For Context: this is what I originally had drafted as a conclusion for the story "What's in a Name?" I scrapped this because leaving that story in a place where it has a bit of an unsatisfactory ending just seemed right for the subject matter.

"Sherlock!"

Holmes reacted to his friend's cry immediately, rushing to get to Watson's side, but it was dark out, and the rain was pouring in sheets. He couldn't see properly, just had to grope blindly in the dark towards where he'd heard Watson call from.

His heart was pounding, his mind was racing, and he suddenly found it was hard to focus on the arrests. He and Watson were out here to help Lestrade and his team make several important arrests, but even though there was a potential for danger, Watson was not supposed to be in its way. He was simply supposed to guard the bridge in case one of them tried to escape, but that wasn't supposed to happen.

"Watson!" he screamed. "Watson, where are you? Watson? John!"

"Here!" he heard. "Holmes!"

The sound was coming from somewhere below him, he realized. Had Watson fallen off the bridge? No, else he wouldn't be hearing him. Holmes swallowed his panic and searched along the railing, and that was where he found Watson. His friend was clinging to the railing for dear life, his body dangling over the edge and his feet scrambling for purchase that wasn't there.

"Holmes, please!"

"I'm here!" he cried, grasping Watson's arms and yanking hard. "I'm here, I'm here," he repeated as he pulled Watson back to the safety of the bridge. They collapsed onto the slick wood of the bridge, both panting heavily.

"Holmes!" Watson gasped. "He fell in the river!"

"There's nothing we can do," Holmes replied, "not from here. I'll tell Lestrade. Come on." He struggled to his feet and pulled Watson up, too, throwing one of his friend's arms over his shoulder and leading him through the darkness and rain to one of the police carriages. "Stay here," he said, "I'll be right back." Watson, soaked to the bone and exhausted, did so as Holmes found Lestrade.

"One got away," Lestrade growled.

"I know. He assaulted doctor Watson and fell in the river. I doubt he's still alive."

"Is the doctor alright?"

"I think so, but I am going to take us home before he starts insisting that he is so, and tries to start making sure everyone else is, too."

Lestrade nodded. "I understand. Give him our regards; I'll stop by sometime tomorrow to update you and get his statement."

Holmes nodded back and went back to Watson who had, predictably, shaken off his exhaustion and was looking at a cut a constable had suffered on his hand. Holmes, however, was able to convince him to go home before he could attempt to check on all the others, too.

It was well past midnight when they finally stumbled back into Baker Street, and Watson went straight to bed. Holmes was still agitated, his mind replaying the events of the night trying to figure out how one of them got away and how he could have stopped it. He changed into his warm, dry nightgown and robe and stoked the living room fire high so it was comfortable, but he wasn't planning on sleeping yet.

It was only about two hours later when he heard Watson shifting restlessly upstairs. He had been expecting that, and slowly padded upstairs. After Watson had fallen ill the first time, Holmes had surreptitiously studied him. He'd wanted to know what to do next time, wanted to know how to help, but didn't want to insult Watson by asking outright and thus insinuating Watson couldn't take care of himself.

So, he'd studied when and how Watson was most likely to fall ill; what might trigger his nightmares; how he slept; and whatever else he could. He put as much effort into it as he had into a case, and so had become an expert in John Watson. The events of the night had upset him, Holmes knew, and even though he'd shaken it off around others, his unconscious mind still remembered. Holmes had been expecting him not to sleep well.

He let himself into Watson's room as was his custom on nights like this. He hitched his hip on the edge of the bed and laid his hand on his friend's forehead.

"Go back to sleep, John," he yawned. "It's nothing, everything's fine. The only thing you need to do is go back to sleep."

He frowned, noticing Watson had wrapped his shoulder. Had he hurt it just by dangling from the bridge? Watson gasped and Holmes steadied him, his hand landing on his friends' arm.

"Back to sleep, John," he murmured. Here, in the darkness, was the only place he spoke Watson's christian name.

"Sherlock?" Watson whispered, his voice hoarse.

Holmes froze. That had always worked; Watson had never woken before. What had he done wrong?

"Holmes? What is wrong? Have I woken you?"

"No, Watson. I… sorry, I'll go. I just thought you were having a nightmare."

"Holmes?" Watson called softly as Holmes quickly stood and turned to go.

"We don't have to talk about it," Holmes whispered.

"No," Watson agreed. "Not here."

"Watson?"

"I can't sleep anyway, Holmes, but I'm exhausted. Help me downstairs?"

Holmes, of course, did so, and as he did guilt shot through him. He realized that in his panic that night, he'd grasped and pulled the wrong arm. He'd accidentally yanked his friend's wounded arm. It was he who hurt Watson's shoulder, and it was his fault Watson was in so much pain.

"Sorry," Holmes murmured. "I didn't realize I'd hurt you."

"You saved me, Holmes. Don't be sorry."

"Still. I didn't realize, and I'm sorry."

Holmes made sure his friend was settled in his chair before taking his own. He pulled his legs up close to himself, wrapping his arms around them and resting his head on his knees. He gazed at Watson, hoping his friend would know what to do next because he certainly didn't and he was worried he'd mess everything up and hurt his friendship. Thankfully, Watson did.

"Did I call your name?" Watson asked.

"Yes."

"And you called me John."

"Yes."

"But you don't like being called Sherlock. That's what I've always thought, and that's why I don't do it."

Holmes shrugged one shoulder. "I don't mind, Watson," he admitted, "but sometimes you call for me in your nightmares. That is why it startled me when you said it outside of one. And since you did not like it being called John, I don't use it often, just when I am trying to help you sleep. I don't like when you have nightmares."

"Neither do I," Watson whispered. He wondered briefly what to say in response and nearly told the truth before thinking better of it.

"The last time I was called John it was while my brother was screaming at me in one of his drunken rages," Watson lied. "That is why it startled me when you did. I'm sorry.""Maybe," Holmes proposed, "Holmes and Watson are good enough for us?"

"Yes," Watson agreed. "Holmes and Watson are good enough."

And for them, it was.