So the psychosomatic leg thing stopped. Thanks to Sherlock and the insanity that living with him brings. His cane now lies forgotten somewhere under the couch, tossed there in disgust after being inefficient as a prop in one of Sherlock's experiments. John had wanted to get it out of there, just in case, but there were other things underneath the sofa as well. And whatever they were, John had the feeling he just didn't want to know. Either way, he was running around like a maniac these days, with no time to think about the fact that he probably should be hurting, so he didn't really need it.
The nightmares, however, didn't stop. He was still a soldier, only now the location of the war could just as often be on the streets of London as Afghanistan.
So sleeping, yeah there hadn't been much of that. He was beginning to think that this sleep thing really wasn't for him. Sure his head might not be as clear as it should nowadays, but it wasn't like he was any match for Sherlock anyway.
Another upside (and sometimes downside) to living with Sherlock was that he regarded sleep like a mostly unnecessary evil, that he only gave in to when being awake bored him.
The downside being that he might start playing his violin in the middle of the night or, after particularly bad days, firing shots at the smiley on the wall. It even has a name, some days. Mycroft, being a popular choice. Or Lestrade. Not John, not yet, but he's just kind of waiting for it.
The upside being that whenever he wakes up, sweating and trembling from the adrenaline shock, he doesn't have to sit alone, staring at the cracks of the wall and willing the screams away from his ears.
Instead he can walk downstairs, stare at whatever Sherlock is doing until he acknowledges John (which might take hours, but his experiments are always interesting. Disgusting, perhaps, but never boring) and then they might talk for a bit. Okay so it's mostly Sherlock doing the talking, while john asks all the dumb questions.
Sherlock has a way of making you stay in the present whenever he's around. When he comes rushing in, spouting facts like bullets and telling everyone just how brilliant he is, you can't help but get sucked into whatever problem's at hand. Everything else seems less important, and John quite likes that.
And there's no denying that as the good soldier he is, John enjoys being ordered around.
"Throw me that cup of tea, would you?" Sherlock asks, while absentmindedly poking in the machinery of an old radiator.
It's 6 in the morning, and the gray shimmer of dawn is making the dark silhouettes of furniture and Sherlock a bit easier to make out in the apartment living room. He had tried to turn on the lights after waking up a few hours ago, but Sherlock had implied that if he went as much as near the switch the world would end. Or something to that extent, anyway.
"It's gone cold." John replies lazily from where he's curled up in the armchair. He's got one of his favorite knitted sweaters pulled over his pyjama's, and with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders he feels quite confortable. So he stalls, in order to avoid having to move.
"Good." Sherlock answers. He's wearing what John likes to think of as his "boring-suit". The Blue dressing gown, a long sleeved shirt , sweatpants and bare feet that makes john feel cold just by looking at them.
"Do I have to? I'm sitting quite confortable here." The fact that he's whining shows just how tired John really is at the moment. Sherlock makes an irritated noise.
"Well told you to trow it, didn't I?"
John watches the cup on the table for a moment, before sighing, getting up, handing over the cup to Sherlock before turning to walk back to the chair.
"Hang on," he says, turning back again. "You knew that I was going to do that, didn't you?"
"Obviously."
John sit back again.
" You know, one of these days I'm going to do something opposite to my nature, and then you'll look pretty stupid, standing there with cold tea all over your shirt."
Sherlock just smiles.
"No you won't."