There were times now and then when he wakes in the middle of the night, the sounds and images from the war in his head as clear as if he was right there in it again. They stopped for a bit after he moved into Baker street; they came back stronger than ever following the Great Game… that's what he would call the story, would he able to post about it on his blog.
This is another one of those nights, but this time the images are of Moriarty and his sniper. It was hard call the dreams before these nightmares; Mycroft had been right, before moving in with Sherlock, he had missed the war. He missed the excitement, the rush… it was never boring with Sherlock, which was really the only way he managed to live through his otherwise mundane existence and keep the nightmares at bay… but now the nightmares were back and he was losing sleep. Things like this would likely send him back to the therapist… the one that he had fired at Mycroft's insistence. Finding a new one was going to be a pain.
By now he's down in the sitting room, in front of the fireplace with a cup of tea; the kettle was still hot. It made him wonder if Sherlock was still awake and if he was, was he the cause. John didn't remember ever screaming during a nightmare before, but the way things had been going, it wouldn't surprise him if he had.
It's then that he hears music. It's not the radio or someone's telly, it's a violin and it's playing Mendelssohn's Lieder. As John sits there, he closes his eyes and lets the music engulf him. No longer are the images of his abduction by Moriarty in his head, no longer is his heart racing like he'd ran a mile in two minutes. All he feels is peace and he can't help thinking he has the best, if not the strangest, friend in the world.