A/N I don't tend to write sequels because they never seem to turn out right and I'm not sure this one did. Let me know what you think anyway. If the fic was better as a oneshot I will return it to that state. There will be a third part to this which is in the process of being written and in which John finds out what the nightmares are about.

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, favourited and story alerted the previous chapter. It was a nice surprise =) and I hope you like this one.

Sleepless nights

2. Intruder

When the gunshot shattered through John's dream, startling him back into wakefulness it took him a minute to decide whether or not it was worth getting out of bed.

"Oh…please no," he groaned and screwed his eyes tight shut against the inevitable decision. The second gunshot opened his eyes with an irritated frown. "I'll kill him," John muttered with resolve as he threw off the covers and staggered out of bed. "I'm actually going to kill him this time.

Beneath his feet he could hear the crashes and bangs as Sherlock pushed furniture around and with a sigh John picked up his handgun. "He can have the bloody gun," he muttered shrugging on his dressing gown, "if once its empty he'll go back to bed." John knew that getting Sherlock to make that promise would be impossible but he could momentarily comfort himself with the delusion.

The doctor made his way downstairs, saying as he got to the bottom, "you know that this isn't the most pleasant way to wake…"

The words died in his throat as he froze on the threshold. Sherlock was just readjusting his jacket as he stood over a figure lying facedown on the floor.

"Ah, John," he acknowledged the doctor by glancing in his direction and giving a short smile, "good to see you up."

John's face was hanging in what he could tell was a gormless expression. Sherlock simply jerked his head at the prone body and said in a bored voice, "Take a look at him, would you." It wasn't really a question. John blinked rapidly and opened his mouth to say something but before he could Sherlock was looking at him with expectant eyes.

"Well?" he asked, as though addressing a particularly slow servant.

John shot an annoyed look at the detective but approached the body to check it out regardless, medical training and curiosity getting the better of him.

"He's still alive," John pronounced a few seconds later but found he was talking to an empty room. With an irritated huff he turned back to the body, making sure the intruder would be able to breath. Sherlock had probably gone to check if the would be killer had any associates waiting around outside.

A few moments later and Sherlock came bounding back up the steps from the front door, his coat flying behind him, and threw himself down in his chair.

"Boring, boring, boring!" he proclaimed and rolled his head back.

John shifted slowly from his crouched position into his own chair and gave his flat-sharer a piercing look. Based on Sherlock's swift return and moody attitude clearly there had been no one outside, making this case, as far as Sherlock was concerned, incredibly dull. The doctor allowed himself to smile slightly. He might not know how to tell someone's profession from their left thumb, but he was beginning to know his companion. This did mean however that it was now up to John to check that Sherlock hadn't been so bored as to forget that there was an unconscious man on their living room floor. The small smile died.

"Have you phoned Lestrade?" he asked.

Sherlock made no response, clearly not paying attention. John raised his eyebrows. "Sherlock!"

The detective shifted his gaze from the wall to the doctor. "Hmmm…what?"

John let out his breath slowly and tried again.

"Did – you – phone – Lestrade?"

"I texted him. Open shut revenge case. Almost not even worth his attention." Sherlock spun a finely decorated knife between his fingers. John didn't bother to ask where he'd got it from and merely made the assumption that it was probably the intruder's.

After a prolonged silence it was clear that Sherlock had gone into one of his 'absolute-silence-is-required' moods and would soon start complaining that John was breathing too loudly. In light of this the doctor slowly made a move to get up.

"Wait!" Sherlock held up a hand, stilling John's motion and studied the wall intently. In the next instant the decorative knife was buried in it from a flick of his wrist.

John glanced between the weapon and his flatmate.

"Is that all?" he asked impatiently.

"Yes," Holmes drew out, pressing his palms together beneath his chin, eyes not leaving the knife.

John waited for the next request, feeling that there would inevitably be one, were he to just turn towards the stairs…and sure enough Sherlock's voice halted him again.

"May I have your gun," the request was accompanied by a hand open in his general direction.

"No. No Sherlock, you may not," John half snapped in response to the languid detective.

Now the pair of grey eyes turned to him for the first time in several minutes and a small smile graced Sherlock's face.

"Then why did you bring it down?"

For a moment the doctor stood dumbfounded as his mind rattled back to the reason he'd left his bedroom in the first place. Minor annoyance died as he caught the amusement shining in Sherlock's eyes and a smile broke out to mirror that of his friend's, accompanied by an exasperated laugh.

"Here." John picked the gun up from where he'd dropped it and smacked it into the upturned palm. Slender fingers curled around the barrel but the eyes remained on John's a split second longer.

"I was going to ask that you don't fire too many," the doctor commented. "Would that make any difference?"

"Probably not," Sherlock responded indifferently, turning back to his wall.

John rolled his eyes. "Fine…just…fine…" and then he paused as a revelation struck him somewhat forcefully.

"Wait a minute," he turned back to Sherlock, noticing that he was fully dressed. "How come you're…?" The grey eyes were focusing on his again with something like uncertainty flickering in the depths. "Did you…" John paused as the incredulous idea formed into words. "Did you know he'd break in tonight?" He stabbed a finger at the unconscious man.

Sherlock dropped his eyes and stared at the body blankly.

"Yes," came the simple response.

John furrowed his brow and closed his eyes as though trying to understand.

"Sorry…" his eyes opened. "What?"

Sherlock shut his eyes and deliberately schooled his face into a picture of indifferent calm. "I – didn't – want you – to get involved."

John didn't say anything for a moment, an injured silence falling as he took the words precisely how Sherlock knew he would.

"Brilliant. Okay. Fine."

His voice was laden with all the hurt that Sherlock imagined was written on John's face. He chose to ignore it, deciding it was better for the doctor to be upset or offended. At least that meant he would stay well away.

He was waiting for the retreating footsteps but they didn't come for a while. John seemed to be waiting for something, maybe for an explanation or for understanding.

"I take it you're going to keep an eye on him?" he asked finally, meaning the man on the floor. There was a reserve in his voice Sherlock hadn't heard before.

"Hmmm, what?" he responded absently, even though his mind was razor sharply focused on John's every move.

John sighed, shook his head and ascended the stairs to his room. "Never mind."

As the door clicked shut Sherlock turned his attention back to the unconscious body, and trailed his eyes slowly up to the knife still stuck in the wall. The nightmares had gotten worse. A pained look flashed across his face as every one of them paraded itself across his mind again, reminding him how he was risking John's life with each case they took together.

A bullet in the wall simply wasn't an adequate solution anymore.