The irritating ring of a mobile phone woke John from his slumber. He glanced around for it, momentarily puzzled as to why he was sleeping in his armchair in the living room, before remembering how Sherlock had walked out and John had intended to wait up for him but he fell asleep before he returned.

The phone continued to ring and, rubbing his eyes, John answered it.

"Hello?"

"John? Lestrade. I thought I would give you another update. Despite his denial, Sherlock is interested in this case. I know him better than I think he appreciates."

"Well even if he isn't, I'd still like to be kept in the loop." With this encouragement, Lestrade went into detective mode. John could almost hear the turning of the detective's notebook as he listed all the new information they had discovered.

"We had a doctor look at Joseph. The bruising the neighbour discovered ranged from a few days to a few weeks old. We suspect the father was abusing the boy." John tightened his fingers into fists around the mobile, he did not understand how a man could mistreat his own son. "So we looked into the mother's suicide, and the officer on that case also suspected abuse."

"Good god," was all John could manage. Lestrade said nothing, for he had seen this type of thing so many times before, but the tone with which he spoke hinted at the disapproval and sadness of it all.

"Sherlock was right about the angle with which the weapon was struck. The pathologist said it was like the killer was kneeling at the time." John frowned, but could think of no explanation to this puzzle.

"It that all?"

"For now."

"Well, please, keep me informed."

"Of course." John heard Lestrade sigh. "Nobody deserves to be murdered, particularly like this, but I can't help but think that whoever did this probably did the world a favour, especially for Joseph. Anyway, I'd better get on with catching this killer. Bye John."

"Bye."

John was staring at his mobile phone when Sherlock emerged from the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea. John noted he hadn't made one for him.

"What did you get up to last night?" John asked, trying to sound like he didn't care, but the fact that Sherlock had no doubt returned to find him asleep in the living room waiting for him kind of ruined that for him.

"I went for a walk."

John knew that tone, he didn't want to talk about it. Well John didn't care, he was worried sick.

"In your pyjamas?"

"Everyone on the streets at that time are either drunk or high, they wouldn't have noticed what I was wearing, even if I had a flashing sign hovering over my head."

"Do you feel like talking about those nightmares?"

"I don't have nightmares."

John sighed. He wasn't going to talk, no matter how much he pushed.

"That was Lestrade on the phone," he said at last, "giving an update on the case."

"Well?"

John grinned inwardly. If that didn't prove he was interested in this case then nothing did.

John repeated everything Lestrade had told him over the phone. By the time he was finished, Sherlock was looking incredibly perplexed.

"I didn't expect him to get his far." John waggled his finger.

"You don't give him enough credit. He was a Scotland Yard detective before you came along you know." But John could tell he wasn't listening. "Sherlock. Sherlock!" Sherlock snapped his head round, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. "If you know anything that could help the case then you need to swallow your pride and call Lestrade."

"It's not my pride, and anyway," he said angrily, "I don't know anything." With dramatic grace, Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, shutting his eyes and placing his fingertips together and tucking them under his chin. Rolling his eyes, John picked up the newspaper and began to read of the latest gobbledygook Boris Johnson had come out with.

As John put down the paper, he was still annoyed that Sherlock had done nothing in the past hour. But as he focused on his flatmate, he heard the slow steady breathing and saw how the prayer pose had loosened to hands resting on his chest. John smiled, he relished these few moments where he could do what he liked without fear of being mocked.

He felt a grumble coming from his stomach. Food would not be a bad place to start. As quietly as possible, John toasted some bread and cooked some baked beans, eating them at the table contently enough.

"Father no!"

John frowned and looked round into the living room.

"Please, it was an accident!"

Sympathy filled him when he recognised the way Sherlock twisted and turned in his sleep, groping the air and pushing at the cushions beside him.

"No father, please, no!"

John shot up, certain the dreams were getting worse. Sherlock sounded truly terrified. John shook him to try and wake him. Sherlock's eyes blinked open, but they were glazed over and panicky. He reached out behind him, grabbing a statuette on the side table, and swung it at John.

"No, you can't hurt me anymore, you're dead!" He sounded so childlike, so innocent, so full of fear.

"Shh, Sherlock, it's me." Sherlock took a second swing and John caught his wrists so that he could not do it again. "Sherlock!" he said much more firmly this time. It hurt a nerve and for the first time Sherlock looked at him with some recognition.

"John…" he whispered, his arms going limp and relief flooding his expression. John released him from his hold and took the statuette from his grasp.

"What the HELL is going on Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped up, throwing his arms in the air.

"Nothing! As you said, it was just a nightmare."

"It's more than that thought, isn't it? This is the third time in two days, and you almost killed me with that thing." John gestured to the statuette. "This has got something to do with the case, hasn't it? That's when it all started." That hit a nerve. Sherlock turned burgundy with anger; John was half expecting to see the steam coming out of his ears. But Sherlock did not shout back, instead he responded very calmly and carefully, ensuring every word sunk in.

"When you had your nightmares about the war, I didn't ask once what they were about. I let you have your space so that you could work through them on your own, because that was what you needed. I am asking you to have the same respect for me now."

That took John by surprise. It was true he had some terrible nightmares after the war, and Sherlock had not mentioned them. He just assumed Sherlock either didn't hear him crying in the night or he didn't care.

He didn't know what to say, so instead he gave a quick nod and retreated to his bedroom. Sherlock was right, this wasn't any of his business, if Sherlock wanted help he would come to him.

I just hate seeing him like this, said a small voice in his head.