John awoke with a physical jerk, his wrist bouncing off his headboard with a loud thump. He sat upright, consciously trying to calm his heart rate and breaths.
It had been a while since he had a dream of the war, almost since he moved into the new flat. The hiatus didn't make the dreams any easier to handle.
John continued trying to slow his shaky breaths, and happened to look toward the doorway. Sherlock, wearing pajamas that made him look even lankier, had apparently been summoned by the thump. He was hovering awkwardly in John's doorway as if not sure how to act.
John chose to ignore Sherlock, instead gazing into his own lap and breathing. He was mostly fine now, but still felt shaken.
John looked up when he felt his mattress sagging gradually; Sherlock was sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed, sympathy and indecision on his face.
With John looking at him blankly, Sherlock hesitantly put a hand on John's farthest shoulder, giving him a very light side hug. When John didn't pull away, Sherlock pulled John toward him, holding in firmly.
John sat awkwardly for a moment, but then let his head rest on Sherlock's clavicle. He shut his eyes and breathed in Sherlock's scent. Neither of them said anything.
John had a much easier time returning to sleep after that.