A/N: The chapters keep getting longer and longer, but there's just so much stuff to write about! The struggle is getting real with these two... I really hope you guys like this chapter! I worked my butt off to get this one up, haha. Let me hear your thoughts in the comments! Hope everyone's still safe and healthy!

Chapter 16: Demons

When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It's where my demons hide
It's where my demons hide

Don't get too close
It's dark inside
It's where my demons hide
It's where my demons hide

Demons – Imagine Dragons

John's night was a constant battle between sleep and being awake. For the first couple of hours, he had laid down in bed, staring at the ceiling and hoping Sherlock would come to bed soon. John had been incredibly wound up because of the text message he got earlier that night. He knew that he would have to face it sooner or later and that he had to text back in the morning, but he could guess what it was about though.
Once he had accepted there was nothing he could do about the text in the middle of the night, his mind went in overdrive with worrying about Sherlock. John knew he was starting to lose the little control he had. Small cracks were beginning to appear in Sherlock's façade, and it would be a matter of time before the detective had to give into it. He was fighting a battle with himself, and he would lose either way. And the worst part was that there was nothing John could do to help. The only thing he could do was to be there for him and to support him in any way he needed, which didn't feel enough at all.

Around one, John suddenly woke up from a restless slumber. His first instinct was to reach for Sherlock, but his hand didn't find the comforting warmth he was searching for. He opened his eyes, pushed himself up and stared at the empty pillow next to him. John ran his hands across his face. He knew Sherlock was probably still downstairs going through the files, or that he was in his mind palace reminiscing about the case. He also knew he had to try to get him to sleep, and that wasn't an argument he wanted to have in the middle of the night.

With a sigh, John sat up and let his feet touch the cold floor. Now that he was awake properly, he couldn't shake the angry feeling that was starting to creep up. He knew Sherlock always took his body for granted, but he had hoped that after being in the hospital for almost three weeks, he would be a little more cautious. The man knew better than to eat two bites and stay up all night, especially if he was demanding so much from his weakened body. But being back at Bakerstreet apparently also brought back old habits.

John reached towards the nightstand to turn on the light and stood up from the side of the bed. He listened, but he couldn't hear Sherlock downstairs. Softly, he walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

The faint light of the fire they had made that evening lit the room, but besides that, it was completely dark. John expected Sherlock to sit in the middle of the piles with files, but he was surprised to find Sherlock laying on the sofa, his back towards the room. He walked a bit closer to see if Sherlock was awake, maybe somewhere deep inside his mind palace. But when John bent over him to see his face, he was even more surprised. Sherlock seemed to be asleep, quite soundly actually. A wave of relief ran through John's body, and his anger subsided. He was glad to see Sherlock wasn't fighting against it, at least not tonight.

For a second, John thought about waking Sherlock up so he could get some more sleep in a proper bed, but he decided against it. He reached for the blanket that lay over the armrest and pulled it over Sherlock's sleeping form. John's hand stayed on the man's shoulder for a moment, and he had to fight the urge to run his hand through the thick, dark curls.

When he realised he was lingering a bit too long, John took a step back and looked across the room. It was a mess. There were files across the floor, half-drunk cups of tea on nearly every surface and empty cardboard takeaway boxes had taken over the coffee table. He knew he wasn't going to get back to sleep now, so he started to clean a bit of the mess.

As quietly as he could, John began to pick up the cardboard boxes and threw them in the trash. After that, he took some of the cups that lay around. Sherlock suddenly stirred, and John stopped in his tracks, afraid to have woken Sherlock. But Sherlock just jostled around, still sound asleep.

John walked to the kitchen with the empty cups, placed them in the sink and decided he would clean the rest tomorrow. He put the kettle on, waited for the water to boil and poured himself a cup of chamomile tea hoping to catch his sleep again.

With his cup of tea in his hand, John sat down in his chair and stared into the fire. For minutes, he just sat there, occasionally sipping his tea. For the first time in what looked like ages, his mind felt pleasantly blank and peaceful.

