Title: Nightmare

Fandoms: Sherlock

Rating: Rated PG for fluff

Summary: John has one of his (now fairly rare) nightmares and wakes up to see Sherlock standing at his door. Fluff for de-stressing purposes. God, I love fluff.

I wrote this story because, while working on my other story, I got really frustrated and wanted to stop writing it. I will finish it, but I really, really wanted to write some fluff. Also, I haven't written anything in a few weeks, so I'm a little rusty. Forgive me for the rusty fluff. Hopefully it's still cute.

Living with Sherlock is… interesting. Between finding limbs all over the place, the temperature often being either too hot or two cold specifically for one of his "experiments," and the millions of other things he does around the flat, it often surprises others that I stay here. I enjoy it. Well, most of the time. Sometimes it's a right pain in my arse. Other times, it's just nice to have something to do.

There's one night that I think about often. It was really weird, even for Sherlock. I was fast asleep. Really, I was completely out. So out, that I was having nightmares. The odd thing is, recently I only have them when I have an exceptionally boring day and am deep, deep asleep. I don't know if I was thrashing or not, but I remember waking up in a panic and staring at my ceiling in shock before realising there was someone looking at me.

I turned my head (my neck was KILLING me, too) towards the door and Sherlock was just… standing there. The moonlight from my window was shining right on him. His eyes were wide and he just looked like a child. I mean, to be fair, there are many times where he looks like a child, but this time it wasn't because he was acting immature about some stupid argument we were having. He looked innocent and scared.

We stared at each other for a few seconds before I pushed myself up while rubbing at my neck.

"Sher-" I began to say, but it was more of a croak, really. I cleared my throat. "Sherlock? What is it?"

It felt like forever until Sherlock moved. He walked really carefully towards me and stopped about a foot away, getting down on his knees apparently to be more at level with me, or something. He put his arms on my bed and rested his chin on them, not looking at me.

"Sherlock…?" I tried again. He was frowning and looked rather dazed. The next words were ones that I really didn't expect. Who would, coming from Sherlock Holmes, the great, only consulting detective?

"I had a nightmare."

"O… Oh."

"I was… Well, am scared." Sherlock cleared his throat and I waited patiently, trying to mask my shock. "I was going to come talk to you, but you had a nightmare of your own that I'm sure— Uh… you have enough to deal with." He turned his head away from me and rested his whole head on his arms. I was silent for a moment.

"I have that nightmare all the time, it's something I've… Not really gotten over, but, well, I'm fine once I'm awake." He scoffed and I grimaced at the back of his head. At least I was trying.

"Oh, please, John. Do you really think I would fall for that?" He lifted his head and looked at me. His eyes looked bright blue with the moonlight. It was oddly unnerving. It didn't help that his expression was soft. Pity, self pity, and exhaustion lining his face. "I know you're not okay, but that just… I can't help you because I'm also not okay, so what is there to do if neither of us can help the other?"

I couldn't help but smile a bit. He was right, the nightmare was still shaking through my veins. I couldn't stop my body's reaction. The heavy breathing, the shaking, even the slight sweating on this cold night all gave me away quickly.

"Well, Sherlock… Hear me out… Perhaps it doesn't have to be a one helps the other case." He furrowed his eyebrows at me. I smiled a bit, knowing my face still had traces of the horror I felt from the dream. "Just… How about I make some tea and we can both have some and calm down?"

Sherlock shook his head very quickly at this. He really looks like a child sometimes. I don't even think he realises it.

"I don't want tea. Tea won't help. And I don't really… I don't really wish to speak of the dream."

"You said you came in here to talk to me, Sherlock."

"I know I did, John, I am, in fact, in control of my own voice," he replied with a tiny sneer before his expression turned childishly vulnerable again. I frowned. I really was worried, believe it or not.

"What, then?"

"Well, John…" he muttered, resting his chin on his arms again, not looking at me again. Same as before. "Hear me out," he repeated my words, hands grabbing the blankets slightly. "Perhaps talking doesn't have to be the only way to make me feel better. Perhaps I came in here to talk to you… To ask you…" He gave a slightly frustrated sigh and buried his face into the blanket. His next words came out muffled, but I easily understood them. "My mother used to let me sleep in her bed with her when I had nightmares… I just thought… I dono."

I smiled and shook my head slightly. I was exhausted, shaken, and surprised. He really could have just slipped into my bed and I wouldn't have minded it. Maybe I wouldn't have even noticed. At least he had the decency to ask, though.

Sherlock tensed up. I realised after another second that he probably felt me shaking my head through the bed. Most people wouldn't have known it was a head shake, but Sherlock is Sherlock. And AS Sherlock, he's one to overreact on odd occasions. He stood up quickly.

"Right, never mind, then," he nearly hissed, turning around and beginning to leave. I opened my mouth, but was unable to even do as much as stammer, so I instead flung my arm out and caught him by the wrist before it went out of my reach. He stopped walking.

