John appears calm, but his eyes read terror. Those same eyes that had seen the gates of hell in the sun and the heat of Afghanistan quivered just as fearfully now next to the glimmer of the swimming pool. A red dot hovers between his eyebrows. It is an almost permanent mark, transfixed on the only other mind Sherlock has an animal-like appetite for.

Then another dot appears.

And another.

And another.

And Sherlock's throat becomes dry.

John's eyebrows tug together once and a silent plea escapes from him, his lips fluttering like butterfly wings. Sherlock's gaze regretfully turns away from his face, towards the Cheshire grin that's facing him from the other end of the pool, and lowers his gun. He aims at the carefully constructed bomb jacket, limp on the floor, and hesitates.

He fires, and all sound disappears. All that's left is the rapid slush of pool water and that toothy grin from Jim, Dearest Jim, fading into the smoke.

He didn't know it quite yet, but Sherlock was yelling quite loudly now; loud enough to wake both John and Mrs. Hudson from their slumber. While she stood at the door to their flat John flew down the hall to Sherlock's room with wild abandon, not caring what he bumped into or knocked over. Without much regret he broke down the door upon finding it locked, and ran past its splintered remains to Sherlock's bed.

He was writhing, twisted deeply in his daisy-colored sheets. John found the color a bit surprising for someone as self-conscious of his surroundings as he was, but nevertheless he tore through them until he found a pair of bare shoulders and gripped them tight.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John took hold of him with brute, military force and shook him furiously into consciousness. They were both gasping and though they were both pale the color returned to their faces in a moment or two when their eyes met. John was relieved to find that– though he was a bit shaken – Sherlock was at least physically unharmed. But he could tell from looking at him that something was wrong.

At first there was nothing but silence between them, unspoken words transferred through desperate gazes. Then all John had to do was touch his face and Sherlock collapsed into him. No explanations were given or attempted, even as Sherlock started to shake violently. There was just simple understanding.

For a while John just held him tightly, hoping to calm the tremors. But after a while he didn't know what to do with himself. He wasn't sure if Mrs. Hudson was still at the door or not, waiting to hear news – either good or bad – and he certainly didn't want her to walk in on them like this. Sherlock was too fragile and John was too on edge to deal with her comments.

But when he heard movement, a slight shuffle of feet retreating down the stairs and the click of a shut door he relaxed and pulled Sherlock off of him slightly. But Sherlock remained resolute, gripped the fabric of his shirt as if he were about to crumble into a million pieces.

"John…" his voice was desperate. Pained. John choked.

"Yes?"

"We need to talk."

Not the first thing he expected to come out of his mouth. Humor him, John, he's in shock.

"Talk? About what?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock's answer was quick, sharp. He was coming back, bit by bit. John knew Sherlock expected better from him.

He called forth a little more effort to think about his answer, but nothing came to him. He shook his head. "Nope. I've got nothing."

They were both silent again, and Sherlock loosened his grip. His lips moved once or twice but no sound came out of them. For the first time in a while he was fumbling with his words, choosing them carefully so as not to sound strange. But this moment was already at the pinnacle of strange, so he just let whatever came first flow out of him.

"Don't go. Not yet."

More color came to John's face. His cheeks felt hot, and his mind went to all sorts of places.

"I-I-I'm sorry?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sunk back to the headboard, leaving John by himself at the foot of the bed. "Security, John, that's all I'm asking. My subconscious is still obviously frazzled by the fact that you quite nearly died, so to soothe it I need to make it understand that you're perfectly alright. Having you in the bed with me while I sleep will ensure that result."

He paused, looked away, down to his exposed toes. He wriggled them once or twice, a look of contemplation on his face, then nodded with satisfaction. He seemed pleased with his answer, because he didn't meet John's gaze. He wasn't asking for approval.

"I hope I have made myself clear."

But John knew better. Though he wasn't seeking approval, Sherlock was asking for something else entirely, something that John never expected him to ask for: comfort. The twitch of a smile on John's lips indicated that he was more than happy to give that to him, a strange a request as it sounded. He was just glad that Sherlock still hadn't turned his head to look at him. He might have taken the smirk the wrong way.

"Crystal, Sherlock. Crystal clear." John leaned forward, crawled gingerly towards the front end of the bed and pushed himself under the sheets. He covered his face just at the right time as the now intrigued and almost fully-recovered detective spun his head round to look at his flatmate. Sherlock seemed slightly amiss when John accepted the request so quickly, and for the life of him he couldn't understand why. And that was going to bother him.

"So you're okay with it?"

The pillow beneath John's head crinkled, as did his forehead. "Yep."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

Sherlock wasn't satisfied with 'quite'. "I snore. Loudly."

"I've slept through worse. Afghanistan, remember?"

"It's quite unbearable, actually."

"Think I can handle it—"

"I mumble in my sleep. I say the most ridiculous things."

"Can't be worse than you screaming."

"I kick quite furiously, too. I'm all over the bed, in and out of the covers. You might get bruised up if you're not careful. Might break something."

Now Sherlock was being dramatic. He was making things up to get John's attention, and it worked. The sheets ruffled as John pulled them around his form; they were crisp and neat, smelled freshly of fabric softener; no cologne that he could smell, which wasn't strange to him. What he did find strange was that though he was doing what Sherlock had asked him to do he made no movement to lie down next to John. Maybe there was an ulterior motive, but if there was Sherlock was doing a very good job at hiding it.

"So do you want me to sleep with you, or not?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak then stopped, thinking the better of it. He had hesitated again; he never thought something so simple as a second of hesitation would feel so strange, but now he found himself doing it again, it did.

The word "desperately" hung loosely in between his teeth, but he swallowed it back down and chose something a little more appropriate.

"Yes… erm, please. If you…. really, truly don't mind, John."

Another twitch grew into a full blown smile, but John wasn't afraid to show it this time. Sherlock being timid and choosing his words carefully was really a sight to see. He wished he had a camera.

"No, really, I don't mind. It's…" he laughed, "…just don't kick me, please, and we're golden."

"Hm." Sherlock laughed too, his blue eyes shining in the dim light of his room, and laid down next to John like a child, curled into the sheets with his knees tucked in close to his stomach. He couldn't help but smile as sleep finally caught up with him.

"Yes, quite… I'll try my best."