A/N Thank you everyone for your reviews and favourites. Here's the final chapter and I'm sorry it took so long. I hope it lives up to your expectations. Enjoy.

Sleepless nights

3. The nightmare

Sherlock Holmes didn't agree with nightmares. They were illogical and unreasonable. It did not matter how ridiculous a given scenario might be, one nearly inevitability believed it to be the truth. Even if one could tell that it wasn't real the pain remained nonetheless as intense. Deductions and facts that could be applied and existed in the waking world had no place in the world of dreams. Sherlock was forced to admit though that the nightmares did reveal one thing, one simple logical deduction – sooner or later John Watson would end up dead. After each case the odds were further stacked against him. There had already been more than a few close calls.

Sherlock cared for no one. His actions were his actions regardless of their consequences for other people, except for John. He cared what happened to John. The thought of the doctor dying sent a panic racing through his veins that he had never felt before. That panic was re-lived night after night as he watched John dying in front of him, in his arms, too far away for him to get to on time. John shot, John stabbed, John blown up.

The wall took the punishment as Sherlock eradicated the dreams from his memory – or tried to. The delete button seemed to be malfunctioning. Eventually firing shots into a wall didn't help anymore, especially after the showdown with Moriarty. The image of John with explosives strapped to his chest haunted Sherlock's subconscious and he was forced to watch again and again the scene by the pool, but with less pleasant outcomes.

Sherlock got very little sleep under normal circumstances, with the nightmares he got next to none. John noticed and John asked but he was brushed off with cold, careless indifference. At least in his waking moments Sherlock could choose not to think about it. There was a distance growing between the detective and his companion. A distance Sherlock caused by refusing to take John with him on select cases that involved dangerous scenarios, sneaking off to do it alone. A distance he caused by refusing to explain why. This forgetfulness wouldn't be unusual as Sherlock had often in the past forgotten John by accident, but the doctor was beginning to tell that the last few times were deliberate. Sherlock registered the hurt in John's face every time he left him behind, but on balance with the physical hurt John could suffer Sherlock deduced that this sort was cost effective.

John woke with a start, fear clawing at his insides and shoulder burning. Swearing under his breath he pushed himself up in bed and flicked the light switch on.

"Bloody nightmares," he groaned and ran a hand back through his hair. From experience he knew that going back to sleep now was a near impossibility. His eyes glanced at the alarm clock and he swore again. "3am. Three – bloody – am."

He knew why they'd come back of course. It was all to do with Sherlock's refusal to take him on cases. He was allowed on those that involved looking over a crime scene, interviewing a witness or researching back at the flat, but as soon as it started to get slightly dangerous, as soon as they had the killer within their grasp, he'd turn around and Sherlock would be gone. The next time he'd see the elusive detective he'd be wounded from some injury or the other and the murderer would be caught.

"Don't know what's got into him," John muttered under his breath.

As his involvement had dwindled the nightmares had come back more frequently, just as they usually did when there wasn't a case on, except this was a permanent state of no case. Oh and there was the other returning bane of his life that could not be ignored.

John gritted his teeth as he struggled to make his way down the stairs. The limp was back. Sighing he endeavoured determinedly onwards, hoping that a cup of tea would calm him. He had limped across the main room and switched on the kitchen light before the secondary presence caught his attention. Turning slightly he was able to observe Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, covered by his coat. The detective's face was flickering anxiously, frown lines marring his forehead.

For a moment John stood uncertainly in the kitchen doorway before he gave a small sigh and reached to switch the light back off. He'd have to do without his tea. Sherlock got little enough sleep as it was without John waking him unnecessarily. Yet his hand stilled as Sherlock's agonised voice murmured his name.

"John."

"Yes?" he asked quietly, but the detective gave no response, only to call "John" again in the same tone.

The doctor moved towards the sleeping figure hesitantly. The last thing he wanted was to wake the genius so suddenly that he ended up with a knife in his chest from Sherlock's automatic self-defence. Watson had no idea if Sherlock really did have any such thing but he wouldn't put it past him to, nor would it be too far a stretch of the imagination to assume Sherlock had a knife, or even his Browning, concealed somewhere close by.

"Sherlock," he whispered.

The detective's eyes twitched in sleep and he suddenly thrashed out, almost throwing himself from the sofa.

"John!" Louder, more urgent, and so fear-filled that John knew he had to wake his friend up.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up." He gripped the sleeping man's shoulder and gently shook. "Sherlock I'm here. Wake up." He had no idea what he was saying. He'd never had to do this before but he assumed that reassuring and gentle were supposed to be part of the equation. Without warning Sherlock's eyes flew open and he pitched forward, grabbing the front of John's dressing gown and frantically scrabbling at it.

