John's world was naught but dust and harsh sun and pain. He wrapped a tourniquet around the base of a blown-off limb and stepped back to let the other medics rush the unconscious soldier into the back of a truck.
"Captain Holmes!" John turned as someone else shouted his name, already grabbing his kit and running. "Holmes! Doc!"
John threw himself into the dirt, skidding to a rest on his knees next to another bleeding body. He didn't look at the soldier's face, didn't take him in as a person, only another injury. He took in the gaping gut wound, ordering the pair of hands hovering in the edge of his vision to put pressure on it as he yanked supplies out of his kit.
The soldier's pale hand caught his wrist as he went to apply the first bandage, the long fingers wrapping around and leaving bright smears of blood.
"John…"
John looked up into Sherlock's face, grey with blood loss. Those pale, eerie eyes fixed on John's, staring into his soul.
"Sherlock," John gasped.
Sherlock raised his free hand to John's face, cradling it. "John…" Sherlock's eyes slipped closed slowly and his hand fell away.
"Sherlock?" John was holding Sherlock's wrist now, gripping it tight enough to bruise. "Sherlock! SHERLOCK!"
A bullet ripped through John's shoulder and the world shattered as he screamed.
John cut his scream off abruptly, jerking awake. He wasn't in Afghanistan anymore, he was in the bedroom of a central London flat, living with his husband. Sherlock was safe, alive, he had never been in Afghanistan, never worn fatigues or had his stomach ripped open by shrapnel.
It was always the hardest to believe while his heart was still racing, blood pounding in his ears.
The desperate adrenaline high gave way to helpless tears, as it so often did, and John buried his face in his knees.
"John?"
John rolled his head to the side to see Sherlock standing in the doorway with a glass in his hand, draped in a dressing gown and dressed for bed. He was rumpled and sleep-mussed, but alive, gloriously alive.
"I…brought you some water." He offered up the glass.
John scrubbed the tears off his face with his hands and reached for it, downing the cool water gratefully. "Sorry," he grunted. "New place. Sometimes it happens."
"Nightmares are a natural and expected psychological response to fear, stress, and traumatic events," Sherlock rattled off, but he sounded unsure of himself. "They're also common to sufferers of PTSD. Any or all of these factors could be the cause of yours-"
"Sherlock." John raised a hand, cutting the younger man off. "I know. I've had a few bad dreams in my time." He set the glass on his bedside table.
Sherlock wrung his hands, his gaze skipping around the room before landing on John again. "I don't know what to do now," he admitted quietly. "I could play? You like Brahms, it's light and simple, major keys-"
"Stay," John whispered.
"What?" Sherlock faltered.
"Stay with me. That's what you can do." John scooted over in his bed, making room, and flipped the covers back. "My dream…I need to know you're alright."
Sherlock's mouth fell open with a surprised "Oh," and he sat on the edge of the mattress. "You dreamed about me."
"There were other things, too," John pointed out, "but yeah, you were there."
Sherlock tossed his dressing gown over the chair in the corner and slid under the covers next to John. He lay on his back, carefully on his side and not touching John. John chuckled faintly at his nervous expression, knowing his husband wasn't opposed to touching him. He certainly hadn't been at the hospital, only unsure of how John would take it.
John rolled on his side, laying an arm across Sherlock's chest to feel the steady beat of his heart under his hand. Sherlock slid his own arm around John, threading his fingers lightly through John's short hair.
"I'm here, John," he soothed. "It's all right. Sleep."
John hummed and slowly relaxed, gentle sleep pulling at the edges of his mind.
-0-
Sherlock woke slowly, warmer than he could ever remember being in his own bed. A smaller body was tucked into his side, one arm thrown across his chest and warm puffs of breath hitting his skin where a head was tucked into the crook of his neck. His own arm was holding the body tightly against him, his fingers curled in short hair.
John.
