EDIT: I couldn't stand the way I wrote this chapter, and I apologize for how awful it is. I just looked back over it ad HAD to rewrite it. Some of it is still the same, but I've added quite a lot, about a thousand words worth. I recommend rereading, though you don't have too.

Anyway, thank you to everyone who has enjoyed this story enough to write a review and followed it! It means a lot to me, to have you guys like this. Now go off and read my beautiful followers! And enjoy!

Warnings: Ummmm, none. Just nightmares, comfort, and sneaky, scheming Irene. :)

There was the scent of gunpowder, so thick in the air that John coughed dry and wretched as he tried to see past the dense fog of the battlefield.

No, none of it is real.

The blood bath was sloshed on the wet ground, painted the sands dark crimson, he stumbled over the thicket of bodies strewn amongst the carnage.

Stop it. Stop this.

And every rotted corpse had his face, Sherlock's face, had eyes like quicksilver, melting in the raven mop of blood drenched curls that fell over the gaunt face, wisped over his bruise highlighted cheeks.

Wake up; don't scream, no, no no-

And then came his heaving bitter sobs, as if they were bubbling and boiling up from a black pit carved in him, Sherlock sized, too deep to stitch, too gaping, too rotted, that nobody would touch it, would look at him, would come close in fear of catching it. The blackness. The sadness.

John bolted up in bed at the whistle of a scream that lit the air, cold and terrified as it echoed alongside the slow, cautious rumble of thunder. But as he tried to level the harsh race of his lungs, John slowly swallowed and felt that his throat wasn't ragged as it usually was when his wistful mind finally let him loose from the horrifying night terrors. With a few more settling breaths, the sweat cooling on him as he drew his knees up and rested his forehead, head ducked and eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the blackened silence around him.

But then John's ears picked up the rusted squeak of door hinges down the hall way, as another bought of thunder shook the glass in the window panes. But between the squeaky floor boards and the lull of a passing storm, John heard another sound, almost too quite, almost as if he was feeling it more than listening.

Someone was crying.

Not a second longer and John saw the door sluggishly crack open, a bunch of kinky, red curls peeking up through two tiny fists that were rubbing sleep from Oliver's eyes, followed by Toni, who was carrying George gently tucked against her in an impossibly small, quiver mess.

"John?" She whispered to the darkness of the room, the dim light from the hall not quite bright enough to show his hands fisted frightened in the sheets, the sweat beaded on his bow, or the exhausted, war carved lines of his face. "John, are you up?"

He gathered enough voice to brokenly reply after a beat, "Ya, ya, I'm here." But the dream was still fresh and tugging at him, the racket of the storm outside unnerving as John tried hard to quell the inklings of panic flaring in his chest. 'Its all fine.' John closed his heavy eyes and tried to ply his shaking fingers from their firm grip. He followed their jagged shadows cautiously as they crept closer, and he suppressed a flinch as the bed sank with Toni's weight on the edge, the comforter being tugged away from him a bit as Oliver clamored unceremoniously up next. John then added, a little dumbly, "Is everything ok?"

Oliver seemed to have no qualms in waking him, climbing right up next to him and rolling in the covers as Tori apologized in pained, worried whispers. "George was having a nightmare; I think the storm scared him." She confessed, petting at the young boy's mess of hair, trying to soothe him as he kept shaking. "He wanted you even after I said you'd be sleeping, I didn't want to wake you though, I'm sorry-"

But before Toni could continue her heartfelt apology, John had opened his arms in welcoming as George crawled quickly into the safety. "There, there Georgie, just a bit of noise and light, nothing to be afraid of." John whispered low and shaky, the words a balm to say aloud with a tinge of fear, and the accepting trust refreshing as George took fistfuls of John's soft night shirt and cried even harder. John held him tight against his chest and cradled the back of his head as the tiny boy let out a new wave of tears, soaking his shoulder, and John couldn't help but think of how his own tears had been just as cold the night Sherlock had jumped into oblivion. But he had no shoulder to hide into, no warm body to keep his secrets safe in. So with a deep breath, John shifted and held the boy closer still, closing his eyes and really embracing him, like he meant it, like this was the one medicine to heal a wounded soul.

Tori looked on in both wistful sympathy and motherly concern, almost guilty as she kept wringing her hands and licking nervously at her lips. As John exhaled slowly and stoked a hand through Georgie's curls, he caught her wavering gaze, his voice soft as he spoke to her. "Tori its fine, I don't mind." His thoughts nipped at him, jagged tendrils of his nightmares slicing numbly at the back of his head, the ghosts of his past haunting him cold and black as he tried to stamp them out. "I wasn't really sleeping; it's not a trouble at all." He knew she probably couldn't see his tired half smile in the dark, but she seemed to hear its honesty as she sighed and shifted more comfortably onto the bed, eyes never leaving her brothers.

Socked footsteps came padding down the hallway after a few soft minutes, Thomas' voice asking quietly as he yawned. "Is everything ok? I heard a scream and was torn between invading privacy and wars between personal demons or possibly fighting a burglar if he had somehow snuck in." Thomas rolled his shoulders, his eyes were alert and ringed in sleeplessness, tousled hair swept out of his face as he stepped forward.

