From the very moment the gunshot sounded, Sherlock's mind was racing. Time slowed down to seconds, and then to milliseconds, and then slower than even that. The bullet was inching its way through the air, heading straight for John's heart.

And then he realized: he'd lived this moment before.

Lestrade was going to spring forward, shoving the doctor out of the way, saving his life. That was the way it was supposed to go.

Sherlock blinked, and then everything changed.

Blood was spreading over the front of John Watson's green-checked button-up shirt, his face draining of color as he hit the floor. Sherlock shouted his name, springing forward to cradle to body of his friend. A second gunshot sounded and the body of the first shooter hit the ground. Lestrade tucked his revolver away and hastily moved toward the two on the floor.

"John, don't leave me!" Sherlock ordered. "Come on, John! Open your eyes!"

"Sherlock," Lestrade laid his hand on the detective's shoulder. "Sherlock, he's gone."

"He's not!" Sherlock shouted. "He's not dead!"

"John is dead, Sherlock!"

"John is not dead!"

SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW~SH~JW

It had been a close call, for sure. He owed his life to Lestrade.

Shot at by a dangerous criminal and the only thing he had to show for it was a very (very) sore shoulder from Lestrade shoving him to the ground. Sherlock had been a moment behind, shooting the criminal and then running over, skidding to a half nearly two feet from himself. Lestrade had pulled him up, brushed off his shoulder and asking if he was okay.

Sherlock's face had been pale, his expression panicked, but returning to its stony norm. He'd opened his mouth, choked, and then shut it again. A moment later he gathered himself, shook his head slightly as though to clear it, and then uttered, "Alright, John?"

"Never better."

He'd ignored the flash of fear that had crossed Sherlock's face before he'd turned away and stormed out, coat flowing behind him. He'd turned to Lestrade, then, and rubbed his hands together nervously.

"Best go after him," Lestrade commented. "He'll not be doing well."

But Sherlock had run around for the remainder of the day, as psychotically dangerous as ever. He'd skipped dinner, which was relatively normal, in favor of pacing the sitting room, his mind apparently racing. Finally, at quarter-to-midnight, he'd retired to bed, leaving John to put out the lights before going to his own rest.

The reminder as he drifted off to sleep that he had almost been shot again made him aware of his aching shoulder once more, so when he woke nearly three hours later, he attributed it to the discomfort. Rolling over, John sat up and glanced around the room for his medical bag before remembering that it, along with the Tylenol he was after, was yet downstairs on the kitchen counter. He rose and left his room, descending the stairs and heading for the kitchen. Maybe he'd make himself a cup of tea before returning to his bed.

The water had just finished heating when the doctor became aware of a quiet murmuring coming from his flatmate's room. He'd come to the conclusion that Sherlock was either on the phone (at this ungodly hour), or talking to himself (just as likely), when he heard what sounded like his name.

Turning the teapot off, John moved noiselessly through the sitting room and into the hallway leading to the first bedroom. The consistent murmuring was in a rough tone, as though he'd both been going on for a long period of time and was touched with emotion. He knocked once on the door, not too loud, and called a quick, "Sherlock?" in a hushed tone. When he was not acknowledged, John took the liberty of opening the door himself.

The room was dark, as it should have been at three in the morning, but the crumpled mass of blankets on the bed shifted restlessly. The comforter was thrown over the curly head, and John's first action upon entering the room was to cross to the bed and turn it down. He flipped on the bedside lamp and examined to man before him critically.

Sherlock Holmes' face was twisted in something that resembled agony, his brow streaked with sweat. He was murmuring incessantly, the words tumbling over one another as though though they had not the patience to come in the correct order.

"He's not dead..."

John was sure he'd heard it. He was downright positive.

"John's not dead..."

John carefully used the palm of his hand to wipe Sherlock's forehead as he carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. He gently brushed the dark hair from his flatmate's forehead, his cool hand soothing, and then he spoke gently.

"No, Sherlock. I'm not."

"John..."

"I'm not dead, Sherlock."

The sleeping one fell silent, turning his face slightly toward his friend. A moment later, his eyes flickered open and met John's. He was breathing harshly, his face only slightly less terrified than it had been in sleep.

"John..." he whispered, and then he cracked, pushing himself into a sitting position and latching onto the doctor who compliantly wrapped his own arms around him. A tremor ran through Sherlock, shaking John to the core as the calm and collected detective broke into terrified sobs.

"Sherlock..." John started gently, "You were dreaming. It's understandable after today."

He gently moved his hand over Sherlock's shoulder, stroking it.

"It's alright..." he soothed. "I'm right here."

John knew firsthand how real nightmares could be, especially when they concerned the death of one the dreamer cared for. With that in mind, John was touched. His shoulder was soaked by tears and Sherlock was still trembling, clinging to him as though he would disappear at any given moment. John made a decision.

"Come on," he murmured warmly.

