The Saint And The Settler

Unexpected Pets and Sleeping Problems

At the sound of a loud crash, John fled the kitchen and scurried to the entrance hall. There, the first thing he noticed was the tall, dark curly haired boy stalking in the front door. The second figure was the whimpering animal beside him.

Almost as if he had been waiting for his queue, Sherlock stormed into the living room, tossing something forged of metal disgustingly on the coffee table with the dog limped along side him. It was then John noticed the forage of metal was an animal trap, coated with was probably blood, and was slowing transferring on to the table below it. He bent down and plucked it from the table when all of a sudden loud barking noises filled the house.

Winston came bounding into the house from his short journey outside to greet his new whimpering friend. After Sherlock had abandoned the trap all his attention had been focused on the new pet. "Hey, Sherlock," he called to get his attention again and held up the trap. "Where'd you find this?"

"About a quarter of a mile from here," he said calmly. To clam. "I was hoping you would know who's it is." He said in a tone that told John he already knew exactly where the trap came from. He fixed John with a steely gaze that dared him to lie.

"Uhh, yeah, actually, yes. It's, uhh, it's mine." He stammered under the scrutiny of his Cambridge Blue eyes.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed and his eyes took in every inch of  John. "You work in a vet facility?" He said in more of a statement then a question.

"Uhh, yes. Yes."

"Seen injuries like this then. Think you could fix your mistake?"

A shiver of nerves went down John's spine at the cool accusing tone of the other boys tone. He cautiously leaned down and caressed the foreign dog and examined the wound on it's leg. There was dark red, almost like rust, dried blood on and around the small gash that went about and half inch, maybe less, into the animals skin. He lifted a finger and tapped the wound with as little pressure as possible. The dog gave a small whimper of pain and then returned to silence.

Meanwhile, Sherlock stood silently on the opposite side of the animal from John, watching with attentive, judging eyes. His face was seemingly neutral but if one looked close they could see the haunted look of nerves and worry directed towards the Settler. When another whine broke out his resolve crumbled and he knelt down beside the dog and began to stroke it, bringing the whining to a halt.

"You can help him, can't you?" asked Sherlock with a harsh, hushed whisper. John looked up into the other boy's green-blue eyes.

"I think so but it might take a while for the wound to heal completely. We'll have to keep him here." John glanced over to the doorway where Winston silently watched then interact with the new dog as if he were waiting for them to leave so he could play. John looked back at the dog laying at his feet and then up at Sherlock. His heart sank.

The boy, who had a cool mask of clam and collectiveness not moments before, had a tear escaping his eye. It slowly trailed down his cheek and fell onto his black trousers, seeping into the fabric. Why is he so broken up by this dog? John wondered to himself. He extended his arm and rested his calloused hand on Sherlock's left shoulder. With this action, Sherlock lifted his head and met John's comforting blue-grey eyes.

"P-please," he stammered, his voice shaking as the tears stained his pale face. He looked more ill than anything.

Ok. Yeah, I can patch him up and he'll be as good as new in no time." Responded John softly. Sherlock nodded his head, causing a few dark curls to shake.

A few quiet moments went by, the two boys staring into each others eyes, before John stood to retrieve his medical kit. When he returned, he was carrying a red and white box in his hands and knelt down by the wounded animal. He set the tin on the wooden boards carefully and withdrew an ace bandage and a neo sporran-like substance. He applied the remedy to the wound, lathering the red, irritated area. The dog did not like this all too much, evident from the low growling from inside its throat, but still accepted the aid.

When he began to wrap the leg, where the rubber tipped claws had chewed, he felt a hand on his. John looked to the side of him and saw Sherlock there. "Let me do it," insisted Sherlock. His face was still stained with the remnants of tears. "Please, John."

"Yeah, okay," letting go of the bandage, he handed it over to Sherlock, brushing his finger tips against his. John moved to the side to provide room for the other boy and watched as Sherlock danced the white roll around the furry leg. The delicateness he used was outstanding. Sherlock never seemed to be a gentle soul; always using some sort of force.

As Sherlock finished winding the bandage on the animal he spoke, "Alright. I'm done," the shakiness in his tone now gone, as if it never existed in the first place.

"Then let's eat."

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It was nearly midnight when Sherlock and John were finally done with their spaghetti. They were interrupted several times by the two four-legged animals inside the house. Another reason that it had been so late was because Sherlock went on a few rants that seemed to last forever. One rant was about how general knowledge of the solar system was truly not important. Though John never actually change his opinion on the subject, he listened closely to what Sherlock had to say. In fact, the blonde boy was beginning to feel tired after hearing Sherlock's chocolaty voice.

John stood from the dinner table, excusing himself, and trudged his way to his bedroom across the house. Unaware that he was falling into the fist of sleep, John fell onto his light green sheeted bed and laid his head onto the pillow.

Suddenly, everything went black and then a bright flash filled the room. John's ears popped rapidly and his eyes were attacked by the piercing, white light. When he opened them, he was taken aback. He was in the middle of a war zone, scattered everywhere were pools of blood and disabled bodies. And John was right, smack-dab, in the middle. He was wearing an outfit with red sleeves and green cuffs. Over the heavy shirt was a, what looked like mud, stained white vest that covered his bosom. A green collar could be seen covering the nape of his neck. On his shoulder was a white strap which leg to a bag, covered in dark red blotches.

Although John was looking in the direction where the loud noise originated from, he did not see the bullet coming toward him. When it struck his left shoulder, his vest began to be drenched in blood pouring from the wound. As he began to fall to his knees he could see his life before his eyes.

John woke up. He sat up quickly, cold sweat drenching the shirt he had been wearing. His cloudy eyes were wide with terror as he removed his self from the bed and left the room.

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It was about three thirty in the morning when Sherlock heard John's bedroom door crack open and watched as the other boy sat in the brown sofa chair. He began to speak, "I can't sleep very well. My dreams won't let me." he looked up at Sherlock, fear in his eyes.

The tall, skinny boy surprised both he and John when he moved from the couch and wrapped his arms around John in a hug. The two stayed that way until Sherlock decided to move and sit in the chair across from John. John's eyes, no longer filled with fesr, were still wide.

"What happened in your dream, John?" Sherlock inquired gently.

And then John told his new friend what occurred in his dream and added, at the end, "I don't even remember falling asleep..."

"It's okay. You're alright."

"No it's not! This is not okay, Sherlock," John snapped. "These dreams are reoccurring. I hardly get any sleep, though I try to."

Sherlock was outstanded by how quickly the young man reacted to hos comforting. It was not often that Sherlock did this and if he did, you'd have to be extremely special in some way. "I understand," he whispered. "I believe I can help you."

"How? How could anybody help me? Not even my therapist can," he fumed. "She has no explanation or aid. How can somebody I've just meet help me with a problem that I have had for months?"

Without any hesitation, Sherlock spoke with a strong but soft tone, "Come sleep with me, John."