Author's Note: I noticed that I had made a couple of grammatical errors in this chapter, so here it is re-written without them. Apologies!

"SHERLOCK!"

A loud cry awoke John from his nightmare, and he found himself sitting upright in bed, dripping with sweat. He was grateful for being roused from his slumber; he had no desire to relive one of the most distressing experiences of his life for the umpteenth night in a row. In his nightmare, he had been back on the pavement outside St Bart's hospital, watching his best friend - a good man, despite what people thought - willingly fall to his death from a tall building, after admitting to being the 'fake' that they both knew he wasn't. St Bart's seemed to be a fixed point in John's life. It was where he had trained as a doctor - something which would shape his foreseeable future - and was consequently where his life had began. Twice. The first time was after graduating as a doctor, which enabled him to join the Army as an 'army doctor', and the second time was when he had met Sherlock in one of the old laboratories there. John supposed that it was also fair to argue that St Bart's was where his life had also ended, after Sherlock's death there. Bearing all of this in mind, it was an understatement to say that having recently found out that Sherlock wasn't in fact dead had been disruptive to John's recovery.

Back in reality, the trembling doctor belatedly realised that the cry had been his own, and would therefore have alerted Sherlock to his current state. John froze, apprehensive about moving any part of his shaking body, or breathing any louder or deeper than necessary. This was an automatic reaction that had remained from his time spent serving with the Army in active combat, taught in order to prevent a potential assailant from becoming aware of his presence. John knew that exercising this precaution was futile; Sherlock barely slept, and so was likely to have heard John's outburst, and would consequently come to investigate, even if he had already deduced what was wrong. John supposed that Sherlock did this because he still felt guilty - even if he hadn't said as much in so many words - as it was the detective himself who was responsible for John's latest bout of nightmares. His nightmares about his days in the Army had vanished after John had met Sherlock. Just as Mycroft had hypothesised, Sherlock proved to be the medicine that John needed - the doctor's missing part, almost - and vice versa. They had truly been the making of each other. This realisation had never really been acknowledged by either party vocally, but both knew it to be true.

John's thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

"John? I know you're awake." Sherlock said awkwardly.

"Yeah, sorry for shouting out. I, erm, I had another one. You know, a nightmare. Did I wake you up?"

"No."

"Why am I not surprised?" John rolled his eyes as he muttered, talking mainly to himself rather than the detective. "Have you even been to bed yet tonight?"

"No."

Trying to get a response from Sherlock that was not monosyllabic seemed to be proving a challenge already. The doctor feared that this didn't bode well for the rest of their conversation. He could hear Sherlock fidgeting outside the door. "You can come in, you know, Sherlock. Quite frankly, I'm surprised you haven't already. We don't have to talk about this through the door. Usually you don't even wait for me to ask you to enter, or even wait for my permission, you just barge in."

Sherlock entered John's bedroom cautiously, almost as if he was wary of what he might find. His analytical gaze fixed on John, trying to deduce the answer to the burning question in his mind before he even had chance to vocalize it. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," lied John.

"You had a nightmare." It was a statement, not a question, and John couldn't help but admire Sherlock's intelligence; the detective could even deduce things correctly in the dark, whereas John would currently struggle to find his way out of his own room without switching his bedside lamp on. He wasn't particularly fond of the dark; it was overwhelming and never-ending.

John didn't know how to respond to Sherlock's statement, and so he treated it as if it had been a question, even though he knew it wasn't. "Yes," he answered defensively, almost challenging the detective to quote some inappropriate statistic or remark about the irrationality of nightmares. The Holmes brothers failed to realise that not everybody could keep themselves distant or emotionally unattached from things that had affected them.

"What was it about, the war or the fall?" asked Sherlock, ignoring John's blatant wish to leave the topic alone.

John sighed, reluctant to divulge the information but knowing that it would be futile to protest or lie. Sherlock always saw through John's lies, just as easily as he saw through everybody else's. "The fall. It's always the fall now. The war ones ended right after I met you." He was beginning to find it difficult to swallow due to the emotion collecting in his throat, threatening to break through. "I see you falling from that rooftop, your arms and legs flailing behind you, because we both know what the inevitable conclusion is now that you've chosen that path; impact with the ground, courtesy of gravity. An instantaneous death for you, and a tedious, depressing, painful existence for me." John's voice relented and cracked, rendering it impossible for him to say anything else at present.

