The Shadow of Our Doubt

BOOM

The crack of an exploding firework echoes through the stillness of the black night that is shattered with blinding light. Shadows of towering trees are thrown in sharp relief against the surrounding fields, colors dance across the dark sky, peaceful quiet is broken by the whistles and sizzles of the descending sparks. For one brief, brilliant moment, the sky is alive. And then it all goes still once more.

Down below, far underneath the explosion, two men huddle together in the darkness. Where before they had been intent on their mission, searching out clues and evidence with fierce determination, they are now bent over on the ground in startled stillness, frozen by the sound of the explosion overhead. They had forgotten of course that there would be fireworks set off by the small village they were staying in while they worked on a missing person’s case, or perhaps more accurately they had simply never bothered to learn, focusing instead on the string of clues that had lead them here and then out into a field as darkness fell around them. When Sherlock Holmes is hot on a trail such as this one, there is no distracting him. Especially not for something so trivial as a local festival and fireworks display. 

BOOM

But for the man who is still crouched on the ground with his arms thrown defensively over his head, this is no trivial matter. For John, the explosions pealing out into the night are not a simple outpouring of celebration and joy. For John, out in the pitch-black wilderness with no warning of what was to come, the sudden boom and following hiss of sparks and flame is an echo of a time long past, a time of death and blood and misery in the desert sun. The crack of an exploding firework shell, so similar to the rupture of the mortars that had taken so many lives, send him to his knees as the memories wash over him in unstoppable waves.

BOOM

A friend gunned down in front of him.

BOOM

A young man, gasping and bleeding and dying under his useless hands.

BOOM

Four men, blown to pieces before his eyes. Four men torn apart by an explosion. Four men that he cannot save.

“John?”

A voice breaks through the onslaught of memory and sensation, concerned and confused and far closer than it has any right to be. The voice is familiar, comforting even, but this is all strange, too strange. That voice has no place here in the desert, here surrounded by death and destruction. That voice belongs to London streets in the twilight, to quiet murmurs in the warmth of a flat, to the happiness of home. It is not a voice that should sound this worried about anything, and it is not a voice that should be worried about him of all people. This makes no sense. The world no longer makes any sense.

BOOM

John groans against the wave of memory that washes over him, pressing himself further into the ground so that the enemy will not find him here, defenseless. He nearly jumps out of his skin in fear and surprise when a hand is laid on his shoulder, hesitant and unsure and yet so steady that it does not pull away even in the face of his reaction. The hand remains, the only solid thing in a world overcome by phantoms of the past, the only anchor to hold him in a present that will not hurt him.

“Breathe, John. It’s alright, you’re fine, just breathe.”

He does. Slowly, painfully, and with agonizing effort, he breathes. One breath, then two. Through the memories, through the past, through the shadow of death, he breathes in and out and finally, his vision clears. He is not in the desert, he is not surrounded by the dead and dying, he is in a pitch-black field crouched on the ground in the dirt as fireworks explode overhead. He is safe. And he is with Sherlock, who is kneeling down with him, hand resting gently on his shoulder and face contorted by more concern and worry than it has ever worn before. Lights flicker quickly across his face in dancing blue-red-green, illuminating impossible eyes and shining on pale skin as they flame into life and die just as brilliantly. Sherlock, safe and whole and here for him. Sherlock, worried about him.

John looks at Sherlock, eyes wide and pleading with wordless questions locking in the darkness. He needs more than just a hand of comfort now, and he needs more than simple words of reassurance and the presence of a friend. No matter how it galls him to be this weak, he must ask for a help that he does not want and yet needs more than he could ever admit. He needs Sherlock.

Thankfully, even in the darkness, the message somehow gets across. Sherlock’s eyes widen in shock as he understands, clearly taken aback for a brief moment before he schools his face back into stillness. Silently, without the words of judgment or biting cynicism that John had so feared, he settles himself gently onto the ground and reaches over to pull John over to him. John goes willingly, collapsing bonelessly into the embrace that is waiting for him. Sherlock folds his arms around him as he pulls John into this chest, wrapping him in a hug warmer and more tender than anything John could have ever imagined of him. They sit there in silence for many long minutes as John’s breathing returns to normal, his heartbeat calming, his brain breaking free of the panicked spiral it had been reduced to. The fireworks continue to burst above them, showering them in brilliant blue-red-green, bathing them in light that flickers over the discoveries that wash away all traces of fear.

Closeness and warmth like they have never known, shared in the evening gloom.

Breath, washing over sensitive skin.

A kiss, gentle and tender.

Pain, forgotten.