Suddenly, the quiet was disrupted by a soft moan. It took John a moment to register what he had heard. But when he heard it again, he was alert instantly. He knew those soft whimpers like nobody else. Those weren't moans out of pleasure, but out of discomfort, fear and pain.

He put down his cup quickly, looked at the sofa and although he only could see Sherlock's back, John immediately knew what was going on. Sherlock was having a nightmare.

He was moving uncontrollably, every muscle in his body tensed, the grasp on his blanket so hard his knuckles where white. When John stood up, he could see the tiny drops of sweat on Sherlock's forehead. He was mumbling unintelligible; his face scrunched up in a hard grimace.

"Sherlock?"

When he got no response, John walked over to the sofa. "Sherlock, wake up," he tried again.

Sherlock didn't wake up. Instead, he started moaning louder, clearly in distress. His movements became more violent; his eyes squeezed shut tightly. He began to mumble again, and this time, John could make out some words. "No, please…" Sherlock whimpered, and John felt his heart tighten in his chest. "Not him… Me… Not…"

Tears were starting to form on Sherlock's cheeks, and John couldn't take it any longer. "Okay, Sherlock, listen to me. It's time for you to wake up. Now!"

He reached out to grab Sherlock's shoulder without thinking, which was a mistake. The detective suddenly started to thrash around with his arms, and his arm with the cast on it hit the left side of John's cheek hard before he could dodge it.

"Shit!"

Sherlock woke up abruptly and sat up with a jolt. He looked around in fear, eyes searching for something he could recognise. His first thought was John. He needed to know John was okay. He was shaking, his breath was ragged, and he could feel the strains of tears on his cheek. But that didn't matter. He needed to find John.

John ignored the pain he felt on his cheekbone and kneeled next to the sofa. He leaned forward so Sherlock could see his face, hoping to get his attention. "It's okay, you're okay," he spoke, desperately trying to keep his voice steady while he hid his painful grimace. "You were having a nightmare. Whatever you were dreaming, it's not real."

With that, Sherlock finally registered John properly. He let his eyes roam over his face, as a rush of relief overtook him. John was here, alive and well.

Suddenly, Sherlock realised what was going on. Nothing was real; he just had had a nightmare… It felt incredibly real, though. He screwed his eyes shut tightly and reached for his cheek with a trembling hand to wipe the tears away. He was gulping for air, fighting to keep the memories of his nightmare at bay, to not slip back into the horrible flashbacks that had disturbed him.

John gave Sherlock a moment to regain his composure a bit. It broke his heart to see Sherlock like this. He knew what it was like to wake up from nightmares, being someone who had fought a fair amount himself. But to see someone like this, so utterly frightened and scared was hard. He swallowed hard before he started to whisper. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate and gave a small nod. He needed to feel John needed to make sure nothing had happened to him. There was a soft rustling on the floor, and Sherlock heard John shift closer. He wanted to place his hand on Sherlock's knee, but Sherlock didn't give him a chance. He let himself fall forward against John's shoulder, into his strong arms which wrapped around him immediately.

They sat like that for minutes. John was whispering comforting things into Sherlock's ear, one hand stroking his back, the other placed in the nape of his neck. Sherlock listened to every word. They kept him from falling back into the darkness. He started to calm down a bit.

He was safe. John was safe.

After a second, Sherlock backed away a bit, a new wave of uncertainty overcame him. His eyes roamed over John's face again, searching for something. He still needed reassurance. Sherlock looked into John's eyes questioningly, and John understood.

"I'm fine. It was just a dream."

And with that, Sherlock let himself fall into John's embrace again, not letting him go for the rest of the night.

The next morning, Sherlock sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when he heard John coming down the stairs. "Good morning, John," he greeted, not looking up from the article he was reading.

John groaned. "Coffee. I need coffee," he yawned, walked towards the cupboard and took a large mug from it. Sherlock could tell he didn't have much sleep by the way he moved around the kitchen.

