Rooms 604 and 605, Arms Hotel - Wee Early Hours Wednesday Morning

[3patchproblem]

It would be nice to say that Sherlock had been sleeping at this time at night, morning really. But that was not the case. Instead, he was busy trying to come up with a logical reason for why everyone was acting so out of the ordinary

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[justhisblogger]

And John had been doing so much better about the nightmares of late, too. Whatever it was that hung so thickly in the air, it had sent something bubbling back up from his subconscious.

He was in Afghanistan, running, the gun in his hands, everyone was yelling, screaming, firearms going off, the sand, endless sand; sudden whitehot pain pain pain after the impossibly loud noise of a firearm discharge. Sand sand sand his life bleeding away into the sand as he tried to struggle and people were STILL SCREAMING--

He lurched up, throat feeling raw, and stared at the wall as he tried to wipe thoughts of sand from his mind. Sand--

[3patchproblem]

Pausing outside the door separating their rooms, Sherlock leaned in to press his ear to the wood. He could be respectful of privacy. He really could, see?

He opened his mouth, the normal 'You're keeping me from my work' on the tip of his tongue, but instead, "I'm concerned."

...what?

[justhisblogger]

John had reached up to touch his shoulder, fingers feathering over his bullet scar. He was alive. He was alive, and the heat at his feet was nothing like sand, dammit.

Sherlock's statement barely filtered into his consciousness. A few moments later, he looked up. "Didn't mean to distract you," he said, by rote, before his mind did a double-take, his eyes quickly following suit. Did Sherlock just...?

[3patchproblem]

"It's fine," Sherlock replied quickly, grabbing his phone and fleeing from the door. Just in case that happened again.