Title: Even High-Functioning Sociopaths Have Nightmares Sometimes
Description: Sherlock can't sleep as the hound still rampages through his dreams. Luckily for him, John seems to have the same problem. Fluff, Sherlock/John.
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John (hinted at)
Word Count: 1,340
Notes: An idea I've had floating around my head for a while. I'm pretty sure similar works have been read, though I surprisingly haven't run across any. None of these wonderful characters belong to me, and reviews are appreciated like you wouldn't imagine!

Red eyes glared through the darkness, paws thudded against the hard ground.

He ran, and it followed.

Hot breath fell upon his neck as he scrambled over the large tree roots, the fog from the ground clouding his senses. He called for John, expecting him to come and help, but there was only the snarling of the beast behind him as it pounded after him in pursuit.

He tripped on a particularly large root, and felt himself sprawl painfully against the ground. Scrambling onto his back, he looked up and opened his mouth to scream when he saw glowing red eyes glowering down at him. But no noise came out, even when bright white teeth flashed down at him and its jaw opened wide.

Sherlock awoke in a cold sweat clutching the bed sheets tightly, and forced his eyes open. He was furious for letting himself succumb to something as mundane as nightmares, and though he gritted his teeth in frustration, his entire body shook with the lingering fright of his dream.

He held out a shaking hand in front of his face, grabbing it with his other as if he could still it. Drawing in a trembling breath he set his hands back behind his body, propping himself up at a slight obtuse angle. Sherlock took in the familiar surroundings of his room, trying to reassure himself that the whole thing was nothing but a childish nightmare.

He knew he would not sleep tonight. Four days had passed since they had 'caught' the hound, and he had not slept soundly once. Sherlock often went without sleep, but after a week it was starting to take its toll.

So he lay back down, willing himself to at least rest for a while if he could not be bestowed with the luxury of sleep. He tried closing his eyes, courting willful oblivion, but the glaring red eyes were there to welcome him with the darkness. Opening his eyes again against the images that were still fresh in the back of his mind, he let out a careful sigh as he thought soothing thoughts. Chemical reactions. A good old-fashioned murder. Even better—a smart serial killer, covering his tracks and playing games. Leaving a clue here and an opening there; yet contradicting all of the evidence thus far with the next murder, leaving a completely different trail…

There was a noise upstairs and Sherlock stilled his thoughts and held his breath as he heard the bed thud against the wall and John let out a soft cry. The man sure wasn't quiet about waking from a bad dream. Silence followed immediately afterwards, though Sherlock knew that John was far from asleep once more. Give him two minutes and the bathroom sink would be running; cold water would be splashed on a weary, tired face. Three hours later the cycle would repeat.

Though it was a minute and a half rather than two minutes, Sherlock grinned to himself as he heard the water running. He loved being right. They'd both been spending their nights in a vicious cycle since the case had ended; even if neither had the pride to admit it.

Sherlock waited as he heard the faint groan of the floor as John crawled back into bed, the noise much similar to that of a giant paw as it struck a creaky board. Despite himself, Sherlock shivered at the thought.

He dozed off completely by accident—no one can go a week on nearly no sleep—and woke in the exact same situation. Growling in frustration, Sherlock grabbed his pillow and headed out of his room. He padded silently up the stairs to the entrance of John's room, and knowing the door was open because he hadn't heard John lock it, let himself in. John lay on the edge of his bed, head dropped, eyes staring forlornly out the window.

Sherlock was unfortunate enough to step on the same creaky board that John had, and the other man scrambled to sit up, eyes wild. His fear diminished when he saw Sherlock, only to be replaced with provocation.

"Sherlock, whatever are you doing?" he scolded him angrily. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking? I thought you were the h—" He stopped himself, swallowing down the last word Sherlock had already predetermined.

Giving him a look, Sherlock walked over and sat down beside John in the bed. It was not quite big enough to comfortably fit two people, but he didn't mind.

"What are you—Sherlock, get out of my bed!" John snapped, throwing Sherlock an angry look and giving him a shove.

Sherlock gave a huff of indignation, grabbing the covers now pooled around John's waist and pulling them over himself and his friend. John scoffed, trying to wrench the covers back, but Sherlock held tight.

"I said get out! I was sleeping. I don't need you of all people barging in here and just planting yourself in my bed!"

"No you weren't," Sherlock mumbled, stretching out his legs and then bringing them back in when they fell over the end of the mattress.

"I—wait, what?"

Sherlock gave a stark sigh. "No you weren't, John. You were dreaming about the hound."

He'd rendered John speechless, for at least for a whole seven and a half seconds, which was just enough time to throw around the covers and make himself more comfortable. Good god, the mattress was smaller than he'd thought.

"Why would you think that?" John finally retorted, though the sharp edge from his voice was now absent.

"John, surely you're not that simple," Sherlock growled, annoyed with the current shape of the pillow. "You know exactly why."

"Yes, yes. Eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, etcetera, etcetera. Either you have the ability to read my dreams, or…" He paused, studying him carefully. Taking in the small shake of his hands, the slightly dampened brow, and the slight creases of worry on his face. Good, the man's eye was indeed getting better. "Or you've had them yourself."

Sherlock smirked darkly and without humour at his friend, lowering himself down onto his side.

John scowled once more. "Whatever the case, you're still in my bed and I still don't want you there."

Sherlock grumbled at him, his eyes glaring above the covers.

Crossing his arms, John pursed his lips. His initially angry attitude was starting to subside, though he still had an annoyed air about him. "Don't act as if you're five, Sherlock. You're a grown man; act like one."

Sherlock did nothing but stare back at him, and it was there that he saw the other man finally crack.

"Stubborn prat," John grumbled, though somewhat affectionately, shaking his head slightly. "You're not gunna go unless I sleep on the couch, and you'd probably follow me there too."

Sherlock smirked at his friend. "Precisely."

With a sigh of resignation, John let his head fall back onto the pillow beside Sherlock's. Their arms were pressed together and Sherlock's legs were twined around John's, as they would not fit on the mattress otherwise, though neither seemed to be bothered by it.

"I don't see how this is going to help," he said softly.

"Oh, don't be such a simpleton," Sherlock growled good-naturedly.

Chuckling softly, John smiled as he felt Sherlock's head press against his shoulder. "People are surely going to talk."

"Stop being so paranoid, they won't find out," Sherlock mumbled into the fabric against his face belonging to John's shirt.

He felt John shake his head, shifting his body slightly to place his hand on Sherlock's head. His fingers tangled themselves in the messy mop of hair, and Sherlock let out a soft laugh as John cussed at his hand getting stuck. In the end, he just left it there.

Morning would find the two curled together tightly—Sherlock clutching John tightly, and John with his hands still threaded through Sherlock's hair. Half the day would already be lost by the time they woke up; not that either really cared.

FIN