He stood up and, pushing Sherlock away slightly, moved onto the bed completely, shifting against the headboard. He opened his arm to Sherlock, inviting him in. Sherlock, who had appeared slightly ashamed when John had pushed him away, now settled down beside him, John's arm pulling his head to his beating heart. He felt Sherlock's fingers dancing over his wrist until they settled over his pulse, comforted by it.

"Are you okay?" John questioned quietly. Sherlock did not reply immediately. He shifted as close to John as he could get and tucked his head under the doctor's chin, listening to the calming noise of his beating heart.

"I'm sorry..." he uttered at last.

"Don't apologize, Sherlock Holmes," John responded promptly, a certain sternness coloring his voice. "You have absolutely nothing to apologize for."

"I woke you up."

"Not true. My shoulder woke me up."

Considering it now, John realized that his shoulder felt fine. Maybe it had been Sherlock that had woken him, after all. Even so, he wasn't admitting it just when Sherlock was too shaken to even deduce it out of him.

"Want to talk about your dream?" John suggested, concerned at the unnatural silence. "It... er... helps."

"Shut up, John."

There was no malice in the tone. It was merely a statement. John did not grace it with a reply. He tightened his arm slightly around his friend to show that he wasn't offended: it was simply the way of Sherlock Holmes.

"I was so..." Sherlock shuddered, "so worried. When that gun fired, and the bullet... I saw it inching across the room, heading straight for you... and I wasn't going to make it to you in time... and now... thank God for Lestrade..."

It was the most appreciative thing he'd ever heard Sherlock say about the Scotland Yard inspector and John made a mental note to mention it to the subject.

"Sherlock, I wouldn't want you to risk your life to save me, you know. Scotland Yard, your clients, Europe, the world... they all need you. What would they do without you? What would they do without their Sherlock Holmes? You're irreplaceable."

"What would I do without my John Watson?" Sherlock countered immediately. "He's irreplaceable."

John fell silent, emotion clawing at his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe. He moved his wrist from Sherlock's grip, wrapping the arm completely around him in a tight embrace. He knew how Sherlock felt; he, too, would risk anything and everything to protect the insane detective beside him.

"Right back at you," he murmured.

A ghost of a smile flickered over Sherlock's pale face and John felt him shift a little closer as he carefully smoothed the irrevocably curly hair. Finally, Sherlock pushed away and sat up, turning to face John who pushed himself away from the headboard.

"Thank you, John," he said sincerely.

"No problem, my friend."

"You should probably go back to your bed," Sherlock went on. "I'll be out in the kitchen with my experiments."

John shifted as if to leave the bed, and then he hesitated.

"Are you not going back to sleep because you're not tired, or because you'd rather not sleep? I'll stay, if it'll help. I really don't mind at all."

When Sherlock didn't reply, only stared at him in the wondering, calculating way John had become accustomed to, the doctor removed himself from the bed and made quick work of fixing the sheets. He settled the comforter over it last of all and then turned to his friend

"It's four in the morning, Sherlock," he informed him affectionately. "Please sleep for another few hours, at least."

With a final sigh, Sherlock laid back against the pillow and John covered him with the sheets.

"You're not leaving, are you?"

John shook his head slowly, realizing in his mind that the detective was still frightened from the dream. He slid onto the bed beside his friend on top of the sheets and pulled the comforter over both of them. The sheet was between them, but he was close enough to provide reassurance and comfort.

John reached over and flipped off the lamp before burrowing into the comforter a little more and closing his eyes. Neither of them moved for several minutes until Sherlock, presumably believing his friend to be asleep, reached over and took John's wrist once more. The doctor stayed still until the other's fingers settled over his pulse and he heard an exhale of air, then he opened his eyes and met Sherlock's.

"I'm okay, Sherlock," he murmured consolingly. The detective dropped his hand and pulled back, slightly appalled at having been caught. John shifted over slightly and opened his arm to Sherlock, who stared at it suspiciously, but before he could open his mouth, John did.

"Don't talk, Sherlock," he stated bluntly. "Don't put that mask up. I know you're worried about me. Believe me: I do. I know you have feelings, even if you hide them. I really do. I know you have to keep it up for your clients, and the criminals you chase, and in front of Anderson and Donovan and, for some sick reason, Lestrade. You don't have to keep it up for me. In fact... I'd rather you didn't. Now come here, like I know you want to."

Sherlock looked shocked for a minute, and then, carefully, he moved over, resting his head on John's shoulder. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock shoulders and breathed out, finally ready to go back to sleep. His shoulder hurt slightly from the weight of Sherlock's head on it, but now, John didn't mind. He wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else at that moment. Sherlock was his entire life, and he lived for their days together; their cases together.

Whenever John had witnessed the rare scenario of Sherlock sleeping in the past, he had never been this calm. He had been terse, restless, ready to wake up at a moment's notice. Sherlock Holmes's breathing had slowed, his face relaxed, and his grip on John's shirt slackened. He was content and felt safe, and John slept easier at night knowing it.

Sherlock was truly irreplaceable.