My Reality

All he had to do was take this shot and he'd be home free for the rest of the week. 'Free' in the sense of being presumed dead and in hiding and 'home' in the sense of a crack den he was currently staying in - drugs free, he might add.

Sherlock licked his lips and flexed his fingers, which felt numb in the too tight leather gloves he wore to avoid fingerprints when he was off on a mission like this. He pressed his finger flat against the trigger, ready to pull it back as soon as his target turned around.

His target turned and Sherlock tensed, preparing to pull the trigger down when he noticed his target wasn't his target at all, but John.

Sherlock stopped, finger still poised over the trigger, but his heart was pounding too erratically within his chest for him to make the shot. He couldn't make the shot, not if his target was John.

The cold bite of metal against his neck sent spider webs of fear down his veins, quickly replaced with a mask of emotionlessness that he wore well these days.

"Watch," the voice behind him whispered, holding the knife uncomfortably tight to his throat. He wouldn't receive injury if he didn't move, but he didn't like not being able to see his attacker. "Put down the gun and watch your friend."

Sherlock slowly lowered the rifle without moving his head. "Why?"

"Quiet."

Sherlock wanted to huff but felt it wasn't a good idea, given the circumstances, and instead trained his gaze on John. He hadn't seen him in a little over a year now... He was surprised with how much unbridled joy shot through his veins when he saw his friend. He would give anything to give this all up and just go back to Baker Street... anything, except, of course, John Watson's life.

Through the clear glass window, Sherlock saw John and then... Mary.

Mary?

There was a moment where John and Mary were simply talking, chatting amongst themselves, and then... Mary pulled a gun.

The moment that Mary shot John, Sherlock awoke with a gasp.

He sat bolt upright in bed, bathed in darkness and sweat, and the impression that something loud had just happened and it wasn't the gunshot he'd heard in his dream.

Heart pounding almost painfully in his chest, Sherlock glanced around the room, trying to figure out what was out of place. He noticed by turning to the right; his alarm clock was on the floor. He must have been tossing about and knocked it off the nightstand.

Puffing out a breath of partial annoyance, he untangled himself from his sweat-damp blankets and got to his feet.

The nightmares had been sporadic ever since John had moved back in with him. They had come every night for the first few weeks after he had come back from the dead, had gone away again, came back after the debacle with Mary, and then again when she and John's unborn daughter had been killed. Now, there was no trigger, and it had been a year since he'd been out during those dark days of tracking and assassinations. Funny how nightmares came back at the strangest of times.

Sherlock trudged out to put on the kettle, knowing he wouldn't get back to sleep without the aid of a cup of chamomile to lull him back into his security. That, and looking around the flat, with all of its traces of John: the afghan back on the back of the chair, the jumper discarded on the sofa, the medical journals on the coffee table and the laptop next to his own on the study desk.

He sighed and turned to the sink to splash a bit of cold water on his face.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped slightly, feeling strangely out of his skin as he always did when he had nightmares. He looked over his shoulder. "John?"

John wrapped his dressing gown around him, squinting at Sherlock through the half-light of the overhead oven light that was flicked on. "I thought I heard something... What are you up for?"

Sherlock turned the tap off, rubbing his face. "Mm... I knocked my alarm clock on the floor. Sorry about that."

John frowned. "How'd you do that?" He wound around the table. "Are you feeling okay?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, allowing John to put his hand against his forehead. John was a doctor; John did those things. "I'm fine, John."

"You're all sweaty," John said, pulling his hand away and moving it to his neck, pressing two fingers against his pulse. "And your pulse is raging. What's wrong?"

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck. "Nothing. I just... yeah, I was dreaming."

John paused before removing his hand. "Dreaming? Like having nightmares? About what?"

Sherlock leaned forward to press his face into his hands. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know. It's nothing to worry about." He straightened up, going to grab a mug from the cupboard. "Do you want tea?"

"Yeah, sure..." John said distractedly. "Sherlock? What are you dreaming about? What woke you up?"