His wrist felt oddly warm. I thought for a second that he could be sick, but then I realised he was probably just embarrassed. I felt like smiling at the idea of him blushing, but the situation needed to be addressed before he decided that whatever I was going to say really wasn't worth standing there uncomfortably with his arm at an odd backwards angle.

"It's… Fine, Sherlock. It's fine." He didn't move. He didn't think I had heard him. I cleared my throat and scratched the back of my head slightly with my free hand, gathering up courage to get past the embarrassment of the whole situation. "You can… Sleep in my bed, if you'd like to. With me, I mean."

He stood there for a few seconds and my grip on his wrist loosened slightly as I waited.

"Are you sure?" came a very timid reply. A tone I had never heard from Sherlock before in my life.

"Ah, yes," I muttered as I stood up, tightening my grip on his wrist and putting my other hand on the small of his back to turn him around towards my bed. I looked up at him, letting go of his wrist. "Yes, Sherlock."

He didn't look at me. He was staring at my bed. He moved forward just a fraction, and then he climbed onto my bed like a cat and curled up. I didn't know what to do, but Sherlock must have known that, as he caught hold of MY wrist and looked up at me, tugging slightly. I lowered myself onto the bed, pulling the covers up over the two of us.

He didn't let go of my wrist.

"Is it always the same dream?" Sherlock asked me after a minute or two of comfortable, shaken silence.

"Nearly. Same basic idea. What was your dream about?"

He was silent again; hand still on my wrist, though not tight.

"Are you the one who gets shot in it?" I nearly sighed at his avoidance of my question, but complied.

"Sometimes. Sometimes it's my comrades. Sometimes it's an explosion. But it's always the war, always right in the middle of the action."

"Is there blood?"

"Loads."

"What shakes you?"

"The noise, the pain, the horror- Sherlock, I've talked about this- you must know that my therapist has asked me similar questions."

"Yes. I wanted to know your answers," his fingers absently traced my wrist. I would have fidgeted if I hadn't stopped myself. It probably would have made him tense up again and I was trying to help. He sounded so mopey. Lost. He did seem comfortable next to me, though, which was good. At least I was helping a bit.

"Can I know your dream, Sherlock?" I asked after another couple of minutes of silence. Sherlock's fingers stopped moving. After a few tense seconds, his grip on my wrist tightened.

I looked at his face. He wasn't looking at me, his eyes were wandering, but they found my face and my eyes. He frowned. It wasn't a "I'm thinking" frown, or even a "I'm uneasy" frown. He looked scared and I pitied the man. It must have been a bad dream to make him seem so childish in his actions, I thought to myself as his lips quivered slightly when he opened his mouth. He closed it again quickly to stop them.

He tried again.

"You died."

Silence again.

Really, this man.

Sherlock.

He amazes me. How was I to know before this point that he even cared if I died? He never gave any hint at caring about me for more than a laugh every so often, someone to help him with the rent, and someone to bounce ideas off of without expecting answers, for the most part.

"We were on a case, we were chasing some odd man with a horrid tan and a Mohawk. In my dream, he was Moriarty. I doubt he actually looks like that, but this was a dream, you see. He turned at shot at us, but we moved out of the way. Then he tripped and you lunged towards him."

Silence. He placed a hand over my heart, tired sorrow etched into his expression. His voice was a tight whisper when he continued.

"And he shot you straight through the heart."

I tried my best to have the softest, most reassuring expression I could muster up.

"I'm right here, Sherlock," I whispered. His face crumpled, to my great surprise. I pulled him in quickly and he buried his face in my shirt. I could tell he was exhausted. He began sobbing quietly into my shirt, the sobs shaking his whole body. One hand was twisted in my shirt, while the other was still on my wrist; both holding on as if I could vanish at any second.

"You died," he whispered and sobbed out into my shirt.

"I'm right here, I'm alive, I'm fine, Sherlock, we're fine," I reassured him. I was holding him carefully, my hand running up and down his back in what I hoped was a soothing manner. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You can't promise that, John," Sherlock shoved his forehead against my chest and sniffed. God, he just sounded so utterly exhausted. I half wondered if he would even remember it the next day.

"I can for now. I'm a stubborn bastard, Sherlock. And, anyway, I wouldn't be careless enough to let someone shoot me through the heart from the close up."

More silence. Sherlock was calming down, but still shaking a bit. I rubbed his back again and his hands loosened their grips.

"You died…" he murmured.

"I'm right here, Sherlock."

He was silent for a bit again as I continued rubbing his back carefully.

"You… left me…" I took a little bit to reply, not able to contain the small smile from the odd joy that simple thing gave me.

"I'm right here. I'm staying right here, Sherlock," I paused for a moment to yawn. "I'll never go."

"Never," he whispered into my shirt.

He drifted off to sleep, hand still lightly wrapped around my wrist.