"I've said that I'm sorry, John. I don't know what else to say." Sherlock's figure was in silhouette because the only source of light was behind the detective, making it impossible for John to see his facial expression in order to judge the sincerity of his words.

The doctor took a deep breath to calm himself before his emotions got the better of him. He didn't want to startle Sherlock with a sentimental outburst that the detective was unlikely to understand, and so he made a mental note to ask Mycroft how he repressed his emotions so well. John figured that Mycroft owed him that much at least, and knew that asking Sherlock instead of his elder brother would be pointless because the detective liked being able to read John like an open book, and so was unlikely to help. "I know, and I've said that I forgive you." John paused before continuing, trying to decide whether or not it would be a good idea for him to ask Sherlock the latest question which had popped into his mind. He reasoned that it probably wasn't a good idea, but his stubborn side was going to go ahead and do it anyway. The worst that Sherlock could do would be to say 'no'. "Will you still not tell me how you survived?"

Sherlock's silhouette shook it's head. "No, not yet."

Oh well, thought the doctor ruefully. It was worth a try. "Is there any point in me asking why not?"

"I don't think you're ready to believe me yet."

Sherlock's honesty startled John a little. He had been expecting the detective to give him a non-committal comment, such as 'not really' or 'I don't think so, do you?' As reluctant as John was to admit it, Sherlock had a point. Until John's nightmares ceased, and he could truly come to terms with what his best friend had had no choice but to put them both through - 'best friend' seemed such an understatement; his 'platonic soul mate' was a more accurate description, if a little sentimental - then there was no possibility that he could accept what Sherlock would say.

"Perhaps you're right." John sunk a little lower back down into his bed, the adrenaline from the shock of the nightmare wearing off, causing him to feel tired again.

Sherlock gave a wry smile because he knew that John couldn't see it. He didn't want John to mistakenly believe that he was happy with this situation; he was smiling because it felt good to hear John's acceptance, approval and praise again after so long. The detective leaned on the bedroom door, which caused it to open a little more. "I'm always right."

As the bedroom door had been opened wider, more light from the landing came seeping into the room, illuminating John's face further so that Sherlock could see that the doctor had raised an eyebrow. The detective quickly deduced what had caused this skepticism - John was silently pointing out the fact that Sherlock had been mistaken on at least two occasions - and so he was forced to rephrase his last comment. "Fine, I'm nearly always right," Sherlock amended. "Better?"

John smiled. "Much better."

There was a short silence when the situation reached an impasse, therefore causing the atmosphere to become a little tense. John could tell that Sherlock still felt guilty about the recurring nightmares that the doctor was repeatedly suffering from because the detective had apologised again, and was adamant that he would do so a thousand times more if there was even the slightest possibility that it would improve anything. John didn't want him to do this. He didn't know what he did want, but it wasn't a grovelling Sherlock. Even from the little that Sherlock had revealed about the Reichenbach problem, John knew that Moriarty had caused this, not Sherlock. It should have been Moriarty apologising, not Sherlock, but the likelihood of that happening was about as ridiculous as the idea of Mycroft wearing jeans, trainers and a vest top to a meeting with a member of the Royal Family.

From the doorway, Sherlock knew that John deemed his numerous apologies to be unnecessary, and the sheer number of them was beginning to weaken their sincerity. John was beginning to think that Sherlock was simply apologising because he thought that was what the doctor wanted to hear, instead of the detective actually meaning what he said. What irritated the detective the most were his thoughts regarding John; annoyed because John didn't confide in him, didn't take the detective into his confidence and reveal - either inadvertently or on purpose - how Sherlock could make the doctor's nightmares disappear, as he had done once before. Sherlock inwardly chastised himself for being so selfish, reminding his judgemental brain that he himself had chosen not to take John into his own confidence during his little stunt at being 'dead'. Therefore, it was a little hypocritical of the detective's thoughts to expect the doctor to do so. Sentiment for John was obviously affecting Sherlock's logical reasoning. He supposed that he could take the time to work out how to rid John of his nightmares himself, but unless the doctor would be willing to accept his help afterwards, this would just be a waste of precious brain power, alongside the misuse of the rooms of Sherlock's mind palace.