He must not have had any more nightmares. He would have woken Sherlock up if he had. They were in the center of the bed, both of them having migrated toward each other in the night. Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow, studying John's sleeping face. He was relaxed, lighter looking, so unlike when he was awake and the stress of the sudden changes in his life carved deep lines in his face and weighed his shoulders down.
"Most people would say staring at a sleeping person is creepy, you know," John muttered, blinking his eyes open. Sherlock had been so entranced by studying him that he hadn't noticed John wake up.
"Would you?"
"No," John gave him a sleepy smile, "but I'm not most people." He stretched out his legs next to Sherlock's, moving to sit up.
"Don't get up yet," Sherlock pleaded. He laid his free arm across John's waist, pulling him back toward him. "I like this," he admitted. "I didn't think I would. I don't like people touching me usually."
"I like it too," John assured him, "but I'd like it a lot more if I didn't have to piss. Can you let me up? I'm about to burst."
Sherlock let go of him, flopping on his back with a huff. "Don't be ridiculous, John. The human bladder can hold up to 600 millilitres of liquid without unreasonable discomfort. You would be in pain long before the elastic material of the bladder actually burst."
"Good to know!" John called over his shoulder, already thumping down the stair with his cane.
Sherlock felt a bloom of warmth in his chest. His husband was home, living with him. He'd woken up in bed with his husband, happier and more comfortable than he'd been in a long time. He could wake up like that every morning for the rest of his life, he was allowed to, no one could take that away from him. Not even Mycroft, because Mycroft was the one who had given it to him.
Sherlock let what was surely a very silly smile spread across his face.
Retrieving his dressing gown from where he'd tossed it the night before, Sherlock followed John downstairs. He found John in the kitchen, trying to clear space with one hand.
"Do you always take over every flat surface?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged, rescuing a rack of test tubes from being pushed off the counter with an unnoticed elbow. He gathered up the glassware that was no longer needed, depositing it in the sink to be washed at some point. Maybe he'd get around to it, but more likely Mrs Hudson would become overwhelmed with the mess and do it for him.
"My experiments," he said, by way of an explanation.
John shook his head fondly. "Anything in the fridge?" He opened it and promptly shut it. "Ah," he said, opening the refrigerator again. "Not unless I'm in the mood for feet."
Sherlock flushed, embarrassed. "It's another- "
"Experiment," John finished for him. "I think I'll just get dressed and see what that place next door has."
-0-
Their first full day together passed quietly. Sherlock did something with the feet in the fridge that might have alarmed a lesser man. John unpacked his few boxes in the room upstairs, though he privately wondered how long he would actually be using it. Sherlock had seemed to enjoying staying with him and waking up together, as did John. Sleeping in the same bed could be moving too fast for them, or it could be long overdue, considering they had been married for three years, but if it felt right to them, who was to say it was wrong?
They called for Chinese takeaway that evening, shoving a messy stack of Sherlock's papers off the coffee table to eat. Sherlock regaled him with tales of Donovan and Anderson, and John poked fun at them all. They settled in with a cup of tea each after dinner, John taking possession of the red armchair that seemed to have been placed there for him. Sherlock read the paper, grumbling over the article about the 'serial suicides' and complaining about police incompetence and how they were clearly murders, he just didn't know how yet.
Their calm evening was broken by footsteps thundering up the stairs.
"Sherlock!"
John turned toward the door, mug paused halfway to his mouth.
"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock greeted, one leg folded over his knee, mug resting on his ankle. "What's different about this one?"
DI Greg Lestrade, as John remembered, stared at Sherlock for a second before he gathered his wits again. "You know how they never leave notes? Well, this one did."
John recognized the interest in the way Sherlock suddenly tensed. "Where?"
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?" Lestrade looked like John's idea of a typical overworked cop, his dark hair streaked with silver.
Sherlock pondered, but John could see the sparkle of excitement in his eyes. "Who's on forensics?"
"Anderson."
Sherlock's mouth screwed up in distaste. "Anderson won't work with me."
"Well he won't be your assistant!"
"I need an assistant!"
