Nightmare

Okay, so ordinarily I would never do this (post twice in the same evening) but...

1. I wrote loads today (I'm talking 6 chapters for fanfic and 3 for original and had a breakthrough on One Step (nothing written yet but ideas have occured!)

2. I have employment. I know, astonishing!

3. My Nan just poked her head around the door and told me to "Smash it out the park, baby", did a dance, then closed the door and totled off. This from a woman who bakes cakes for everyone, knits baby blankets and is in her seventies and spent a great deal of her life trying to appease my snobish great grandparents who disapproved of her because she was from North London, Welsh and 'common'. I love her!

So screw it, I'm happy and I'm posting!

Thank you to NicolettelliW for betaing this chapter.

It had been a long case, bordering on nine days, which really was quite shocking to Sherlock; he'd been sure he would have had it all worked out in six.

It had been a delicious surprise, a twist.

There were so few thieves that allowed for a twist.

As was quickly now becoming habit, Sherlock fired off a text to his parents when the thief was finally arrested, instructing them that they could drop John off at Baker Street and into Mrs Hudson's tender care. Tomorrow was Saturday, so he'd ensured that the paper work (God only knew why he had to do it, surely his talents had better use than signing things) was all completed. He'd barely seen John and the idea of a weekend together sounded…necessary.

Perhaps they could have a look at the mauled arm Molly had been keeping on ice for them.

At ten past one in the morning, he collapsed into bed to sleep properly for the first time in days.

An hour later he woke again.

It was hard to tell exactly what it was that had woken him up. That was until he heard the floorboards squeak, followed by a relieved sigh

John.

"Why are you awake?" he asked without bothering to open his eyes.

"I…" his son sounded as if he'd been awake for a while. "Nothing."

That didn't follow. Logical assumption would be that John had been waiting for a different question and had answered that rather than the one that left Sherlock's lips.

One of two then: 'What are you doing?' and 'What's wrong?'

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to his son who was standing in the doorway, his back to the light.

"John?"

"It's nothing," his son protested again.

Ah, the latter question then.

Sherlock reached out and switched his light on.

His son had flushed cheeks from embarrassment but also from thrashing – his pyjamas were mussed and the sleeve slightly damp. And he smelt of sweat.

A nightmare?

Did eleven year olds have nightmares?

"Stupid," John muttered, looking mortified as he lurked at the boundary of the door.

"What was the nightmare about?"

For a moment, John appeared torn; his legs flexing as if he wanted to dash away upstairs. But, as if accepting that Sherlock knew the humiliating aspect of it, John slumped in resignation.

And hunched his arm ever so slightly.

Sherlock sat up properly, suddenly very aware. "Your arm…something happened?"

John shook his head. "No, we had a…" he pulled an unimpressed face. "We had PSHE today."

Was he meant to know what that was?

"Personal, Social, Health Education," John added helpfully. "They try and tell you not to drink or have sex or how to not piss off your neighbour."

Ah. How dull. Why bother?

"And this disturbed you?" Sherlock asked a little baffled.

They were not that much alike, surely?

"Alison Roberts's dad was taken away because he gave her a few wallops after he'd had a pint," John scuffed his bare foot at the carpet. "We had a woman come in about abuse."

Ah.

"I assumed it stirred some…memories?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

John shrugged, not looking at him. "It was a shite video," he said quietly. "Complete bollocks. It never happens like that."

It didn't happen to you like that, Sherlock wanted to correct.

It should never have happened at all. Any of it.

"Come here," he said softly, reaching out a hand to John. Slowly, and with an odd, haunted look in his eyes, John stepped closer.

Once his son was close enough, Sherlock pulled him onto the bed gently and onto his lap, then enfolded the bed covers around his son so that he had a bundle of wrapped up eleven year old snug in his lap.

"Stupid," John muttered again into his lap.

"Mm," Sherlock said, resting his chin on the boy's head. "What did you dream about?"

A shrug.

Okay. Work backwards then. "Why was the video so useless?"

Silence.

"He looked sad, the boy I mean," John said suddenly, as the quiet lay between them. "And the man looked angry and…" John looked down. "They cut away from it."

