Authors Note: I feel like I haven't been on this site in years.

I originally wrote this for an anonymous prompter over at the Livejournal community 'sherlockbbc_fic', an anonymous (or not) meme for the BBC series. I wrote it all at once today, suddenly seized by the urge to be creative in a new fandom, and proved to myself that a girl's attention span is always better than she believes. xDD

I'm quite proud of it, actually, I kind of think that this is one of my best pieces in a while – once you factor in how BLOODY AMAZING BUT BRAIN-TAXINGLY TABOO-FILLED writing any Sherlock incarnation is (I don't think anyone knows exactly how to pin down what his problem or difference or diagnosis is, and what this means in relation to what he is able to feel for Watson, but it is in equal parts terrifying and very fun to tinker around with, because he is a completely different person in every mood, and a fic writer can put a man in any mood he/she wants to *YAY* :DD). Seeing what I can do with words on such a deep level (for fic, for me, it is uncharacteristically deep, as I usually save that for releasing emotion or schoolwork, usually poetry, so yeah. Different) has inspired me enough that I can now carry on with my supposedly H/C but slightly fluff!tastic Lenny/Yuki (Casualty) fanfic, once I have a rough idea for plot for the next chapter. Some musical lyrics are needed to stir something up on that one.

^^ The above ramble is just for anyone interested in writing-mindset!geekery/analysis, and for anyone that was curious about 'Doctors Heal the Hurting'. Ignore as applicable, hehe! ;D ^^

Oh yeah, the original prompt was: John has nightmares. Sherlock tries to comfort/look after him, without really knowing how.

It was relatively simple, but then my brain fell in love and ran away from me. *oops*

Hope you enjoy 'A Tale of Two Wars'. ;PP

P.S. I absolutely LOVE this show. The plot, the actors (Martin Freeman is just the PERFECT Watson, he just IS Watson – plus he's weirdly attractive, I kind of keep staring at his jumper, lol), the script is BEAUTIFUL, the camera-work, the onscreen text, the shameless slash (sorry, ambiguity regarding sexuality *coughs*), it is all stunning. And I can still laugh my face off throughout, too. This nerd has found her perfection. *has babies with the BBC*

Uhum ... yes. The fanfiction. Yes.

Chapter 1

The first time it happens, Sherlock's long limbs are sprawled around him on the low sofa, one hand splayed across his face and the other clinical at his own pulse point, the steady thrum of his heart keeping time to his thoughts. The noise, the vibration, is uniform, and comes solely from him, consoling him in a room of perpetual clutter (and yes, the clutter came from him too, he is aware, he will clean it up one day, he will, but he's a busy man). His eye is open against his palm and he sees shadowed red from where it is pressed against his pale skin, blood vessels startlingly visible in a dark space; one image and one sound in the material world, and thousands in his mind, millions of numbers and faces and perhaps even motives this time, in the past and the future and speeding down neurones.

It's not enough, though. Concentration could still be so much better. To shift his position could jeopardise the entire process, but he needs a nicotine patch. Perhaps.

He swings those gangly legs of the side of the chair, rising and striding quickly through the room and up the stairs, heading for the small bathroom adjacent to John's room, knowing there must be a packet there. He clearly remembers storming in there one morning, happier than he would have thought possible at a sudden revelation in relation to that rabid dog case that had ended so anti-climatically; flung the door open and almost skipped in, shouting in glee at John, stood there clad in only tracksuit bottoms, shaving foam and an expression of utter incomprehension. Water from his shower was still glistening on his chest, and there was a red cut bleeding a path through the white cream on his face, a nick from the razor generated by the surprise of Sherlock's entry, no doubt. All Sherlock mentioned, though, was how much less grey John's hair looked when damp, before almost bellowing at the older man to come with him, now John! A man's alibi could depend on it!

"What?" John raised one eyebrow, the slight fear behind his eyes giving way to exasperation.

Sherlock had hopped on the spot and chucked the box of patches in the general direction of the sink, shouting again until it could have been just noise for all he knew. John was going to move now, or Sherlock was just going to get louder.

The concept seems vaguely childish to him but he overlooks it, locating the box in the dust behind the sink and looking inside eagerly. It's empty, and inevitability and disappointment dawn in equal measure – of course it's empty; the encounter was about a month ago, he's probably plundered its contents since then whilst in one of his frequent dazes, wherein the physical world was not offering up any conclusive evidence, and so was separate from him.

He hopes that there are some lurking at the centre of his experiment in the kitchen, otherwise tonight will be a wasted endeavour. He skulks past John's door, the nicotine craving grounding him enough that when a panicked shout echoes from behind the wood, he registers it.

The brief notion that John is being attacked is entertained in equal parts of horror and glee, because if he is it probably has something to do with the case; the fiend behind the door could very well be the villain he's currently seeking, and this could be his moment to catch him. John is a good man and has suffered great pain, and tolerates Sherlock's idiosyncrasies with almost inhuman patience, occasionally even appearing to like him because of rather than in spite of them. No desperate robber is going to cause him any harm when the detective is nearby, and so he swings the door open with his eyes wide and his fists clenched.

John is asleep.

He is thrashing slightly, sweating and shaking, but he is definitely asleep. A nightmare. Sherlock knows his flatmate misses much of the war, misses the adrenaline of the chase, the sense of fulfilling a duty, the dull throb of delivering just a little justice. It is a war, however, a horrendous mental and physical conflict, and Sherlock knows he'd never manage there, if only for the barrage of noises and colours and feelings, of substance. He knows John doesn't miss the shouting and the blasts, the blood of his friends staining the ground as he bandages frantically at horrific injuries, whatever meagre supplies he has so ineffective his position as a doctor begins to look ironic. He knows that staring into a man's eyes, and shooting him dead because it will protect a whole ward of already injured children, remorseless but knowing deep in you that he believes his actions are justified, that in some twisted way, he is here in the same supposed act of duty as you, must be permanently scarring. He knows that there are terrors that will never leave John as long as he lives.

He cannot fathom these ideas, cannot see them clearly, as he was never present. He can't feel the emotions he knows they invoke in John either; he feels emotion, obviously, but doesn't always understand why or how, doesn't always link the barrage of feeling with the situation, sometimes senses that the link between the two is strange to others. He knows for a fact that glee in the face of four suicides is not normal by any standard, but it's not as sinister as it sounds. As difficult as emotions are to him, he's not a bad man, and he does have the capacity to care. He may not feel John's pain as another might, but he can imagine it vaguely, and is perfectly open to admitting he feels anxious for his friend. Because, as far as the definition extends, Sherlock thinks that it is what fits John best. His understanding of the concept is limited, but John is most definitely his friend.

Standing there, hesitant in the doorway, he looks on at a friend in distress and feels that vague anxiety clarify and tug slightly at him; some foreign pocket of tenderness opens up somewhere, and an echo of empathy grows louder.

John is still now, brow relaxing slowly into the average vacancy of untroubled sleep. If this instance is in anyway indicative of usual behaviour, his nightmares are violent but brief. Sherlock hopes his conclusion isn't erroneous, and not just for the sake of a damaged ego.

The breaths of the room are even, a wave of relief crashes over both of its inhabitants, and a tall, pale man slinks out of the door with only about seven backward glances.

The second time it happens, it's somehow even more difficult.