His nightmares never did quite go away, even after he started solving cases with Sherlock. He was grateful for the nights of reprieve, when his sleep was peaceful and deep. These nights came more often than before, but there were times John still woke in a cold-sweat, breathing deeply and clutching the sheets. Moments after, he'd hear Sherlock puttering about downstairs, the violin being tuned, and then a piece he didn't recognize played until he drifted off into dreamless sleep. Nothing was ever said the next morning on the violin playing or John's nightmares, but he did appreciate what his friend was trying to do.

Molly noticed whenever he came in with Sherlock and looked especially tired. These were the days she'd hand him a cup of coffee and smile encouragingly at him.

"Is it difficult?" She asked him one day. He looked over the rim of the styrofoam cup at her wide, unassuming eyes. "Being back in London, I mean. I- sorry, I don't mean to pry, but… Sherlock says sometimes you don't sleep. I wondered if it was because of dreams, bad dreams, I mean." John swallowed a sip of coffee, scalding his tongue and he tried to shrug off her inquiry.

"It's a kind of PTSD, yeah," he said. "Lots of soldiers home go through it. It's just getting back into to civilian life is all. My therapist says it's normal."

"Well, um, look," Molly fidgeted her hands. "I know we don't know each other that well but…" God this woman couldn't stop shifting her hands, or tucking that stray bit of hair behind her ear. "But if you ever need to talk to someone, someone who doesn't know your whole story, that's…well I'm available." She tried to smile at him then. "You don't have to tell me what your dreams were about…or…I mean…well I've been to therapists, and sometimes the ones your insurance covers aren't the right fit for you, it can be like talking to a brick wall." John cracked a smile then, a little glow in his heart at the fact that someone else understood. He was sure his therapist was a good one, but not for him. But therapy was mandatory for ex-soldiers, so he went. "Anyway, that's my number, day or night, Sherlock will tell you," she nodded to the consulting detective who was fiddling with a microscope. "My light's always on for friends."

He thanked her for her offer, knowing she meant well. It was hard enough talking to a therapist, why on earth would he go and talk to Molly Hooper, a woman he barely even knew?

"You should talk to Molly," Sherlock said one morning following a night of John's more terrible episodes.

"Why?" John asked.

"She offered, she doesn't usually unless she cares," the consulting detective shrugged. "Your therapist is obviously not the right match for you, and until she deems you fit to go without your sessions, you'll simply continue to flounder."

"And I suppose Molly's just the person I need, hm?" John asked, his tone biting.

"Molly's clever, when it comes to that sort of thing," Sherlock replied.

"You mean because she's a woman."

"No, I mean because she's perceptive." John watched, surprised as Sherlock turned away then, busying himself with his current experiment.

The rest of the week he tossed and turned, and every morning, Sherlock said nothing, only looked pointedly at the sticky-note on the fridge with Molly's number on it.

Six nights of bad dreams, each more disturbing than the last. He lay in bed, regulating his breathing, feeling hot tears stream down his face. He couldn't do this anymore; it was foolish to endure this night after night. Anyway it couldn't possibly hurt, talking. He got to his feet, throwing on his clothes; he slipped downstairs and peeled the sticky note off the fridge.

Hello, this is John Watson. Are you up? – JohnW

It was a few minutes before her reply, and he worried the entire time that he'd woken her up, or that she wasn't home or that perhaps she was regretting her offer. He was about to tell her never mind when his phone lit up.

Yes I'm up, just got home from my night shift, sorry, I don't text while I'm walking home. What's up? MH

His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, typing out a message and then deleting it over and over again. As if sensing his difficulty, mid-keystroke, she sent him another message.

Want to come over? I've got too much left-over dim sum, and I nicked a bag of candy from Sherlock's stash. MH

He felt himself heave a small sigh of relief, and a smile formed before he could stop it.

Sounds brilliant. I'll be over in a mo. Address? –JohnW

Molly lived near St. Barts, in a rather nice building. John was impressed, and he attributed it to the fact that Sherlock once told him Molly had saved his life. Mycroft undoubtedly had a hand in rewarding the pathologist. He finger-combed his hair in the elevator, seeing his reflection in the doors.

"Cripes," he muttered, zipping his coat up. He'd left without changing from his sleep-shirt. At least he'd thought to put on trousers before he ran out the door.

She must have heard the elevator because her door opened as he turned down the hallway.

"Come in, I was just making rice, I ate the last of it with my lunch this morning, but it's no trouble to make more," she ushered him in and he followed obediently, scuffing his shoes on her welcome mat.

