Just because I've never written a 5 + 1 story, and this little idea popped into my head. Rated M for Johnlock smut. Enjoy! I know I do...

The Five Times John had Nightmares and the One Time He Didn't.

ONE:

Sherlock Homes knew immediately that his new flatmate had post-traumatic stress disorder, manifesting as a psychosomatic limp, hand tremor and nightmares. It was obvious in his walk, the dark circles under his eyes, the asymmetrical tremor in his left hand which he tried to pass off as a caffeine tremor. Much more socially acceptable, but hardly a good enough excuse to fool a consulting detective.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was disturbed by the noise and sounds of distress emanating from John's room at night. He would hear soft murmurings which gradually got louder until they disturbed his thought processes, even in another room.

Finally, after about a week, he could stand it no more. He burst into John's room, slammed the door open and yelled, "John! Wake up!"

The next thing he knew, a certain consulting detective was on the floor with a trembling hand around his throat and a cocked gun held against his temple. John was breathing fast, and even in the dim light from the hallway Sherlock could see that his face was flushed and slightly sweaty.

Sherlock spoke again, very calmly and quietly, "John, you were having a nightmare."

John threw the gun into the corner, and wiped his shaking hands over his face, "Christ, Sherlock! I nearly blew your brains out!" He slowly climbed to his feet and turned on the bedroom light. Both men squinted in the sudden glare. "If you need to wake me again, for God's sake don't yell at me from the dark! That's a brilliant way to get yourself shot. Use a light or gentle touch and speak softly, that's much safer."

Sherlock retorted, "Did you ever consider not sleeping with a gun under your pillow?"

"No. I'm a soldier. If I shot you it would be your fault, so listen to me for a change!"

"Fine."

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TWO:

John's nightmares continued to wax and wane. Some nights he would sleep most of the night undisturbed, other nights there would be occasional subvocalized moaning but nothing that was too disturbing to Sherlock. But inevitably, one night John was in the grip of a full-blown panic attack while asleep. He was almost screaming, and his voice was becoming hoarse, and Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer. He walked up the stairs to John's room and hesitated outside the door. He remembered John's instructions: Use a light or gentle touch.

He pushed open the door, telling himself it wasn't an invasion of privacy if this is what John had asked him to do. John was thrashing about on the bed and crying out incoherently. Unused as he was to sentiment, Sherlock felt sorry for his friend's distress. He reached out and lightly ran a hand down John's right arm whispering, "John. Wake up. It's Sherlock. You're having a nightmare."

John woke with a gasp and a groan. "Oh, God. I couldn't save him. He was bleeding out under my hands and there was shrapnel everywhere…"

Sherlock rubbed John's shoulder harder, massaging the tense muscles and trying to force them to relax. "It wasn't your fault. You did everything you could."

These logical reassurances did not seem to reach John in his present distressed state. He just pushed Sherlock away and got up to make himself a cup of tea.

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THREE:

After being abducted by Moriarty, John's nightmares grew exponentially worse. Every night now Sherlock could hear John crying out in his sleep. Mostly it was general muffled yelling, but one night Sherlock realized with a guilty start that it was his own name John was shouting. He went up to John's room and quietly opened the door. John was moaning "Sherlock, run! Run, dammit, run!" The hair on his forehead was damp and his hands were clutching convulsively at the covers.

Sherlock reached out and touched John lightly on the shoulder, but he seemed too deeply immersed in the nightmare to notice. He was still thrashing around on the bed and imploring Sherlock to save himself. Sherlock gripped John more firmly by his good shoulder but was unable to hold him still. Just when John was about to tear himself away, and probably end up on the floor, Sherlock was struck with inspiration. He grasped John firmly and whispered in his ear, "It's Sherlock, I'm here. You saved me, you saved us both. It's OK."

His instinct was immediately vindicated as John, though still asleep, seemed to hear his assurances and sink into a quieter sleep. He rubbed John's neck and back for a few minutes, until he was sure that no recurrence was likely to bother John again that night, then retreated back downstairs.