"Maybe you should talk to somebody about your nightmares, John," Sherlock said quietly, hoping that John would detect the subliminal message. By 'somebody', the detective meant himself, though he couldn't bear to have John reject him outright.

"You want me to go back to my therapist?" John frowned, and when he squinted through the darkness, he saw that the detective was frowning too.

"Yes, John. That's exactly what I meant," lied Sherlock, inwardly screaming that this wasn't what he had meant or wanted. No, John. I didn't mean that. I want you to talk to me, to confide in me. Just like you used to, before I went away. This would be so much easier if I could tell you that I jumped for you, to save you, but you won't believe that at the minute. The pain from my leaving in the first place is still too raw. You'll think I'm lying to appease you.

"It's a possibility, I suppose." John was oblivious to Sherlock's inner turmoil; he was more preoccupied with the thought of returning to his therapist again, wondering what he'd say to her after having already told her that Sherlock was dead. 'Hi, my flatmate's come back from the dead' wasn't likely to do him any favours in convincing her that he was recovering. Even to his own ears, it sounded absurd. It would appear to her that he was either a compulsive liar, or that he was presenting the delusional symptoms of a mental health disorder.

"If you don't want to go back to her, then I'm sure Mycroft would be perfectly willing to refer you to one of his own personal therapists."

John was still in awe of Sherlock, amazed at how the detective could read his thoughts through the tiny changes in his facial expression. He didn't say this though, opting for a less sentimental response. "Why does Mycroft have a personal therapist?"

"Therapists, not therapist. Plural, not singular. My brother has a habit of collecting acquaintances and contacts in the same way that other people collect stamps or model cars. At present, he has no need for any of his twelve personal therapists; he simply likes to know that they're there if a situation arises where he does."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," said John despairingly. He really would have to make more of an effort to humanise the Holmes brothers. The doctor could just about cope with his Holmes brother collecting pieces of dead humans that had donated their bodies to science - in other words, donating their bodies to Sherlock, as he was almost the living embodiment of science - but for the elder Holmes to 'collect' humans while they were still alive seemed a little...odd, for want of a better word.

Sherlock almost smiled again as he deduced what John was currently thinking. Almost. His aloof persona was slipping; he would have to work on improving it. "What Mycroft really needs is a dietician, not twelve therapists."

John giggled and tried to chastise Sherlock in what he hoped was a serious tone. "That's not very friendly, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged, not really knowing what else to say without insulting his brother further. Despite what Mycroft had done, the detective could not deny that he had found himself in several scrapes during his absence that he would've been unlikely to escape without his brother's assistance. "I'm going to bed now."

John nodded. "Oh, okay, Sherlock. Good night, and thanks for...you know...coming to make sure that I was alright."

"You're my best friend, John. Of course I'd always make sure that you were alright," Sherlock's words sounded honest but awkward, as if the detective was dubious as to how John would respond to them.

"Good night, Sherlock."

John managed to silence his thoughts until Sherlock had skulked out of the room, ensuring that the detective would have no inkling as to what he was really thinking. I want to believe that, Sherlock. Honestly, I do, but how can I when, at the first sign that I might not be coping as well as I say I am, you want me to go back to my therapist? I don't want her, she couldn't even diagnose me properly last time! What makes you think that another therapist would understand this ridiculous situation any better? All I want is to talk to you about these nightmares, Sherlock, not anyone else. You're the cause of them, and I know that you're the solution.

John sighed as he slipped back down underneath the duvet, closing his eyes whilst keeping his fingers crossed in the hope that he wouldn't have to witness his friend fall to his death again, like a DVD stuck repeating the same chapter of its content, playing it over and over again every time that doctor tried to sleep.