"Never mind shoes, or take them off if you want, it doesn't' really matter," she said, heading back into the kitchen. Her flat was cozy and clean at first glance. He shrugged out of his jacket as a fat black and white Maine Coone came to sit in the doorway of the kitchen, blinking large yellow eyes at him. "Don't mind Toby," Molly said from the kitchen. "But do watch your plate around him, he's terribly bossy about food." John was a little perplexed at the peace and quiet that permeated the flat. No sound of traffic below, or noisy neighbors. Of course it was just past midnight, but still. London didn't shut down entirely. Shoes and coat set by the door, he followed after her into the kitchen. Here, it was somewhat less peaceful. Dishes sat in the sink waiting to be washed, mail, some opened, some still waiting to be sifted through, sat on the table. The fridge held a good many sticky notes, two old invitations, one card and one family picture. "Sorry it's a bit mad in here," she apologized. "I haven't had time to do the dishes yet." The timer went off and she took the rice from the stove. "We can eat in the living room, oh, tea?"

"Please," he murmured.

Plate and mug in hand, he followed her through to the living room. She plopped herself into a well-worn, overstuffed chair.

"Sofa's all yours," she said. "Put your feet up."

"So um…what now?" he asked. Molly swallowed a mouthful.

"Well, I'm hungry, so I'm going to eat."

"No, I mean," he looked at the empty space between them, at the plate of food on his lap.

"I said you could come over whenever you want," she said. "We can talk, or not talk. If you don't tell me what you want, or need, then I'm going to go on with my night. But you know you can stay all night if you want. Sleep on my couch, or watch tv, or, I don't know, talk to Toby if you'd rather," she shrugged. "Sometimes Sherlock comes over. He doesn't like talking much, but it helps him to have someone else around who can do the worrying. I'm here for tea service, feeding and talking at if need be."

"Oh." He tucked into his food after a moment, feeling a little better. No pressure to talk. He slept on her sofa that night, he woke up with the sun shining on his face, a blanket covering him, Toby sleeping curled up next to his chest.

"I felt him jump off the bed last night, you were having a nightmare," Molly said when he nudged the cat over. "He's good for that I guess," she smiled. "Better than me climbing in next to you!" it was meant as a joke, but John found himself blurting:

"Don't laugh, I might have welcomed it," before he could stop himself. She flushed pink, laughing.

He returned to 221b after, and that night, he slept peacefully. He sent her daffodils the next morning as a thank you. For three weeks his sleep was dreamless and deep. Then one day, he was on a case with Sherlock and saw a man get shot, innocent bystander. He stayed behind while Sherlock pursued the shooter with Greg Lestrade.

That night he saw blood, but instead of Afghanistan, he was home in London, the Eye was a warzone and the man who'd been shot was dead in his arms.

Are you up? - JohnW

For you, always. - MH

Be there in fifteen. – JohnW

Again, the door was open by the time he stepped off the elevator. She ushered him in and helped him out of his coat and shoes.

"You look done in," she murmured, setting him down on the couch. "Kettle's already on, saw the cab from the window."

"Saw a man get shot,"

He'd meant to thank her, rather than tell her what led to his ending up on her sofa again. She nodded slowly, concentrating on pouring water into his mug.

"Sherlock said you'd saved a man," she answered. He looked up, not expecting that to be her response. "Was that what your dream was about? The man?" he nodded, and she said no more. The invitation to talk or not went without saying, but again he chose silence.

Again he slept on the couch, and again he woke with Toby curled up next to his chest.

Feeling somehow indebted to her, he took her to breakfast before dropping her at St. Barts the next morning. He was surprised at how easy it was to talk to her, and he appreciated the genuine laughter that she coaxed from him. Her jokes were terrible; some were morbid, darker than one would think for a woman who owned so many embroidered sweaters. She asked him about his blog, and he opened up a little more, glad to discuss it. He enjoyed working cases with Sherlock.

"Pays better than the clinic in some cases," he said. "Sherlock's always fair,"

"I know he is," Molly said in all seriousness and it made him pause. "I'm not an idiot," she said, seeing him look. "I know you all think I'm stupid because I let him walk over me. There's more to him than bravado, you should know, John Watson."

"Yeah, and I call him on it when he's an idiot, so should you."

"I'm too busy to put up a proper fight for every single thing," she replied. "The things that count, I make sure he knows when he's wrong, and he accepts that. He takes me for who I am, and I do the same. If the people who know him best can't at least try and accept most of who he is, who will he trust?" John was quiet then, thoughtful. "I've seen him at his worst," she continued. "His very…darkest, filthiest, most wretched times and he trusted no one, except me. Maybe not entirely, but he let me boss him, let me clean him up, help him through his withdrawals."

"What about his brother?"

"He wouldn't let Mycroft near him, so I was the go-between. After Sherlock was cleaned up, I helped him find a flat, though he'll tell you he came across Baker Street all on his own," she smiled. "It just so happens that he knew Mrs. Hudson and she'd wanted to pay him back after he'd helped her years ago."

