John blinked awake slowly, lifting his chin off his chest and trying to make sense of his situation and figure out why his left leg was numb.

Oh…

He must have nodded off while Sherlock slept, and the weight of the detective's feet had cut off his circulation.

But something had woken John.

Something was strange.

He realized it almost at once; Sherlock was trembling slightly. His eyes were still closed, and he seemed to still be in a deep sleep, but his fists were clenched and his teeth gritted. It was the most openly distraught John had seen him in a while.

A soft sound escaped Sherlock's lips, almost but not quite sounding like a word.

Maybe it was just a whine.

Whatever he was dreaming clearly wasn't pleasant, to say the least.

"Sherlock." He spoke quietly at first, and then dared to raise his voice a little. "Sherlock, wake up."

The only response was another moan and a turn of the head. Sherlock's brow was furrowed in an almost pained expression, and John bit his lip. He knew from experience that being stuck in a nightmare could be terrible, and with Sherlock being who he was, one could only guess as to what went on in his dreams.

John leaned over, with the intention of shaking him by the shoulder until he stirred—but Sherlock suddenly reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, and his eyes shot open.

He stared up at him for several seconds, still dazed from sleep, but quickly regaining his clarity. His gaze slid from John's startled face to his wrist, which he was still holding tightly.

He cleared his throat and released him quickly. "I... My reflexes are… remarkable."

"Are you sure that's what it was? It looked like you were responding to something in your nightmare."

His expression didn't change, but somehow John got the distinct impression that he was startled. "I don't have nightmares. Those are for children and weaklings. Of which I am neither."

"I used to have them, when I came back from Afghanistan." John rested his elbows on his knees and looked over at him. "My therapist said they were a result of stress and trauma. I'm just saying, it's okay. Alright? I'm not judging you. I'll try to understand."

"…I doubt you could. You're average."

"Gee, thanks." John intoned dryly, pursing his lips.

"No, I mean… you're normal. You're…" He glanced about as he searched for words. "You're… em… okay. And I'm… not."

"What do you mean by that? You're a bit different, yeah, but you're still—"

"Don't try to bullshit me, John. As a youth I once spent three days locked in the library reading books on psychology just trying to figure out what was wrong with me. I found that sociopath sounded the most accurate. So don't think that you can just tell me I'm normal and move on with it, and expect me to believe you."

John swallowed. "Sherlock? You're not a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise."

"Don't you think I know that?" Sherlock was glaring at him with those intense eyes again. "But it's a hell of a lot easier than saying… anything else."

So it was just a cover-up?

Another wall to hide behind?

A quick answer that still painted him as the insensitive bad-guy so nobody would think to look any farther than that?

"What happened in your dream? Talking about it might help. I know it did for me, sometimes." John could sense that Sherlock was backtracking, realizing how open he was being and possibly becoming uncomfortable and starting to shut down again—but he was getting somewhere now, and he desperately wanted to keep that line open for as long as the detective would let him. "Please."

"It's stupid. I don't want to."

"Sherlock, please. If you do I promise I won't bother you about the experiment in the microwave for at least another two days. Okay?"

"I…" His brow furrowed in thought, and his right hand slipped under his sleeve, probably unconsciously. "It was just… Remember the other day, when I said that I was thinking about death a few years ago?"

John glanced up, a bit startled, but nodded quickly. "You said…"

"Something stopped me. It's completely illogical, and I can't explain it, but… I got a flatmate, and for some reason I… didn't… think about that anymore." His attempt to sound offhanded fell flat, but he still tried.

Oh.

A flatmate.

Oh…

"Anyway—" Sherlock spoke faster, as if trying to get through everything as quickly as possible and hopefully distract John again. "In the dream, it was all back the way it was—the… flatmate was gone, and I was all…" The last word seemed to be stuck in his throat, and he closed his mouth and frowned as if it would pain him to say it, struggling as it tried to get out, but he wouldn't let it.

Alone.

All alone.

Again.

"You reached out and grabbed me." John observed quietly, more to himself than to Sherlock.

"Yes, well, you don't have to bring that up again. It was a reflex. A well-timed reflex, that's all. Don't try to read anything into it."

Too late.

John nodded slowly, almost relieved when Sherlock looked away. That gaze was getting hard to take, and it sometimes felt as if the detective could see more than he was letting on.

And yet somehow he still couldn't seem to see how much John cared.