Sherlock Holmes belongs to all those clever people in Hollywood and at the BBC. Not I.

Thanks to my beta ArtsyChick. It's amazing how grammar really brings it all together!

Joanna woke to the sound of her name—not her given name, but her Royal Army Medical Corps title and rank.

She jerked awake. Upon opening her eyes, she was vaguely surprised to find herself in her darkened bedroom in Baker Street, not the sandy burlap of an Afghanistan medical tent. A figure sat on the edge of her bed. "Sherlock?"

The shadow huffed with impatience, "Who else would it be?"

Joanna groaned, "Serial killer?" she offered halfheartedly. Then she frowned, "Did you pull my rank?"

"Joanna and Dr. Watson were having no effect, so I tried Captain. Unsurprisingly, it worked."

"It's been ages since I've had to stitch up anyone in the middle of the night." She squinted at him, still not quite lucid. "Are you injured?"

"No."

"Good," she grumbled, "If it's another case, wake me in the morning." She hitched the covers up over her shoulder and curled onto her side, away from her flatmate.

"No case."

"If you want tea," she murmured from her nest of blankets, "I will kill you."

"I don't want tea."

Grudgingly accepting the fact that sleep was not going to be possible until he left, Joanna rolled back over. She rubbed her eyes to clear the haze of sleep and glanced at the clock. "It's 2 AM. You should be sleeping like a normal person."

"For once, I was."

"How'd that go?"

"I had a dream."

She shrugged, "Perfectly normal."

He seemed reluctant to tell her if his pregnant pause was anything to go by, but then he elaborated, "There were dots everywhere. Red dots."

Joanna sat up, wide awake. They hadn't talked about the night they met Moriarty since…well, ever. She peered at him in the darkness, her eyes adjusting easily to the blackness. The soft glow of her alarm clock, aided by the moonlight, revealed the hunched, hesitant form of her flatmate.

For a long moment all was quiet.

"So you had a nightmare—"

"I know what it's called," he snapped.

As a trained Army medical doctor, Joanna was nothing if not adaptable. Switching tactics, she reached out and placed her hand over his. His skin was cool where hers was warm from the cocoon of her bed. He started at the contact but, thankfully, didn't pull away.

Her voice was soft. "I'm right here."

He took a long breath. Something seemed to shift and the words came tumbling out of his mouth: "They were everywhere; as if your skin was stained with laser sights. There was no one else, no one to outwit, no negotiations—only an army of snipers with a target and an order."

"Sherlock—" But her gentle voice only tore at him, agitating him all the more.

"Don't—just don't. I know it was only a dream, my subconscious attempting to process a stressful event. A pressure point in my Id. It doesn't change the fact that I'm still awake." His fingers raked through his wild mop of hair. "I tried starting new research, playing the violin, counting bloody sheep—but I couldn't rest until I saw you awake." His hand shifted to the pulse at her wrist, and she understood what he really meant.

Alive.

Joanna had very little idea what on earth to do next. Reassurances? Empty platitudes? An embrace? She knew he would loathe them all.

Thankfully, Sherlock made the decision for her.

"I'm fine," he said firmly. "You can go back to sleep—but if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to just sit here a moment."

His hand slipped from hers before she could protest and he rested his elbows on his knees, his fingertips at his lips.

Clearly dismissed, and with little else to do, Joanna hunkered down into the bedclothes and arranged the pillows. When she was satisfied, she settled in and shut her eyes. A few minutes passed before she gathered the courage to throw caution to the wind.

Sighing dramatically, Joanna threw back the covers.

"Get in." she demanded.

"Excuse me?" His voice was incredulous. In the darkness, Joanna could only imagine the perplexity that was undoubtedly clouding Sherlock's face.

"I can't sleep with you perched there like a ruddy vulture. It's December, you'll catch your death and then where will we be?"

"Joanna—"

"Don't get any ideas, just get in." As if to make her point, she rolled over once more and closed her eyes.

He didn't move for a long moment, but then his weight left the bed. For an agonizing minute she thought he had gone—not that she cared—but then he was there, settling into the bed and threading his legs under the covers.

Everything was still for a very long time. When her heart rate finally returned to normal she whispered to the darkness. "Goodnight Sherlock."

But his deep, steady breathing told her he was already asleep.

-fin

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