"Are you all right? John? Are you all right?"

The doctor was too shocked to move for a split second. He could only watch Sherlock, blue eyes wide and panicked, his fingers working desperately across John's chest, plucking and pulling at the fabric.

A memory flashed across John's mind of this same scenario some weeks ago, only there had been a bomb attached to him.

"Sherlock, I'm okay!"

John grabbed the panicked fingers to still them, the ice cold from them seeping into his own skin. His eyes burned into Sherlock's glazed ones until he could see the mist beginning to clear.

"John," whispered hoarsely, tentatively and then the hands were wrenched from the doctor's own as the detective almost threw himself as far back into the sofa as he could manage. The physical distance may have been small but in that one move John felt barriers slam down between them as his hands grew accustomed once more to the emptiness of air.

Silence fell.

John stood in his bathrobe in the half light of the kitchen, looking down on the huddled figure on the couch, logic saying he was unwanted and had better leave but he was unable to move.

Anger bubbled up fiercely, desperately clawing at his insides. Anger at Sherlock for the distance he created, for his ingratitude at being woken, for his utter refusal to let John be with him anymore, for the recurrence of the nightmares and for staggering home injured because he had no one to watch his back. For refusing to let John protect him and making John suffer the pain of knowing his companion might be killed while he drank tea and watched daytime telly. John was angry at himself for bothering. Angry for even caring. His eyes burned through the dark furiously…but he said not a word – swallowing it down as he stared at the unfriendly shape, preparing to go back upstairs and leave the great detective with his knees drawn up to his chest and hands clutching his coat closer around him. It took John a moment to realise in the cast shadows that Sherlock, although awake and projecting enough aloofness to make even John retreat, was shaking. Very minute tremors in his hands and shoulders but there nonetheless. Sherlock was looking away, looking into the darkness, not thinking, just vacant and…afraid.

"How long have you been having nightmares?"

The quiet shattered and John – although knowing his lips had moved – felt unsure if he had spoken. Sherlock refused to look at him.

The steely response cut back, "Go away."

"This has been going on for ages hasn't it?" the doctor ploughed on, ignoring the rebuff. "This is why you haven't…"

"I wish you would stop inflicting your deductions on me," Sherlock bit out venomously, turning burning eyes to the man looming over him, "just like you inflict your idiotic opinions on the world with that ridiculous blog." His tone dropped to a lower more scornful one. "If I choose not to take you on cases with me it is because I do not want you there. I do not require your assistance. It is tedious carting around a fan who thinks I'm a hero." Sherlock's gaze pierced straight through the doctor making sure every shard hit deeply. "You slow me down. It has nothing to do with the nightmares and if you want to be useful to me then pass me my gun."

Silence fell thickly till it felt like it was hard to breath. John did not turn his eyes away for some time, and it was only when he eventually dropped them that the detective flung his observation back into a corner of the room, only to drag it back a moment later when John spoke, his eyes fixed firmly on the carpet.

"Been sleeping."

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

The doctor stuffed his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat, lifting his eyes to Sherlock's. "I was going to say, 'This is why you haven't been sleeping.'"

There was a pause into which Sherlock could only interject the word, "Oh."

Sherlock was familiar with irony. He had used it on occasion and knew that it was addressed to him often enough. It was a useful tool and he had long learned to distinguish it in a tone of voice. At that moment however he thoroughly hated it, John's next comment capping the hatred.

"But it's good to know that the reason you don't take me on cases anymore has nothing to do with the nightmares."

Sherlock wished fervently that he had never developed the ability to pick up on irony. He also made a mental note to allow people to finish their sentences in the future.

John was watching him wryly, no hint of a smile on his face.

"Well?" he asked expectantly.

"Well what?" came the sulky reply as Sherlock drew his coat closer around him and stared down at the coarse fabric.

John sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"You know sometimes it wouldn't hurt for you to be less stubborn."

"It wouldn't hurt for you to be less interfering," snapped the response.

"Sherlock…"

The detective twisted his head sharply.

"I – don't – want to talk about it John."

The doctor sighed again, lifting his eyes to the ceiling as though there were inspiration there, but it was in shadow like the rest of the room. At night things were said that turned to wisps in the morning, insubstantial threads that felt like dreams and threatened to disintegrate at a touch…at least that's what happened in his experience. He couldn't be sure if Sherlock was the same.

