Hey everyone. Sorry it's been so long since I wrote anything. It might be a while till I get this story done and uploaded too cause it's a death fic with a couple of chapters. So I hope you enjoy. And I want to thank my best girl ThatKidWithTheLongCoat for being my beta for this. It was pretty rough for her. Well I hope everyone enjoys. And if you have any comments feel free to send some my way. I'd like to know what could have been better and whatnot. Thanks everybody. Enjoy!

Every day at 221b seemed the same. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had been living together for a full year, every day the flat sounded like an old married couple lived there. This day had been no different. Well, maybe a little. Today was the first anniversary of the two men living together in 221b. It also happened to be four days before John's birthday.

John woke up in his room the way he did every morning, screaming and panting hard in a cold sweat. He sighed heavily in frustration once he got himself to calm down. When was he going to stop having nightmares? Especially ones where he dreamt of the war and Sherlock was in it. Those were always the worst. He never wanted to even imagine his best friend getting killed. Couldn't begin to think of life without the other man.

The former soldier rubbed his face roughly before pulling off the sheets to get out of the small bed. He groggily hobbled down the stairs, yawning when he reached the bottom step. A pungent, sulfuric smell caused him to wrinkle his nose as he got closer and closer to the kitchen. Before reaching said kitchen a voice could be heard.

"Good morning John. Glad to see you slept well. Oh, and sorry," the figure hunched over an extensive experiment said.

John yawned once more and rubbed his eyes ", Sorry for what exactly, Sherlock," he asked quizzically.

Sherlock didn't speak at first, seeming to be transfixed on his work ", Well, due to the large scale of my current experiment and the placement of your favorite mu–," he was quickly cut short.

"Don't. Just don't, Sherlock. I've had a bad enough morning as it is. Just don't even finish what you were saying," John huffed as he reached into the cupboard for his second favorite mug.

The consulting detective decided against remarking a comment and sat silently for the majority of the morning remaining hunched over his experiment (more like mess) on the kitchen table. The doctor sat with his pajama bottoms on in his arm chair nearly silent as he drank his tea and read the paper from the day before.

Around noon the two began to speak again, John being the first to say anything.

"So two thing's Sherlock–"

"No I've not eaten yet, John. And yes I've already read about– well, glimpsed at the article about the missing man," the dark haired man said without looking up.

"Yes. Of course. Well, would you like me to make us something then," John asked casually.

Sherlock pondered ", If you find it necessary, go ahead. I have no quarrel with you cooking."

The blond haired man silently mumbled to himself ", Of course you don't have a quarrel. You don't have to cook it."

"What was that John?"

"Nothing. Um, what do you want?"

"Your grilled cheese is actually quite delicious. Make that, would you."

"A little demanding aren't we Sherlock," John turned around with a raised brow, leaning against the counter.

"No different than usual John. Oh, and make it Swiss," he glanced up quickly then went back to his experiment.

"Really," John asked irritated.

"What?"

"No 'please' or anything? I thought you might have some manners. Guess I thought wrong," the doctor said turning around to get a pan out.

It was nearly inaudible but a whispered 'please' and 'thank you' could be heard and John couldn't help but grin. Though he didn't say anything pretending not to hear the quite and seldom show of manners.

The two men sat at the coffee table in the lounge eating when Sherlock began to speak.

"What was it about," the detective asked nonchalant.

John went a little rigid as he took a bite of his sandwich. After swallowing ", What was what about?"

"Oh, John, don't act so daft. Your dream. What was it?"

John turned himself on the couch so he could better face his friend ", What do you think," he snapped back with sharp sarcasm.

Sherlock put his hands up defensively ", I was just trying to start a conversation," he said, tone calm, innocent.

"I bet you know full and well what I dreamt this morning. You and your deductions– God!"

The detective looked down at the floor with a blank face then looked up ", You're right, I do know. I know that since our last case two days ago your PTSD has gotten worse– you've been having horrible dreams again– and that I appear to be involved somehow." At John's questioning gaze, Sherlock shrugged. "I've heard you yell my name multiple times. I'm going to guess that it's because I nearly got shot, it's the most probable. Also most likely wouldn't help if you're still having dreams about your tour in Afghanistan. Of course there's the singular difference of flying shrapnel... Regardless, this morning's episode involved me; I heard you shout my name before you woke up and appeared in the doorway covered in a cold sweat. That and you also said this morning that you didn't want to talk about your mug because you had already had a 'bad morning'. So, yes. I do know the general happenings of your dream. I just thought it would be better for you to talk to me. You're always telling me to wait till you're ready, so I thought I'd try it. I presume I shouldn't in the future." He looked deep into John's eyes.

John glanced at Sherlock with hard eyes before standing up and walking towards the stairs to his room. He could feel blue-grey eyes watching him until they couldn't follow any further.