Sherlock wrapped an arm tighter around his son, trying to think of something to say, something that would rub the memory away and ensure it never bothered his son again.

"He laughed," John said suddenly, sounding almost puzzled.

"On the screen?"

John nodded slowly.

There. That had been it. The similarity that had followed John into his sleep.

He'd laughed. The man who had broken his son's arm had laughed about it.

They'd never really talked about it when Sherlock had first taken John in. Back then Sherlock hadn't quite done it properly and John seemed to have no urge to talk about it all.

Mistake number sixty three now.

"You said he didn't mean to do it, that he caught your arm wrong on the wall."

John nodded. "He still laughed though," he muttered, snuggling even closer to Sherlock. "It hurt," he added so quietly that Sherlock strained to hear him. "He didn't even mean to do it and it hurt."

For some reason the confusion in his son's voice was harder to deal with; as if John could have understood a deliberate injury. Stroking at John's hair, Sherlock stared at the wall in front of him.

"What was your dream about?" he asked again.

"Just…just what happened," John shrugged. "He was behind me and I couldn't see him and he shoved me at the wall and told me…" he trailed off again. "And then…I tried to get away. I can sometimes," John added, as if that would help matters. "But…he laughed because I couldn't and because…"

He turned his face into Sherlock again and dampness bled through Sherlock's t-shirt.

If he'd taken him in sooner, if he'd grabbed at the boy the moment he'd seen him when Anna had been arrested, John wouldn't have these nightmares. Wouldn't know what it was like to be at someone's mercy.

He slid them down and turned, spooning around his son to keep him from the world, not caring that John was bundled up in all the bed sheets leaving none spare for Sherlock.

"He can't hurt you," Sherlock whispered fiercely. "No-one can hurt you."

"I don't want to dream about him," John said suddenly, sounding like Sherlock.

"Then you won't," Sherlock said simply, pressing a kiss to the boy's hair. "I promise."

John turned to look at him, as if studying how likely it was that Sherlock was telling the truth. Huge, trusting eyes scanned him, even as they fluttered sleepily.

"Sorry I woke you up," John said, yawning.

"I wake you up often enough. We're allowed to wake each other up at stupid hours of the night," Sherlock dismissed.

A half smile crossed John's face. "Yeah?"

Sherlock nodded.

John wriggled, rearranging himself until his head was on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's arm was around the boy's thin shoulders.

"Were you ever hit?" John asked suddenly.

Surprised by the sudden question, Sherlock blinked at him. "Have you met me?" he asked blankly.

John flashed a grin, but it vanished in less than a heartbeat. "Like… like Mycroft?"

Ah.

"No," Sherlock said softly. "Not like Mycroft. I was hit. Once."

"Did you dream about it?"

No. Not about that. Sherlock shook his head and John slumped a little. "This is the first nightmare you've had here?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded, peering up at him.

"You are remarkably well adjusted, John," Sherlock sighed. "Most children would be in floods of tears by now."

"I cried a bit," John squirmed. "Not much though."

He didn't know whether to laugh or wince at the words. "That's acceptable," Sherlock said eventually.

"And they were pretty manly tears," John added. "I didn't sob or sniffle at all."

Sherlock nodded. "Go to sleep," he said, adjusting John on his chest a little. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't do any manly snoring."

John giggled a little. "I don't snore," he protested.

"Then Mrs Hudson is excessively loud."

After the awkward, fearful looks earlier, John sniggering was a welcome sound and Sherlock relaxed a little.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Can I really wake you up whenever I want?"

"As long as you understand it means I can do the same."

John nodded. "You wake me up for cool things. I just…I cried on you," he said, pulling a face at the idea.

"Give it a few years. I'm sure you'll have just as many cool things to wake me up for. And by that time I might be sobbing over the fact that Anderson is still being paid for being useless."

He was aware John was studying him hard, but kept his eyes closed. "Deal," John decided, sounding pleased.

"Excellent."

I need you to look again for John's attacker. SH

We looked Sherlock. We exhausted everything. There's nothing to go on. MH

He laughed. When he broke John's arm, he laughed. SH

I'll look again. MH