down his chest, resting on his heart just to feel it still beating. Dry lips on dryer lips. Love and lust and everything wrong. Guilt and lies and everything oh so right. Gunfire, explosions, blood, an operating table, a rushed kiss and hasty words. Guilt. Cold. Loneliness. Mark.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was laced with concern, that was funny, Sherlock feeling an emotion like affection or concern.

"Yeah?"

"What just happened?"

"What? Uh nothing, nothing happened."

"I just touched you and you flinched, you look like you've 'seen a ghost' as people say."

John almost chuckled at that, appreciating Sherlock's attempts to be more human, to be concerned for his welfare. But he couldn't tell Sherlock what he remembered. How could he when he reminded him so much of Mark? When he wanted him in such a similar way?

"Don't worry Sherlock, everything is fine, I'm just going to sit out on the case today."

"Well okay, if that's what you want," Sherlock replied hesitantly, he was unconvinced, oh well John didn't need him to be convinced he just needed him to leave, "I'll head out now, don't wait up."