He suddenly felt a little guilty, realising he was the reason John hadn't slept well. When they finally got upstairs last night, it was nearly three o'clock in the morning. They went to bed in silence, but John had known precisely what Sherlock needed. He had taken the detective in his arms and had pressed him close against his chest, not caring about the fact they had pretended their sleeping arrangement was a secret to the other. Sherlock was gone immediately, but that was only because he knew John would watch over him, which he apperantly had done at the expense of his own sleep.

John sat down with a steaming mug of coffee. He took a sip and sighed, clearly enjoying the moment. He gazed over at Sherlock. The man looked terrible. His skin was even paler than usual, dark circles underneath his eyes clearly visible. He also seemed more skinny than he was when he got out of the hospital, which worried John.

"Were you able to catch any more sleep?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A bit."

"Good, that's good."

John knew it wouldn't do any good to question Sherlock's state right now. Besides, he was still too sleepy to argue with the detective. He finished his coffee in silence, and Sherlock picked up on his article. They just sat there at the kitchen table, enjoying each other's company.

After a couple of minutes, John stood from his chair to get a refill and make some breakfast. Sherlock quickly reached for his cup and held it out to John to grab it, still not looking up from his newspaper.

John snorted in response but took the cup anyway. "You could get your own coffee, you know?" he said while he turned his back to fill the two cups.

"Why would I get my own coffee if I know you are going to take a refill anyway?"

John held out the cup in front of Sherlock and couldn't hide a smile. "Git."

Not missing the fondness in John's voice, Sherlock looked up from his newspaper for the first time. He opened his mouth to reply, but his eye caught the bruise on John's cheek. He raised his eyebrow questioningly, but John just sat back in his chair. Sherlock waited for an explanation, but nothing came. "John," he finally said to get the doctors' attention.

"Hmm?"

"What happened?"

John gave Sherlock a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock gestured at John's face. "That," he replied impatiently.

John didn't reply immediately. He just stared at Sherlock and blinked. "You don't remember?" he asked eventually.

Now it was Sherlock's time to look puzzled. He noticed the deliberate tone in John's voice and the slight shift in his posture, but he couldn't place it.

John sighed. "You were thrashing around right before you woke up last night," he explained, carefully choosing his words. "You threw in a pretty good punch; I think my yell was what woke you."

It felt like a punch in the gut. Though Sherlock didn't want to believe he was capable of hitting John, he knew it was true. He could recall the moment he woke up from his nightmare. He didn't know what had woken him exactly, but he knew there had been a shout that wasn't his own. It made sense.

"Sherlock? Everything all right?" John asked when he saw the shift in Sherlock's face, but Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. He had hit John. Maybe not on purpose, but his subconscious had seen him as a threat, and his instinct had been to fight him off. He had hurt John while he had tried to help him.

John watched him with concern and knew he had to do something to prevent that Sherlock would blame himself for hitting him. He reached across the table to grab Sherlock's hand, in hope to get his attention.

"Hey, it's okay," he said softly and waited for Sherlock to look at him. "It doesn't hurt that bad. Plus, I should've known better than to touch you," he continued and gave Sherlock's hand a soft, reassuring squeeze. "Rookie mistake."

Sherlock didn't reply. He withdrew his hand from John's grasp and let his head fall, unable to look John in the eye any longer. He knew what John was trying to do, but he wouldn't let him. This was his fault.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, finally in a small voice. Before John could attempt in another way to try to comfort him, he stood up from his chair and walked over the living room.

With a loud thump, Sherlock let himself fall on the floor. John would come after him like he used to and make a desperate attempt to lighten the situation. But Sherlock didn't allow himself to listen to him. He shut himself off from everything else around him, took one of the files and started to focus on the case entirely.

Hours passed, and although John didn't want to admit it, he was starting to get frustrated. Sherlock hadn't spoken since this morning, had decided he could go another day without food and ignored John completely. At first, John had tried to make clear that it wasn't Sherlock's fault, but it was no use. Sherlock had decided he wouldn't forgive himself for the upcoming time and had thrown himself on the case.