"Georgie was scared is all," Darcy answered as she rounded the corner and stepped quietly into the room, a glass of ice water in her hands. She set it on the bedside table closet to John and gave a tired smile as she patted George comfortingly on the back.

Thomas stretched his arms up, popping his fingers distractedly. "Ya, the thunder woke me too." John could tell that was a lie, the teen looked like he had been up all night but he nodded along understandably, not quite wanting to confess to the fact that the strong, capable, Captain John Watson that fought crime ad killed cabbies was really a broken shadow of a Sociopathic genius, suffering from hallowed dreams of a war he quit missing when he found out that the enemy wore Westwood.

"But we should all be getting back to bed," Toni interrupted, standing as she tried to shepherd the others from the room. "John must be exhausted and just wants to be left alone-" But before she could manage another word, John shook his head, almost panicked at the thought of being left at the mercy of his demons.

"No, no, it's fine. Come on in. Please, the company is enjoyable. I don't mind at all, really." And with that thought in the air, Darcy crawled up into the bed and stretched beneath the comforter, smiling as she thanked him and commented lightly that she missed being able to have sleep overs. With a bit of hesitation Thomas looked about the room before finally sliding in next to Darcy, shuffling his body as she rolled into him and kicked playfully at him. Toni maneuvered between Darcy and Oliver; her feet tangled with Darcy's as she rolled her shoulders and finally found a comfortable place, a pair of cold toes curling at the back of her calves as she giggled and rolled over. All the movement finally died down as they found a comfortable position slotted next to each other, the picture of a white picket fence family if they had all been ripped out of their original quilts and sewed into one big one.

Georgie had tuckered himself out with crying after a few more moments, his soft, baby like snores tiredly even against John's bad shoulder, as he heard a tender sigh from Toni, as if she was thinking really hard on what to say.

"Thank you." She whispered warmly, and though John couldn't quite make out the expression on her young face, he could tell that her eye brows were drawn down in a deep sincerity. There was a breath of a pause, because the weight of those two words was phenomenally great on his chest then, making it hard to swallow as he softly tried to meet her eyes in answer. "It's just that...well, Sam is having trouble with a few things so a bunch of us had to find somewhere else to go. And then here you are, being so generous and kind to complete strangers-" Toni's vice was honeyed with a tearful gratitude that John believed he didn't deserve, because he had come home from the war older, bitter, and crestfallen. He had been changed into a better man by Sherlock Holmes. He should be the one to thank for ironing the kinks out of John Watson. "-and the twins just think the world of you." She continued, not noticing John's mental absence as she finally brought her hand up and covered his on George's back. "We were all so alone and we owe you so much." Toni's words felt like the ax that bust the flood gate then as John took a shaky breath. But she seemed to fall asleep with that last, mumbled thought because she didn't question John's tears as he held George and let his head fall back on the headboard of the bed.

There was a calm then, with the three teenagers a bunch of arms and legs on one side, with John propped up on a pillow with one twin resting curled on his chest in deep slumber, the other snuggled into the strong warmth of his shoulder, snoring slightly. Their mixed breathing was beautifully domestic, quite, and perfectly righteous as John felt sleep start to heavily bear down on him, Toni's words echoing like bells. And whether they belonged to a funeral march or wedding, Jon wasn't sure.

Everyone was here, safe and sound. He could close his eyes and know that the flat wouldn't be empty when he woke.

He was surrounded by people, by little pieces of Sherlock.

Was this home?

-VV-

Sherlock woke with the scent of perfume cloudy on his senses, drawing an exasperated groan from his chapped lips as he rose on his elbows.

"Leave now."

An indigent sigh of disapproval caught his ear as the silk night gown pressed close to him, a dainty foot rubbing softly at his leg. "Oh come now Sherlock, you haven't even heard what I have to say." Irene cooed to him, her face radiant and makeup-less as she smiled.

But the detective seemed not to care as he rolled away from her, giving a well-practiced cold shoulder as he heaved a sigh and tried to muster strength to get out of bed. 'Mycroft must have put a rather impressive dose of a tranquilizer in my late night coffee.' He mused as the fog in his mind stagnantly sifted in the windows of his Mind Palace. He closed his eyes and tried to sweep the thick air out, with no avail. 'Damn him, I need to find John.'

"Don't worry sweetheart, John is in safe hands. That's why I came to see you actually." Her velvety tone gave Sherlock a shiver as he whipped back around and pinned her with a heated look. "Oh, so now you'll listen." Irene huffed, "It's always about him with you."

"You said you found John?" Came his wooden reply, eyes wildly focused on her as she sat up and stretched lazily, raising her arms so that the sleeves of her nightgown rode up on her deliciously curved shoulders, hair darkly loose and spilling behind her in soft waves. But Sherlock could tell this was more a display of sexual prowess, 'She's donning battle armor...' he observed, following closely as Irene leaned forward, eyes bright as she suddenly felt more powerful with his sights set on her, with his curiosity sparked by her. 'Oh. If I have unanswered questions, and she has answers, The Woman believes herself immune. Clever, stupid girl.' He narrowed his eyes in interest as she spoke.