"Sherlock," John snapped. He didn't know if Sherlock really needed an assistant or not, but the DI was clearly exhausted and didn't need Sherlock playing with him. Sherlock shot him a look and John tapped the chain of his tags around his neck, indicating his own ability to serve as an assistant.
"Will you come?" Lestrade pleaded.
"Fine," Sherlock grumbled. "Not in a squad car, though, right behind."
Lestrade clomped back down the stairs, and the flat was silent for a moment. Then Sherlock leapt from his chair like a coiled spring, pumping his fists. "Brilliant! Four suicides and now a note, oh, it's Christmas!" he exclaimed, spinning around and kissing John on the forehead. He froze, but John just smiled happily and hauled himself out of his chair. Sherlock's childlike joy was infectious.
-0-
Other than an argument with Sergeant Sally Donovan and the revelation that Sherlock had spent two years submitting to being called Freak by the Met's finest, which John was not going to stand for, they got into the crime scene without any problems.
John was sure he had a ridiculously fond, dopey smile on his face as Sherlock rattled off deductions. His husband hardly paused for breath.
"Where has there been significant wind and rain in the last four hours? Cardiff." He flipped his mobile around for a second, giving them a glimpse of a weather map.
"Fantastic." It popped out of his mouth without conscious thought.
"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked.
"Sorry, I'll stop."
"No," Sherlock objected hastily. "It's…fine." He smiled shyly, and John suspected it was more than fine.
"Sherlock," Lestrade croaked. He was staring at Sherlock's hand, the one he had removed his glove from. "Is that…a ring?"
"Yes," Sherlock answered dismissively. "Where's the case?"
"Why are you wearing a ring, Sherlock?" Lestrade seemed to be stuck mentally.
"Because I'm married." The 'of course' hung unspoken in the air.
Lestrade gaped soundlessly for a moment, rather like a fish, until John took pity on him. "I don't think we've been officially introduced," he said, stripping off his latex gloves and offering a hand. "I'm Dr John Holmes."
Lestrade's gaze flicked down to his other hand, looking for his ring. "Ah," he croaked. "Er, how long?"
"Three years."
"So you were married when you started with us," Lestrade realised, turning back to Sherlock. "You never said!"
"It wasn't important." Sherlock waved his concern away. "Now, her case."
"But you just let them make fun of you!" Lestrade cried.
"It doesn't matter!" Sherlock shouted. "Why does everyone care so much? It isn't important right now, not like the woman lying dead between us."
Lestrade snapped out of the mental loop he'd been stuck on. "Yes, right. There wasn't a case."
That fact sent Sherlock into paroxysms of happiness. He ran out the door shouting about mistakes and Rachel and how much he loved serial killers and pink, leaving John alone with Lestrade, who was staring at him like some sort of alien.
"Right, well," John shuffled uncomfortably, tapping his cane against the ground. "I'd best go catch him."
Sherlock, however, had vanished. Donovan watched him pityingly as he came out.
"He's gone," she called. "Run off. Left you behind, did he?"
"Sherlock? No," John lied. He didn't like Donovan. No sense in giving her any more ammunition to use against his husband. "No, I'm meeting him at home. I can't keep up with him, what with my leg and all."
Donovan looked at him like she was assessing a threat. "You aren't nobody," she decided. "He doesn't just bring people along. So who are you?"
"His better half," he quipped. He didn't like her, not from the second she opened her mouth, and he felt like rubbing it in. "Three years now." He flashed his ring. "John, or Dr Holmes if you ask Sherlock."
Donovan sneered at him. "Where've you been, then?" she demanded. "Under the bed?"
"Afghanistan, actually," he replied coldly. "RAMC."
"Oh god." She pressed a hand over her mouth. "I am so sorry."
"Nice to know," he snapped, stepping closer to her. "Just so you know, Sherlock is my whole life. If I hear anyone call him 'Freak' again, the consequences will dire. For all of you." Not allowing her the chance to reply, he strode past her with as much pride and authority as he could muster with a cane.