A/N: I don't own my little Sherly or Jawn, unfortunately. But I do own my ideas!

Sherlock stretched his neck, closing his eyes and attempting to crack each joint in his spine, slowly and carefully. He reached out his arms, rotating his wrists, and locking his elbows. He lowered his arms again and slowly pointed his feet, rising up to his full height and beyond. Once his entire body was limber and stretched, he opened his eyes again and took up his riding crop.

WHAP. THWAP. SNAP. The detective gave a very rough beating to the corpse in front of him. He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath, running his hand tightly over the crop. Since the first time Molly let him abuse a corpse in the name of science, he'd been very good at coming up with excuses to hit them whenever he got frustrated – as Sherlock never got truly angry.

His eyes closed, Sherlock calmly thought of the situation that had led him to this point. That morning, he'd woken up from a very nice dream, in which there were several murders and he was being brilliant, again, and solving them one after the other. John was praising him at every turn and his ego was swelling bigger and bigger with each time the doctor looked at him. It really was a nice way to spend his sleeping hours.

But he'd been woken by a shout, one that started his pulse speeding and adrenaline coursing through his body. He recognized it as John's, and he bolted out of bed. His flatmate never shouted, never even really raised his voice unless he thought Sherlock was being an absolute arse. In a few quick strides, Sherlock bounded up the stairs and was standing outside of John's closed door. He heard a few whimpers, but no other noises, so he deduced that there were no intruders – but what on earth would cause the doctor to make such pathetic noises?

The detective opened the door quietly and slowly, his eyes adjusting to the pitch-black of John's room – Sherlock always had a small nightlight, so he'd see an intruder's shadow should he be attacked in the middle of the night. John was in a sweaty ball, wrapped up in the duvet, his hand reaching out for something above the bed, his eyes rolling wildly behind his lids. Sherlock didn't think – he just strode across the room, tearing off the duvet and pulling the sweating man into his arms. He stroked the head of blonde hair, his spidery fingers tender and gentle. His soft, low voice spoke soothing words into the doctor's ear, his lips moving lightly and quickly against the sensitive skin.

John slowly stopped his trembling and melted into his friend's arms, his head butting against Sherlock's chin as he nuzzled into the taller man's arms. Still totally unconscious, John muttered quiet gratitude for his detective's warmth and his lips pursed slightly, as though about to receive a kiss. Sherlock had blinked several times, his heart pounding in his chest and his pupils dilating even further in the dark room. His mind raced faster than it ever had before, and he swallowed, his hands clammy. He wiped the sweat off his palms and he used one long finger to tilt John's chin up, to a proper angle so the detective could see his face beautifully. Sherlock lowered his head slowly and softly, very softly, brushed his lips against the other man's.

And then it had happened. John had woken up, his eyes wide with surprise and he had pulled back quite forcibly from the other man's embrace. He'd stuttered incoherently, but Sherlock didn't need to understand what he'd been trying to say to be able to read his body language and his facial expression. Sherlock stood up swiftly from the bed and inclined his head, his voice half an octave lower than usual with embarrassment. "I apologize for presuming that you wished that sort of contact. I wanted to console you from your nightmare, but I understand that you were not looking for me to help you in that way. It will never happen again, and I will delete it from my memory. I hope that you can do the same. If you need me, I'll be in the morgue. Case."

The detective had walked quickly out of the blonde's room, closing the door quietly behind him, and had gone to his own room, dressing quickly and impeccably, then tearing down the stairs to the front door and making his way to the hospital. He'd texted Molly, telling her that it was imperative that she come to the hospital at once, and had requested a corpse to produce an experiment with. He pulled his riding crop out of his locker (he believed it had once been Molly's locker, but long ago she had told him that it was his, should he want it, and implied that everything that was hers was his, should he want it).

Sherlock took another deep, calming breath, and proceeded to continue to beat the non-bloody pulp out of the middle-aged man who had died of a heart attack and was set to be cremated that very day.

If you review, I'll give you a Pocket!Sherly or Pocket!Jawn. It's tempting, yes?