Characters: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson When: Monday night / Early hours of Tuesday Location: John's cabin. Warnings: Psh. PTSD, nightmares, wounds, feelings. Summary: John's still having trouble sleeping, Sherlock is there to comfort him. Status: Ongoing.
John had a habit of putting a brave front on, sometimes one that was so convincing he even managed to fool himself half of the time, but the events of the day were weighing heavy on him. From a corpse that had been burnt and mutilated to the stupid arguments about weapons and the people that were either insane or couldn't take any of it seriously, it was no wonder that he was exhausted. He had felt better since Sherlock's return, but he still hadn't had a proper sleep in far too long. That much was apparent as he returned to his cabin, simply seeking silence and a moment of quiet contemplation.
He had sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he tried to slow down his thinking, calm down, relax... and that's when he saw the shadow. He'd heard other people talking about them, but he hadn't thought much about it. But there it was, the shadow of a person but nothing was casting it. It was a perfect silhouette of his sister. "Harry?" he whispered in a sort of hiss, before he realised what he was doing. Of course it wasn't. He was over-tired, he was imagining things. It was just a normal shadow, and when he looked back, it was gone. He needed to sleep.
It took him a long time to fall asleep, as he watched the ceiling of the train trying to stop himself from thinking for once. It was hot, and at some point he had pulled his top off in a moment of frustration, rolled over and forced himself to close his eyes, and tried to think of the rocking of the train as relaxing rather than a reminder of his situation. And it must have worked - he felt himself slowly drift off, and eventually gave into it, hopeful that the usual horrors he found in his mind would let him rest, just for one night.