Sherlock ruffled his fingers through his hair. "Nothing, John. Just an amalgamation of things that happened in the past three years."

John was quiet for a moment. "... Three years, you said... You have nightmares about the time you were away... don't you?" he asked slowly.

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes. No. Sometimes, when something happens."

"So, what happened?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know. Nothing. Just started dreaming and woke up in a panic. I'm alright. Always am when I get back to reality." He stretched slightly. "But you already know that, don't you?"

John stared at him for a moment before nodding. "Uh huh. Yeah, I know. God, yes. I've had enough nightmares for a lifetime." He ran his fingers through his hair. "But you don't, not often, so do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock looked up. "... Did you want to talk about it with your therapist?"

"I'm not your therapist, I'm your friend."

Sherlock smiled faintly before turning back to the kettle. "Yes... but I still don't want to talk about it. Just things with Moriarty's network, you, Mary... those sorts of things." He poured the boiling water into two mugs, propping the strainer over. "It's okay. I'm fine."

John sighed before nodding shortly, going to collect the milk from the fridge. "Alright. But if you want to talk..."

"I know you'll be there," Sherlock supplied. He took John's mug, added the milk, and handed the pint back to John.

"I'll always be," John said, putting it away.

Sherlock smiled wryly. "You're not going to be there 'always'," he said, hooking his fingers into air quotes, "because you're going to die one day, hopefully at an age so old that you can't stand to look at yourself any more, and then you won't be. But I won't be far behind you, so I suppose that's alright." He added two sugar cubes and took a drink of his tea.

John lowered his mug. "What do you mean, you won't be far behind?"

"Well, I lived without you once; I'm not doing it again," Sherlock said, taking his tea and brushing past John, padding into the sitting room.

John didn't say anything and Sherlock sank onto the sofa, settling into the worn leather and reaching for the blanket on the back of the sofa. This was good. This was home. All of his nightmares couldn't touch any of this, and that was one thing that he was stupidly, sentimentally, glad of.

"Right," John said from the kitchen, pivoting to follow Sherlock. "But don't do anything stupid if I happen to die while I'm... well-"

"Young?" Sherlock guessed, pulling his knees up to make room for John at the opposite end of the sofa.

John laughed. "Yeah, young, okay. Thanks. But don't do anything if I-"

"Let's not tempt fate," Sherlock interrupted, taking a long draw off of his steaming tea a moment afterwards. "Alright?"

John was quiet again before nodding. "Yeah. Alright."

"You're here now," Sherlock replied. "And now is all that matters."

John blinked, but Sherlock didn't comment on it. He was assuming that John was thinking that this was the most sentimental he'd seen him, but he didn't care. Nightmares did things to people, not that he wanted to admit that, or that he had nightmares at all.

But nightmares were just that: nightmares. As long as Sherlock could wake up from them, he was going to be okay. He really would.

He pressed his feet against John's thigh, yawning widely. "Biscuits would have been good with this."

John glanced at Sherlock's feet briefly before turning back to meet his gaze. "Well, I'm not getting them."

Sherlock huffed. "Hey, I made the tea!"

"And you're the reason I woke up at all," John reminded.

"It's not my fault I wasn't sleeping well," Sherlock retorted, but he knew that it was a moot point in any case. "And, anyway, I've got a blanket. I can't move."

John smiled. "What, are you in shock now?"

"S'not a shock blanket," Sherlock said, smiling back at him over his mug.

John laughed quietly, taking a drink of his tea.

Sherlock's lips pulled up even more and he followed suit, closing his eyes as the calming scent of chamomile and the presence of John nearby let him relax into reality once again.

Sherlock having PTSD-like effects of the two years we never hear about is something that I think is a great focal point for Sherlock, post-Fall. And while not extreme PTSD, I wanted a quiet moment between them.

Never fear - I haven't forgotten about my other fics or the Sherlock fandom... I've just gotten into Kingdom Hearts again a lot lately. (If you haven't played that game, go try it! It's awesome!) So, some fics may have a lull while I'm immersed in another fandom. :) I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!