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FOUR:

John's nightmares seemed to be improving for a while, and Sherlock was not really sure what sparked off the next recurrence. The Irene Adler case had been resolved satisfactorily and even Mycroft had been pleased at the eventual outcome – very tidy. But for whatever reason John's dreams were becoming more disturbing, until it was more usual than not for him to be screaming in his sleep.

Most nights Sherlock would go up to his room, gently touch him or speak to him and he would turn over and go back to sleep, but on this particular night John was incoherent with terror and all of Sherlock's usual reassuring words were not helping him to settle down. Sherlock was about to resort to waking John, which he rarely needed to do these days, when he realized that there was another method of reassurance which might work. And if it didn't, he could always wake John anyway.

Sherlock slid up behind John on the bed and wrapped his arms firmly around the shorter man hugging him tightly against his longer body. "Shhh, shhh. I'm here. You are not alone." He whispered.

At first he didn't think it was going to work, but then very slowly, John started to relax in his arms. His violent searching head tossing slowed, and his jerky arm movements smoothed out and relaxed as he started to breathe more deeply. "Sherlock? I know you can carry me…" he murmured. His hand came up to rest on top of Sherlock's arm where it circled around him and his head relaxed onto Sherlock's shoulder. Finally, he went completely limp and was apparently deeply asleep again.

Sherlock sighed with satisfaction and relief, but then realized that he was trapped. His right arm was pinned under John's head. He cautiously rolled away from John onto his back, but as soon as he tried to withdraw his arm John moaned a protest. Sherlock did not want to undo all his good work by waking John at this point. Fortunately he had recently downloaded a Russian treatise on political murders of the last 200 years, and he was adept at reading on his mobile using only his left hand to scroll the pages.

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FIVE:

After Baskerville John's nightmares became worse, much worse. John had been in Afghanistan and seen terrible things there which had settled to the back of his mind, mostly. But after seeing someone blown up by a buried mine, being drugged and trapped in a laboratory with deliberately applied fear stimulus it would have been a miracle if someone without PTSD had managed to avoid screaming nightmares. For John, it was inevitable.

Sherlock felt guilty, but still felt that he had not had any alternative. John was his friend. John would forgive him. All he had to do now was make it right by helping John with his nightmares.

Each night after they returned from the country, John would head up to his bed alone. Sherlock would wait half an hour, just until he was sure John was asleep, then head up to join John in his bed. He had discovered fairly quickly that it was easier to head off the nightmares if he was there when they started.

Sure enough, a few minutes after Sherlock seated himself on John's bed with his reading material for the night, John started to moan and toss his head on the pillow. His sotto voce mumbling became louder and more agitated. "Sherlock, no… the Hound… Sherlock, come back!"

Sherlock started his now familiar night-time routine. He rubbed John's shoulders and back and whispered reassurances to him. "I'm here. It's Sherlock. I'm OK. You shot the Hound for me and I'm OK now." He had the patter down to a fine art, which is what tends to happen when you repeat the same script five or six times every night. John would settle for a while, then start up again with a different scenario of Sherlock being in danger. He rarely dreamed about Afghanistan any more. From the various vocalizations over the nights Sherlock had a pretty clear idea of what John was dreaming about. Now the nightmares were always about Sherlock being in danger either from mines or from the Hound. Occasionally there would be something about politics or drugs, but usually it was the Hound.

He settled in to read until the next round. If John was running true to form there would be three or four episodes in a row before he would sleep most of the night, and perhaps another one or two in the early morning. Sherlock would wake John if the morning ones were close enough to the time he would have been getting up anyway.

"Sherlock… Oh, God… Sherlock, run! The Hound!"

Sherlock slid down the bed and hugged John into the curve of his body. "Shhh, it's OK, I'm fine. You killed the Hound, I'm OK now."

John eventually subsided into quiet sleep. Sherlock allowed himself to keep spooning John's sleeping body. After all, he could always kip on the couch during the day. John needed his rest at night if he was going to work in the clinic. It was for John's benefit that Sherlock stayed with him for hours every night, holding him in his arms. All for John, of course. He would do anything for John, his only friend. Only a friend. Naturally.

