"You're so stupid, Sherlock. So slow," whispered John. He hovered over him, glaring. Sherlock heard people yelling in Serbian in the distance. "You've done us no good. I didn't miss you."

A gun was pointed at him. Mary held it, and pulled the trigger.

Moriarty appeared then, and Sherlock noticed that his childhood dog Redbeard lay still behind the consulting criminal. "You're so useless, so boring. Couldn't save them. Can't save yourself."

All at once, the sensation of falling overwhelmed him.

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled. His head pounded, and he reached for a gun that wasn't there. "Stop," he said once more, voice hoarse. Where am I? The gun, where is it?

"Sherlock?"

Giving a small start, Sherlock stared at John for a few moments before the tension melted from his body. Home. He was home, on the sofa. John had moved in a month ago, three months after Sherlock had been shot. Mary had lied about her past, pregnancy, and name. The marriage had been annulled, and John had moved back into the flat.

"I don't want you here. I'm going to leave to find someone else, someone better," hissed John's voice in his head.

"Sherlock. Look at me." John sat on the sofa, though he was careful not to touch him. "I'm right here. You're safe. We're at Baker Street."

Sherlock looked over at the other, moving a bit closer to John. "Sorry I-I just had a nightmare."

John frowned, gaze flickering over the other. "You sure?" He nodded. "You want to talk about it?"

He hadn't told John about the auditory hallucinations. What was there to say? They had started when he'd spent two and a half months tortured in a cell in Serbia, and they'd never disappeared. He'd seen a psychiatrist when he'd first gotten home, per Mycroft's request. Sherlock had lied about everything.

He was fine. No lasting issues. Everything was physical, no mental scars, and he was eager to continue his life as it had been, thank you, now wouldn't she go ask someone else questions?

"No. Just...not right now."

John gave a little sigh, but didn't press Sherlock. "If you're sure. It's just that it's the third time it's happened within the past week. I think you'd be better sleeping in your bed than on the sofa, really."

Sherlock stood, heading into the kitchen to make tea. His hands shook.

"Johnny boy is lying to you. Can't you see that?" Moriarty said.

"No," whispered Sherlock.

John was beside him, grabbing a mug for tea himself. "What?" he asked when Sherlock spoke.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

Sighing once more, John said, "I'm here whenever you want to talk to me. I'm sure you'll be your usual stubborn self and take a little while, but I'm here when you want to talk. I just want you to feel better. I know these things take a long time to go away, nightmares, or night terrors."

"Why the hell," spat John in his mind, "would I want to talk to you? I'm only saying that. I'm going to leave."

Sherlock finished drinking his tea and moved to the sofa again. Although it took a few hours, he fell asleep to the sound of the telly that John turned on at some point.

Early the next morning, John came into the living room. Sherlock wasn't there. "Sher-?" He cut himself off when he heard something from the restroom. John cringed when he heard Sherlock retching.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock shuffled out from the loo, eyes glassy and red. Without a word, John offered him a glass of water, and without a word, Sherlock took it. John parted his lips to speak, but instead gave the detective a pat on the shoulder while they each turned to make their breakfasts, thoughts lingering on one another.