Sherlock winced when he heard the door slam and sighed. He wondered numbly why he ever opened his mouth. Of course, because he was Sherlock Holmes, and always had to be right. How could John even live with that? Did John even still want to live with him, or did he feel obligated at this point? It went without saying that the cold, heartless consulting detective had grown fond of his friend. What if his patience is running thin? Sherlock felt a dull pain in his diaphragm as another thought occurred to him. What if he left?

Sherlock closed his eyes. He felt absolutely wretched.

John leaned against the back of his door and let himself slide to the floor. He pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his face. He felt terrible for how he had acted. Sherlock was trying to be a normal friend, for once; he was trying to be nice, trying to help him out, not by deducing, but asking.

"I'm a horrible person," he groaned to himself. One of the only friends I have and I'm going to turn him against me one day, he thought bitterly to himself. It's just a matter of time. A tear slowly fought its way down his weather-beaten face.

When John came back down stairs fully dressed, eyes fell upon the body lying stretched out across the couch. Sherlock was sulking. Maybe even blaming himself, john wondered as he sat in his chair.

"So," John began, trying to break the ice ", About earlier..."

"Don't, John. Just drop it. I'm busy right now anyway," the detective said, his lips the only thing moving.

"But Sher-"

"I said I'm busy. Thank you."

"MindPalace?"

No answer. No answer always meant 'yes'.

John sighed ", I'm a horrible friend"

"No you're not."

"What? Wait, I thought you were in your MindPalace?"

"Not anymore. And you're not a 'horrible friend'. I am. I should have left you be like you obviously wanted me to," Sherlock said turning his head to face his friend.

"I shouldn't have lost my temper with you," John said pointedly.

"Well, due to the stress it's reasonable. Oh, and you're going to loose it again," John raised an eyebrow in question ", Lestrade called while you were in your room."

"And?"

"And, he has another case for us."

"Sherlock!" John practically shouted ", Why did you accept? I told him no more cases for at least a week. Please tell me you turned him down."

"Not exactly. I told him I was open to it and would have double check with you."

"But what about all those experiments you wanted to do?" John found himself nearly whining.

"They're so dull," Sherlock said with exasperation ", So, mundane. A case is thrilling and gets my blood running. That and you're always saying I should be more healthy. That's one way I stay healthy."

"That's not what I meant by 'health'," John sighed and dropped his head low before bringing it back up ", I guess I should have just flat out said ' don't find ways to get yourself killed'."

"Oh, come on John. This case isn't even that dangerous. It's just a simple kidnapping. The one that was in the paper this morning," the detective sounded like a begging child.

"No."

"But John-"

"No! I said no cases! Final!"

Sherlock huffed and brought himself into a ball with his dressing gown wrapped around him, then promptly faced the back of the couch.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration before remembering something ", Sherlock, I have to go to Tesco. Want to come?"

A grumbled answer of 'no' could be heard from the back of the couch.

"Do you want me to get you anything," the doctor tried again.

"You can get the case file from Lestrade while you're out," the other replied angrily.

"I already told you, no case," John said with frustration.

Sherlock made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and sprang from the couch. Without a word, he stormed to his room, slamming the door in anger.

"Fine!" John shouted, temper rising ", You know where I'll be if you need me!"

"I don't need you!" Sherlock shouted back from behind the closed door.

The harshness of the words pained John's heart for a moment, but quickly passed to fuel for his anger.

John stormed down the street to the store still fuming.

The bloody git. He knows I can't bear to think of him getting hurt. Especially something that can cause the death of him. He's so reckless, but I can't help but love him. Wait. John stopped in his tracks for a brief moment, frowning heavily. No. What am I thinking? I don't love him ... I care for him. That's it. I care for him. Yeah... he thought to himself awkwardly.

What did I even come to get? Do we need some milk maybe? Might as well get some just in case.

Sherlock lay on his bed staring at the ceiling after he shouted at John. How could he have said something so horrible? I need him more than he knows. I couldn't live without him. How could I be so terrible? I'm bound to drive him away eventually... he thought. A tightness formed in his chest. I doubt I could live without him. A four letter word briefly crossed his mind, but he shook it away, grasped for another. Care, yes. I care for him. I need him.

The detective went on and on with himself until he heard the front door down stairs "John?" he called out curiously. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying in his room talking with himself. He opened his bedroom door, relief filling his whole being. Surprisingly, he couldn't wait to apologize. Instead, he was met with an unexpected surprise.

Well hope you've all enjoyed this first chapter so far. It's been quite fun to write it. I hope to have the next chapter up soon for everyone. But as some of you know I have dail-up presently, which makes putting stories up a little difficult for me. And thank you again ThatKidWithTheLongCoat. It wouldn't be as good of a fic without your help.