"So he didn't actually need my help to pay rent?" John asked, surprised. Molly hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

"It…it was more of a condition of him keeping the flat," she said. "A month before he met you, I found him down in East End, Mycroft had to be told. It was either find a roommate to help him stay clean, or Sherlock would be forced to return to rehab. I got him cleaned up, and stayed downstairs with Mrs. Hudson until you came along."

John was flabbergasted.

"And he just let you?" he gaped. Molly shrugged, embarrassed but clearly proud, as well she should have been.

"It must seem daft, and ridiculous, probably it's just that he'd prefer anyone to his brother, but I like to think he secretly respects me, though he won't let on." John leaned back in his chair, letting out a whistle. He raised his mug to her,

"'Molly Hooper, Sherlock wrangler extraordinaire'." Molly laughed again, blushing and John found warmth in her smile, pleased to see her so.

The months passed and his nights on her couch were frequent, though there was no set pattern, sometimes once a week, sometimes three. Sometimes they talked, other times they sprawled on the sofa and watched bad infomercials until he fell asleep.

Then the Moriarty cases started, and there was no time for sleeping. He spent his nights trailing a cold case with Sherlock, pouring all of his energy into the work at hand, and trying to solve riddles while victims wired with C4 struggled to remain calm. Time ran shorter and shorter, and Sherlock was even more irascible than usual, though no one could blame him.

That night in his bed his dreams were terrors, the face of Moriarty was around every corner. The halls of Barts ran with blood, explosions rattled the building and Molly was asking him over and over "Why? Why John?" He had no answer, he was shouting for another medic, trying to stop Sherlock from hemorrhaging.

He awoke to Sherlock holding him by the shoulders, speaking firmly to him. Shaking, he tried to brush off the Consulting Detective.

"Fine, m'fine," he sat up, wiping his face on his shirt. Sherlock watched him for a moment longer, disturbed that John Watson could not figure out what to do with his hands, and that his night shirt was damp with cold sweat, and that in his sleep he called his name and Molly's, and he begged apologies for not saving them sooner.

Can you come? - SH

What's wrong? – MH

Something's the matter with John. – SH

Violin isn't helping. –SH

OMW – MH

When Molly got to Baker Street, John was awake, angrily telling Sherlock to sod off.

"I don't need your bloody help, I don't need anyone!"

"John," her voice was quiet, yet so much strength in her tone it made both men turn. John had the decency to look ashamed, and Sherlock, surprisingly, mouthed his thanks. "Let him be for now," she said gently. He wasn't mad at Sherlock, not really. "Come to bed,"

"I'm not tired," he answered stoutly.

"I can get Sherlock to bed, don't think I can't get you."

"I was in the army," he tried. She put her hands on her hips, having divested herself of her coat and purse.

"Bed. Now." For the first time, John scowled at her.

In his room, she handed him a clean shirt.

"There, and here's a flannel for your face too," she said.

"I'm not tired," he said again.

"You are," she contradicted. "I'm not going anywhere, and you don't have to tell me anything, but there are circles under your eyes, and you're pale as a sheet. You need sleep, John. You've been up for almost a week now."

He was bone-weary, but the thought of seeing her in his dreams again, covered in blood and asking him for answers he couldn't give her frightened him.

"Will you tell me what you saw?" she asked quietly.

For the first time in a very long time, John Watson cried. Molly asked no questions, she made room for him on the bed and helped him lie down. When his tears dried, he told her about Afghanistan. He told her about his dreams and how solving cases had been a breakthrough for him. The difference in his dreams now was that he feared losing Sherlock, and the comfort he had found in Baker street. He feared most losing the peace he felt with her.

"You are so very strong, John Watson," Molly said when silence fell between them. He looked up at her, head against her breast. Carding her fingers through his hair, she smiled in the dark. "I've never felt safer with any man than you, and you should know that you are capable of moving beyond this. These nightmares, they can't hurt you, not really, and I'm honored you shared it with me."

"I never wanted to tell anyone before," he admitted. "No one could understand."

"No one could, unless they'd been through it themselves," she said. "John Watson you won't let this be the end of you, you haven't yet. You press on, no matter how badly these dreams rattle you, you muddle through the day as best you can, fixing people up at clinic and then solving cases with Sherlock. You…" she seemed to marvel at him, and John didn't know what shocked him more, that she was cradling him as a lover would or that she marveled at him. "I wish I was half as brave as you."

He could not bear the tears in her eyes. He murmured:

"You are brave." Closing the distance between them, he kissed her and drew her close.

"It's not fair," she sniffed after. "I'm supposed to be comforting you."

"You are," he said, pressing another kiss to her forehead. "Thank you, my dearest, wonderful friend."

"For what?" she asked, baffled.

"For many things," he said. "For making me feel needed again."

"That's Sherlock's doing, and you know it," she smiled.

"It is," he agreed. "And you." He soothed her arms, squeezing gently. "Will you stay?"

"As long as you need me."

"You'll be here for a very long time, I'm afraid."

In the dark she smiled.

"I'm glad."