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AND ONE:

It had been over a month since Baskerville. The nighmares were becoming less constant, but Sherlock was now in the routine of taking copious reading materials with him to John's room every night. He wondered occasionally if John was aware of what was going on at night, but he never needed to wake John now, and there never really seemed a good moment to ask him about it. Besides, if he wasn't asked then he couldn't object, and it was working for them both the way it was.

On this particular night Sherlock had already resettled John twice, and read most of a treatise on shotgun scatter patterns. He was getting tired himself, and thinking of shutting his eyes for a few hours. He always slept less than John,and he woke easily when John moved, so he had no fear of falling asleep and being found by John in the morning.

He slid down behind John and wrapped himself around the smaller man, spooning him comfortably. John was so warm to sleep with, this was an indulgence Sherlock was learning to enjoy.

So it was with disappointment that he felt John's familiar head tossing start up again, along with the typical moans and mumbled phrases. "Sherlock… Sherlock, oh, God…"

He ran his hands over John's shoulders and back, whispering his usual assurances, "John, I'm here. It's OK, it's all fine."

Unfortunately, John did not settle down as quickly as Sherlock had come to expect lately. He seemed if anything more agitated by Sherlock's voice. "Sherlock… What? [inaudible mumbling]… Sherlock, I can't…"

Suddenly John flipped himself over so that he was facing Sherlock, although his eyes were still tight shut. He seemed to be trying to duck his head down, perhaps avoiding something? Sherlock obligingly moved away to create some space for John to burrow down into the bedclothes, but this seemed to make it worse. John's distress increased, and he was clearly reaching and searching with his hands. "Sherlock? Sherlock! Where are you?"

Sherlock moved closer again, hugging John tightly against himself, and John seemed to relax back into sleep. Mostly. There was one part of John that was definitely not relaxed at all. In fact, John had a very obvious hard-on which was now resting against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock froze. What now? This was a different kind of dream which Sherlock was witnessing, and he wondered what to do. On one hand, this might be his only chance to live out a little fantasy which had increasingly occupied his mind nightly. On the other hand, John would probably think it was an invasion of privacy, or intrusive, or some other problematic thing if he was pleasured by Sherlock in his sleep. Even if he seemed to enjoy it at the time. In fact, his dream speech (and the erection still rubbing against Sherlock's leg) combined to suggest that Sherlock's fantasy might not be so far from John's mind either.

Still, it would be unethical to take advantage of John in his sleep. Sherlock had just decided that he really needed to peel himself away from John and go back to his own, cold room when John's actions took any further decision out of his reach. John threw his arm over Sherlock, trapping him in place. John's face was burrowing into his chest – was John kissing his collarbones? Yes, apparently he was. John's hips were moving in an irresistable rhythm as he rubbed himself against Sherlock's leg.

Sherlock was in an agony of doubt. He could not bring himself to participate actively – that would be taking advantage of John. Yet neither could he tear himself away. John was kissing him. John wanted him. No, he could not tear himself away from that. And for the first time in years, Sherlock was hard as well. He turned just a little onto his side. Now that he was facing John squarely, John's hard cock was rubbing against his own, and God, it was good.

Sherlock shut his eyes and bit his lip for silence. John's moans were increasingly frantic and now Sherlock wondered how he had ever mistaken the tone for a nightmare.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, oh God…"

The words were the same as he'd been hearing for many nights, but they sounded so different now with John rutting and thrusting against him. Sherlock realized that they were both going to come in their pyjamas - and he also realized that he didn't object at all to the idea.

He whispered in John's ear the same script he'd been using earlier, only in a rather different tone of voice now, "John, I'm here. It's all OK. It's Sherlock, it's all fine."

John bucked his hips a few more times against Sherlock, then he was climaxing with deep groans and cries of Sherlock's name. Sherlock decided that finishing himself off with his hand wouldn't be a violation of John's confidence. Of John's sheets perhaps, but not his person. It only took a few strokes and he was coming, gasping out John's name and spilling his seed over his own hand.

In few more moments the bedroom was completely silent. For once, both men were sleeping soundly, wrapped in each other's arms. There were no more dreams of any kind that night.

The next morning, for the first time ever, John woke first.

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