"Yes. I got a call yesterday from one of your little," Her nose scrunched up in slight disgust, "rats. The Sam one. He said that they found him enjoying dinner at Angelo's with Sebastian Moran." Irene was inspecting her nails now as if to find a chip or crack in the paint stringing Sherlock on with each slow spoken word. "Are you jealous?" She asked a bit scandalized as she saw his eyes darken, his lips pulled back a bit as he heard that his John had literally sat down and had dinner with the enemy.

"And where is he now?" A clipped tone as Sherlock gathered himself and tried to sit up.

"Baker Street of course. Playing house with your group of misfits. What did you call them?" Irene tilted her head back and laughed harshly, derisively. Her shoulders shook as she tried to stem the mirth in her joking, fingers curling against her smile as she cut her eyes questioningly at him.

Sherlock turned from her heated gaze, tongue wetting his lips as he spoke. "They're my irregulars. My network." And for the shadow of a second his voice was fragile with adoration and pride. But it quickly disappeared as he ran his fingers through the mess of his unkempt curls, eyes unclouded as he quipped. "Now get out, I have things to do." Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal and eyed the door to drive his point home. But The Woman made no move to leave as she drew up a timed eye brow, sweeping a gaze of questioning toward him. With a heavy, understanding sigh he faced her, mouth drawn in a clearly angry line. "You want payment for finding him. How dull, he wasn't even missing technically. Just a bit misplaced." Sherlock smirked, almost affectionately at the thought.

"Yes, well, I could have kept this little tidbit from you. And just let you go storming Moran's flat, all anger and jealousy, so blinded with your emotions that you forget that this more than another little game and kill him for information he doesn't have." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the implication that he'd have ruined the entire plan of Moriarty's capture by murdering Moran in a fit of rage. But a small, cleverly quite part of his conscious sinfully rolled the idea around and grinned at the idea of punishing Moran for the little dinner date with his John.

'Stop it.' he scolded his inner psychopath. 'We'll be having none of that. Focus.'

"Pray tell," Sherlock spoke as he cast a light look over his shoulder, head bent a bit shyly, all an act of course. "What do I owe you for finding him?" He appeared tamed, drowsy, still amicable with the drug slumping his shoulders, grey eyes swimming in haze, his usual sharp edges smoothed and lovingly rounded as Irene approached him softly on her tip toes.

"Oh nothing much." She smiled sweetly, a manicured hand tracing the wire of his shoulder, cupping his cheek with a tender, lover's warmth. He turned his gaze to her, unfaltering as he read lust and ambition in her posture, could almost taste her request as she circled him slowly and pressed her warm body flush to his. Irene felt soft beneath her gown, all curves and sweetness as she drew up against him, lips ghosting his. "Please." Came her pleaded reply, before her fingers felt tears on his cheeks as he pulled gently away from her.

Sherlock's hands had grabbed her wrists and turned his face from her, eyes closed against her liquid adoration. "Don't ask of me anything I couldn't give John." He whispered low and burdened, suddenly aware that Irene was playing in Jim's game, making the rules as she flitted between both parties in favor for what suited her that particular day.

What if she was playing Jim and him both? What was she getting out of any of this? What if somehow James Moriarty had given her a better offer and she took his side? She was as dangerous as Jim was at this point, her information and uncanny aloofness making her a formidable pawn.

But could Sherlock gamble this one thing?

Could he give it to her, in exchange for John's complete safety?

He felt his breath hitch irrevocably soft as she sighed against him and caught her hand in his hair, her eyes drawn to the subtle was his dam's apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed, drowning in thoughts, someone in his mind palace turning on the fire alarms in retaliation.

Sherlock was suddenly so terrified, cresting on the wave of heart break, embarrassment, and ignorance. He couldn't ride this monsoon, couldn't fake himself through this act as he felt something in his brain shrivel and receded back into the cool shadows, as if his Mind Palace was drawing the curtains against a bright sun, locking doors and sweeping dust under the rugs to hide everything in him.

But the only thing Irene answered with was the emotionless, unrelenting question, not a single drop of guilt as she pressed their foreheads together, almost as if to read what was going on behind his fair and fading façade. "Please?"

Ooooh. Our dearest Sherlock is caught with a choice. Give this one thing(And what is it?) to Irene for collateral and a get out of jail free card, maybe even win her on the good side for good or...or what really? Have this woman possibly causing John harm, giving into Jim's plan, lying about everything. Can she be trusted? Will Sherlock make this sacrifice?

More to come next time my lovelies!

Your thankful writer,

Castion and Clockwork

P.S. I would love feedback on what you guys want to see and what you want to happen! This story is built around my readers, so speak up! Also I want to make sure you guys like this. If I'm doing something wrong, tell me and Ill fix it. What's the use if I write and no one likes it? I write for ya'll, so take your power and wield it! :D