The desert sun is hot against his back; there are shouts of concern and the random rata-tat-tat of gunfire above him. There is pain everywhere, and he knows he's crying.

"Don't die, mate, come on!" He's elbow deep in some poor bloke's stomach, and the boy (because that's all he really is) is wheezing and crying and clawing at the sky. John curses and prays, the chunks of metal inside the kid slice away at his internal organs. He suddenly isn't sure of his ability to save the kid, even though he has the degrees and schooling to qualify him as an adequate doctor.

The kid is beginning to shiver and his lips are turning blue; John screams at the men around him to fetch him more cotton to sop up the blood, but the soldiers around him don't listen. They ignore him and this kid who's bloody hands are clenching around his arms. John looks into the boy's eyes (grey, why are they always grey?) and he sees the kid giving him thisstare.

"Wake up, John." The kid says, blood streaming out of one corner of his mouth. John shakes his head, tears running down his face.

"No! J-just let me—" The hands around his arm tighten.

"Wake. Up."

John chokes back a sob as his eyes fly open. Sherlock is above him, his hands tight around the doctor's arms. The detective's eyes are wide; there's concern shining through the mercury coloured irises, and his mouth is set into a grim line.

John slowly sits up, lifting a shaking hand to the ones still tightly wrapped around his arms. "Sorry." His voice cracks slightly. Sherlock remains silent, but his fingers loosen.

"You were screaming." The detective drops his hands to John's, twisting their fingers together loosely.

John sweeps his tongue over his lip; he shakes his head. "I haven't had a nightmare like that in a while." Sherlock nods.

"Yes, it's quite strange, though it may be due to the situation at the pool."

They fall into silence for a moment; John feels Sherlock's thumb run over his knuckles, and some how, he knows the detective is counting them.

The residual fear from the nightmare fades, and John feels his body succumbing to fatigue. "Sherlock?" His flat mate makes a noise to show he's listening. John clears his throat, feeling the tips in his ears heat in embarrassment. "Will you…will you stay?"

He feels eyes on his face, but he refuses to meet the other male's gaze. John prepares himself for a delicately (or bluntly) put rejection, but is surprised when he feels Sherlock move to lay down beside him.

John settles back onto the bed, pulling the covers over them both before he closes his eyes with a sigh. Sherlock is no doubt staring up at the ceiling, but a hand clasps around the doctor's. "Goodnight, John." The doctor's mouth perks into a smile.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

()end()

Who else isn't ready for Sunday? Something fluffy in order for me not to wanna die.