Dream a Little Dream

There was never any warning, before the nightmares started. There was never any sign in the long hours of the evening when they were making dinner or cuddling on the couch, no red flag that was flown that would warn Martin that soon the night would be torn apart by frantic screams and thrashing limbs and desperate sobs. It would have been easier, if there was a warning. But of course, life would never exactly be easy for the two of them, would it?

The nightmares always came after a long day at the hospital, when Molly came home exhausted and drained from too many hours of work without any reprieve. But tiredness didn’t necessarily mean bad dreams – some nights she would flop down on the bed with heavy limb and the happy sigh that came from a long day that had been productive and successful and left her feeling accomplished and fulfilled. Those were the good nights, the nights when she would snuggle up to Martin with a sigh of contentment and drift off to sleep in his arms feeling content and safe and loved. Some nights though, there was no satisfaction to be found in the tired circles under her eyes or the sluggish dragging of her feet as she shuffled through the flat. That was the closest that Martin could get to a warning that his sleep would be broken in a few hours by her cries of terror, and there was nothing he could do to help.

Tonight was one of those nights, when she had trudged into the flat wilted and downtrodden from a day more exhausting than she could possibly manage, unable to do anything more than peck him on the cheek and collapse into bed as though she simply could not keep herself upright any longer. A flicker of warning passed through Martin, but what could he do? She was already falling asleep, and as far as he knew there was no way for him to prevent a nightmare before it started – if she was even going to have one tonight. The most he could do was to be here for her, so here he would be, holding her close and praying that it would be enough. Hours passed in blessed silence. Molly slept like the dead sprawled out on top of Martin, face cradled into his shoulder and arms wrapped around him in an embrace so close he could not have left even if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to – how could he? They always slept like this, tangled up in each other and holding each other so close that every inch of their bodies was touching as though to reassure “Yes, I’m here. No, you’re not alone”. After so many years of empty loneliness, cold nights, soul-draining sadness, how could Martin ever go back to being alone? He had a Molly to share his bed with now, and he would never let her go.

But then, not long after Martin had finally dozed off with his face pressed against Molly’s and their breathing had settled into a slow and steady rhythm, it started. It was just a whimper at first, the tiniest thread of sound wrung out of Molly’s throat as she slept. But then there was another whimper, louder than the first, and her tranquil face was creased with an unhappy frown as she tightened her grip on Martin in fear. That was what woke him from his light sleep, and when he looked down to see the lines of terror etched into her face, he knew that a nightmare had begun. He had no idea what it was about, what could possibly be tormenting her so badly as to tear her nights apart, but he knew that he had to do something to help her, no matter how small.

“Shh, love, shh. It’s alright, I’m here.” He pressed a kiss into her hair, breathing in the scent of her to calm himself before he continued in a gentle and steady murmur. “It’ll be ok, it’s just a dream. You can beat this, I know you can. You’re so strong, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met – what does a dream have against you? Just stay calm, it’ll be fine. I’ll protect you.” He couldn’t tell if his words were having any effect at all, but her whimpers had not progressed into screams yet and if he had the slightest chance of preventing those soul-rending sobs he would stay up the entire night muttering nonsense into her ear and not regret one moment of it.

“Hey, do you remember the first time you made dinner for me? Probably not, it wasn’t an especially grand occasion, not for you at least. But I remember it – I think I’ll always remember it. We’d been dating for four months, and I still couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be with someone like you. Hell, I still can’t believe it. What are you doing with me anyway? You’re so much better than me, so much better than I’ll ever be. But you love me anyway. I’ll never understand that.”

He swallowed heavily, pressing another kiss into her hair before continuing. “Anyway. You wanted to make me dinner, and you wouldn’t let me help at all even though I wanted to. I was just standing there in the kitchen, watching you cook and wanting to help, especially when everything started going wrong. The pot boiled over, the sauce burned, I think you even dropped the spoon on the floor right when you needed it. You got so flustered, but you kept going anyway, and you somehow managed to pull it all off. It was like magic, the way you made it all work even it should have all fallen to pieces.” Her whimpers had begun to die down as he spoke, and her death grip on him was loosened. He smiled, caught up in the memory. “That was the night I fell in love with you. I mean, I’d suspected I might before that, of course I did. But that night, sitting in your flat and seeing how determined you were and how you refused to give up no matter what, I knew. I knew that I loved you.”

With a gentle sigh, the frown smoothed from her face and her limbs relaxed. She snuggled back into his embrace, a smile passing fleetingly over her lips as peaceful sleep reclaimed her. An echoing smile spread over Martin’s face, happiness flooding him to know that tonight at least, Molly would sleep undisturbed and cradled in his arms. “You can sleep now, my love. I’m here.”

(artwork and inspiration by the lovely Joan)