John had decided to answer the text from last night, which resulted in a frustrating back-and-forth to get to an agreement. Eventually, he had proposed to meet up this afternoon so he could discuss everything face-to-face instead of over the phone. By the time he had settled on a time and place, he was pacing across the room, feeling agitated.

His rescue had been a call from Lestrade. The second victim, Caleb Austin, had been missing for two days now, which his neighbour had noticed eventually. He was graduated from the police academy in September and had just started working at New Scotland Yard. He didn't have much family living in the city and didn't have a partner or housemate.

When Sherlock and John arrived at the crime scene, Sherlock still hadn't spoken a word. He walked straight inside and ignored John completely. John walked after him but stayed behind. He was reluctant to go inside, knowing he would only stand in the way when Sherlock was like this. He spotted Lestrade and Donovan and decided it would be best to check what they had found instead of going inside.

"Oi, don't you look awful today," Donovan commented when John walked over towards her and Lestrade.

"Hello to you too."

"I meant your cheek. Quite a bruise you've got there."

"Oh, I uhm…" John stammered. "I hit the door of the cupboard in the kitchen when I was cleaning this morning. No big deal."

Donovan narrowed her eyes. "That must've hurt. It looks like someone got in a good punch."

"Sally, enough," Lestrade warned. Donovan backed off immediately and decided to check on the crime scene, leaving her boss and John behind.

"John, is everything okay?" Lestrade asked when she was out of earshot.

"I'm fine Greg, nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure? You look like shit."

John shrugged. "Haven't slept much."

"Yeah, John, listen," Lestrade began, and John knew what was coming. "I know it's none of my business, but you don't fool me. I know when someone is punched in the face when I see it. What happened? Did Sherlock did this?"

"No. Well, yes. But it's not what you think." John explained and he watched how Lestrade raised an eyebrow at that. "We had a bit of a rough night. He was having a nightmare, and I grabbed his shoulder just when he started thrashing around. It was an accident."

Lestrade eyed John for a moment before he seemed convinced. "Okay, that explains a lot. And how is he holding up?"

John snorted. "Well, you just saw him, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Lestrade sighed.

They stood in silence for a minute. John looked at the floor, unable to shake the helpless feeling he started to feel. "I think," he spoke after a while and ran his hands across his face. "I think I'm out of my league here. I thought I could handle everything, but it just feels like I'm losing control. And I absolutely hate it."

Lestrade was about to say something when Sherlock stormed out of the house. He walked past Lestrade, didn't wait for John and walked to the street to hail a cab.

John shot Greg an apologetic look before he walked after the detective.

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock threw himself on the floor again immediately and hastily started rustling through some files. John stepped inside and closed the front door of the apartment with such a loud bang that it made Sherlock look up at John for the first time in hours. He narrowed his eyes and took the soldier in. He was angry; his knuckles white from the tight grasp of his fist, his shoulders tense, his jaw tight.

"I've had enough," John hissed through clenched teeth as he tried to keep his anger under control. "You are acting like an annoying five-year-old, and I'm sick of it! You can't continue like this. Ignore me all you want, but I will not stand here and watch how you are neglecting your body. I know you don't want to admit it, but you are drained from last night. Hell, I'm exhausted, let alone you. You are going to sleep, and after that, you are going to eat a proper meal."

"I'm not tir-,"

"Don't even start," John interrupted loudly. "You fell asleep in the bloody cab. I had to wake you. Twice!"

"That was just because…"

"It's not up for debate, Sherlock. You are going to rest. I don't care if you're going to lay down on the sofa or decide to crawl into bed. Hell, for all I care you just lay down on the floor. But you are going to take a break. Doctor's orders."

"But the case…" Sherlock tried, but he knew it was no use. The only thing he got in return, was a furious glare.

"Sherlock, I warn you. I will call Mycroft."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut again. He knew this was an argument he couldn't win. They stared at each other, waiting for the other to say something, but nothing came. After a minute, Sherlock admitted his defeat, stood up from the floor and walked over to the sofa.

