"Watson, Watson, can you hear me? John!"

"Somebody's hit!"

"Get 'im out of here!"

"Agh! God! This- agh! It hurts!" Clutching his shoulder tightly, John collapsed to the ground.

He was losing a lot of blood and consequently what followed was an unwelcomed feeling of confusion and lightheadedness.

Not only that, there was way too much noise around, too many people screaming, shooting and dying all at once.

"Be quiet." John told them while face down on the blood soaked earth. Without any hope left, he lay there, awaiting his certain death.

But suddenly a pair of hands grabbed him and lifted him up, helping him out of the front line.

And as John looked up, his face contorted with horror, "Sh- Sherlock? What're you doing here?

Sherlock, who seemed oddly pale, muttered some incoherent words in reply. The detective-turned-soldier seemed as if he was making an effort to say something important, but even as he tried, nothing that came out of him made any sense.

John eyed his friend more closely now and he immediately understood the reason.

Sherlock was also in critical condition, in fact, much worse than John.

On the middle of Sherlock's chest was an empty, gaping hole the size of a fist where his heart was supposed to be, and what was most sickening was that John could see the other side from it.

He felt nauseous. John's vision began to fade away and soon everything was pitch black.

...

John awoke with a start. His shirt was wet and sticky from sweat and his heart rate was uncontrollable. Gasping for breath, he looked frantically around his room for any signs of imminent danger but it was still too dark, and nothing seemed out of place.

"It was just a dream John, just a dream." He reminded himself repeatedly, placing a hand over his scar, rubbing his thumb over it and staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

After a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to relax again, but an unexpected snore sounded from underneath him, ruining his plans.

Jumping with surprise, John covered his mouth and rolled over to the edge of the bed to see what was wrong. All the while, he couldn't help remembering the big black dog from his case with Sherlock back in Baskerville, and deeply hoped it wasn't anything like it.

Though he would've never guessed what he saw next.

"Sherlock-" John whispered in shock.

The detective lay sideways on the floor, resting his head on his crumpled up makeshift pillow –his arm, facing John. He breathed slowly and deep and seemed very uncomfortable on John's wooden floor. Yet, he was still there.

In the next 20 minutes, the soldier simply sat himself up and stared intently at his flat mate, scarcely being able to fathom the incident.

At last, John made a decision that he deemed most logical. It would be best to wake up Sherlock. He shifted carefully on his bed worried he'd make too much noise and rouse the detective before he got to him.

Luckily all went as planned. He crawled out of the bed, kneeled beside his friend and reached out to touch his shoulder. When he did so, he heard his friend mutter.

It'd been unintelligible things, just like in the dream, and John even caught himself hoping he wouldn't find a hole in Sherlock.

He didn't. What happened next was almost expected: the detective opened his eyes, sat up and lazily apologized.

At this point, John was beyond apologies and shushed him. "Wake me up next time, Sherlock." He rubbed his sleepiness off as he made his way to turn the lights on, blinking furiously once the room was lit up and agonizingly bright. "I could've shared the bed you know?" He added when he saw the man's eyes lower in an almost dejected manner.

John opened his door. "Right, off you go to bed now. We've got a long day tomorrow."

Yet Sherlock didn't budge. He remained in his statuesque manner where he was. John noticed suddenly how strangely normal he looked presently, with black curled hair a complete mess, John's pajamas too small for his tall body therefore displaying his two sticks of a leg, and a tired slouch. He couldn't contain a smile.

But the brief happiness disappeared the moment the truth dawned on him. "You are going to stay here, aren't you?"

Sherlock gave a single nod and John sighed. He turned off the lights and closed the door, clearing his throat at the unbelievable amount of awkwardness that this situation was releasing.

Sherlock was not himself, he was vulnerable and John was making an effort to understand this fact. He needed support, and the only one the detective trusted was the soldier; he needed John to be there for him.

So for the first time in his life, John crawled onto his bed and expected the other man to follow his example.

But he only heard the man lie back down on the floor.

"Uh- Sherlock," He began, turning to face the flat mate. "You can sleep up here if you want. "

The other, after a while breathed deeply, pulled up the bed sheets and carefully climbed inside. John, daring himself not to turn to look, heard Sherlock shift quietly to the edge of the bed once he was in. They had their back turned towards each other, since each was trying to give the other the most space possible.

It wasn't until early in the morning the next day that both men woke up to be sprawled on top of one another.

Short filler-ish chapter! Just to keep myself writing and to update to the story ;-)

P.S. I apologize for the shortness :-(

I'm really tired due to my afterschool (and school) schedule and this is all I could muster today.