Now, John knew, was the only moment to get this secret from his flatmate – in the light of day the chance, this opportunity, would melt away into a vague unreality – and he would be unable to say what his sleep deprived mind prompted without civility holding it back. It was unfortunate that this sleep deprived mind had nothing to present as to what he could do to invite confidence. He knew it was vital that Sherlock talk, especially now that he knew that the nightmares were linked to his dismissal on cases, yet all he could do was stare at darkened plaster as his mind slipped into a semi-conscious state.

"It's you."

John jumped slightly at the unexpected statement, his head dropping rapidly, neck aching, unable to tell how long he'd been dozing off.

Sherlock's posture had shifted. His knees were no longer tucked under his chin. His feet were on the floor and his elbows rest on his knees, propping up his head, hands tangled in his hair.

"It's you, dying." There was a flat tone but John could hear the tremors underneath that it vainly attempted to mask. "Again, and again, and again," louder with each repeat, pain vibrating and cut off with a stifled choke as he gripped his hair. Then barely a whisper, "I can't turn it off."

John could only stand and observe his distressed friend, letting everything fall into place. Seeing Sherlock like this, so venerable, tore through him in a way he hadn't anticipated. He needed to do something. He was an army doctor, a man of action. A physical pain could be treated easily enough but an emotional one…John dredged up a cure from a far distant memory of when he'd had nightmares as a child. Taking a deep breath, he shut his eyes, and hissed it back out through his teeth. Before he could think himself out of it he eased down next to the shaking man and awkwardly dropped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock lifted his head sharply and turned piercing eyes onto the doctor, but John was staring off into the middle distance. His head was tilted and his mouth twisted downward in a serious expression that betrayed all his awkwardness.

"John," the detective's lips quirked upwards, his tone amused against his will.

John cleared his throat, still keeping his eyes on a corner of the room.

"I'm comforting you," he forced out thickly, trying to sound a little annoyed at the lack of appreciation. Sherlock was silent but John could almost imagine the glint in his eye.

"People might talk," the detective uttered quietly, pretending to be serious.

"People do little else," came John's automatic response.

Now he turned away from the darkness and met the light-drenched blue eyes.

"Every time I turn and you are gone," John spoke quietly, unable to believe his mouth was admitting this, "and I have to sit here alone and wait, I have those same nightmares." He shut his eyes against the intense blue and only opened them again when he knew Sherlock had absorbed his words.

Sherlock's mouth was set in a grim line.

"You could die," a whisper swallowed up by the night.

"So could you," a pain-filled response uttered with earnest brown eyes.

They sat staring for a while and then John felt a shift – in perspective, attitude or opinion he couldn't tell – but the tension left Sherlock's shoulders and John immediately removed his arm.

"Cup of tea?" he asked automatically as he got to his feet and turned his eyes back to the detective.

Sherlock was studying him intently, eyes searing, and then he leaned back, his mouth quirking into a small smile.

"Two sugars."

It sounded normal, sounded like before, and John knew the cog that had jumped out of place had clicked back in again.

"The nightmares might not go away," he said hesitantly in the doorway to the kitchen.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and smiled, leaning back into the cushions.

"What nightmares?"

The doctor rolled his eyes but couldn't help the twitch of his lips as he flicked the kettle on.

"Why did you tell me?" he yelled over the sound of the heating water, curiosity overcoming Sherlock's clear indication that the conversation was over. "Why did you tell me what they were about?" He made sure not to use the 'n' word.

Sherlock's response drifted back lazily.

"You looked like you were going to stand there all night." He used his 'because-you're-an-idiot' tone of voice, but John could hear the amusement and almost admiration threading through it. He made a mental note that tenacious silence was a good method of inviting confidences, but knowing Sherlock it would never work twice.

"Turn the light on John," the detective drawled languidly when the doctor appeared with the tea, as though speaking to a particularly stupid child. "I cannot see in the dark." John dumped the mug next to the ungrateful genius and strode back to the light switch, flicking it on. "And while you are there you might care to pick up the case file on the table and take a look."

Recovering from the momentary blindness John glanced at Sherlock who studied him over the rim of his mug. "I require your opinion on the matter," he added. "Could be dangerous."

The smile that spread over John's face was unstoppable delight but he attempted to control it quickly, clearing his throat.

"All right."

Sherlock watched discreetly as with a mug of tea in one hand and case notes in the other John settled back in his chair with a contented sigh.

The detective shut his eyes and smiled. This solution was more than adequate.