John started to move as well, and for a second, Sherlock had the hope he would lay down with him. But John just turned around to grab his keys again.

"Where are you going?"

"I have an appointment downtown, so I'll be gone for an hour or two. You better be sound asleep when I get back."

Sherlock listened to how John walked down the stairs and closed the front door behind him. He knew John was right; he did feel exhausted. Besides, it would be incredibly foolish of him to ignore John's orders. He lay down on the sofa with his back towards the room and closed his eyes, hoping to catch some sleep.

It was no use. Sherlock stirred and turned, but he couldn't keep his mind from racing. First, he thought about last night, his nightmare still easy to recall. He had been back in Mitrovica, where he had been standing with a man kneeling before him. The man had his back turned to him. Sherlock had held a gun in his hand and knew he had to shoot the man… It wasn't as much of a nightmare than a memory, and he knew he had to tell John about it eventually.
Then, there was the case. There had been a second kidnapping, much to Sherlock's frustration. Again, there wasn't much to find at the apartment of the victim. The only trace Sherlock had noticed besides some fingerprints, was the faint smell of Malboro cigarettes and another photograph of someone who had been tortured. He knew he had to tell John about the photo's as well, but he wasn't sure how John would respond.

After an hour, Sherlock started to feel desperate. He really, really wanted to sleep. He turned, switched sides and turned again, but it only made him feel more anxious.

When John came back, he was in an even more foul mood than before. His conversation didn't exactly go as he hoped, and it had started to pour just when he got out of the tube. He did his best to get inside as quietly as he could.

Sherlock shot up. "I tried John, I really did," he almost pleaded before John got the chance to say anything. "But I just can't sleep."

John looked at Sherlock. He noticed the desperation in his voice and felt his anger subside a little. Sherlock really had been trying; he could see that. It wouldn't be fair if John would hold it against him. Also, he really didn't have the strength anymore to argue with Sherlock again.

"All right, move up a bit," John finally said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly, but when John walked over to the sofa, he did what he was told. John sat down at the far and gestured Sherlock to lay down again on his lap. Sherlock did, and after a second, he felt one of John's hands on his shoulder. He finally was able to relax a bit and closed his eyes.

John sighed and let the tension he had been holding all day glide from his shoulders. He briefly hesitated before he put his other hand in Sherlock's hair and started to fumble through it gently.

They stayed like this for minutes, and John was almost sure Sherlock finally started to fall asleep when he suddenly started to speak.

"When I was in Mitrovica, I had a companion," Sherlock said softly, not moving from John's lap. He felt how John's hand briefly stilled and how his body tensed before he continued stroking through the thick curls. Sherlock took a deep breath and continued. "His name was Visar, or that's what he told me at least. He was already undercover for two months before I arrived and knew I wasn't who I claimed to be within a week. We teamed up and decided to exchange information."

"In a way, he reminded me of you. We protected each other and took care of each other in the best way we could. But of course, they found out he was a spy a month and a half after I met him. That was the first time I saw what they were capable of. They captured him and tortured him. Ultimately, they decided to kill him. They had noticed we started to become close, so they…"

Suddenly, Sherlock was aware of the tears that were burning behind his eyes. It was hard to talk about this, but he had to. He had to give John an explanation.

"Made me pull the trigger," he finally whispered. "I couldn't see him, but I knew it had to be him."

"Oh, Sherlock…"

Sherlock turned his head to look up at John and swallowed. "It was you… Instead of Visar. That's what I was dreaming last night."

John didn't move. He felt foolish. Sherlock had been going through something today, and here he was, yelling at the man for not taking care of himself and threatening him with his big brother if Sherlock didn't go to sleep. Once again, he was utterly amazed at how much strength Sherlock showed by telling him this. And at the same time, it hurt like hell to hear these things, especially when John couldn't do anything about it.

All of a sudden, Sherlock sat up straight. "I couldn't find out why I was having this particular dream, but I think I figured it out." He reached for his pocket, pulled the two photographs out of it and handed them to John.

"I believe that the man in those pictures is Visar."