Things are going to be intense in Chapter 8, so enjoy this fluffy Chapter until then. Shit is about to go down.

Chapter 7

"Thank you."

Sherlock blinked, "What for?"

"For being so… great- at helping I mean! I'm just-" John sighed at himself. Cool it, John, he's the one with emotional problems not you. "I'm grateful for your awareness I guess. So there."

"I see. I suppose I should say 'you're welcome', and you are, but I believe it is my duty since you are my closest friend after all," Sherlock stood in the doorframe for a second that seemed to stretch for the longest moments. Then John grinned and said.

"Okay then. Goodnight Sherlock. Try to get some sleep."

"Goodnight John."

John kept smiling even as he stumbled into bed. Being temporary blinded wasn't all bad after all then.

John knew he had been dreaming the moment he woke up. Sweaty, breathing too fast and grappling at his sheets to remind him they were there. 'Home' he thought, 'I'm home, I'm home, I'm home…" Slowly his body relaxed as it realized that he was, in fact, home and safe- and that he had not just spend twenty seemingly endless hours stitching together countless of bomb victims, soldiers and civilians alike. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep again, and turned for the watch by his bed to figure out time, only to realize he couldn't see it. He had the gauze still on of course, but it still made him frown in unease. Oh well. Rain was hammering down outside, and so it was chilly in the room and he couldn't tell if it was night or day that way. Bugger. "Sherlock?" he called, remembering his request from last night. He frowned once again when he received no answer. "Sherlock? Are you awake?"

He stood up and made it to his door, and as he opened it the sound of Sherlock violin met his tired senses. 'That explains it then,' he thought to himself. Deciding Sherlock wouldn't be able to hear him, John made his way down the stairs as slow as he could manage.

"Sherlock?" he called as he opened the door to the sitting room. Sherlock's violin came to a screeching halt and John cringed at the sound.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed surprised. "How long have you been up? Did I wake you?"
"No, no I just had uh- I had a bad dream. What's the time?"
"Ten. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine," John brushed it off by waving his hand in the air and made his way to his chair. He slumped down and sighed.

"Can you check now?"
"What? Oh, yeah, of course." John led his hands to his face, but was stopped by Sherlock. "Let me do it," he said, lowering Johns hands with his own. John just nodded. Sherlock was obviously affected by this whole mess, and perhaps this was a way for him to feel useful. And John found it to be sort of sweet. Not that he would ever admit.

As he felt Sherlock remove the gauze he felt something unsettling creeping in on him though. Was he nervous? Yes, in fact he was holding back the trembling in his hand and he had to mentally will every fiber of his body to relax. And then cool air met his eyelids. And he opened his eyes on instinct, not even considering warning Sherlock.

For a second there was nothing. Then, like when you enter a dark room, blurred shapes of grey and black emerged from the darkness. John broke into a broad grin of relief when he was able to make out the shape of Sherlock's curly head in front of the fireplace. He was completely black, and he could see no facial expression on him whatsoever, but in the sharp light of the fireplace, which really was just a lighter shade of black to John, he could at least make him out of the nothingness.
"Better?" Sherlock inquired immediately.

"A little. I can see you now- sort of," John raised a hand and pokes Sherlock on his cheek with a quiet, "Hello."

Sherlock sighed in relief and leaned his head against Johns childish finger. "Hello. So no specialist doctors then?"
"No specialists," John confirmed. "Not unless something happens," Sherlock froze against John's hand, which lingered at his cheek. "Elaborate," he commanded.

"Uh, if one eye is healing slower than the other it might have gotten infected by it's time in gauze, but that's highly unlikely seeing that I was treated in a sterile environment. Or it could just have been more severely damaged. But other than that I think I'm good. Really Sherlock, it's fine."
"I'll decide what's fine, thank you," Sherlock grumbled in feigned anger. He stood up from his position in front of John's chair and pulled out his phone. John followed his movements noticing how the shape of Sherlock body was harder to make out in the darker areas of the room. "I'm texting Mycroft. I'll have him get some specialist on stand-by so that should these symptoms occur you'll have access to them right away," he stated.

"Sherlock, really, it's okay. It's not like I'm dying, and you shouldn't bother Mycroft."

"Shut up John, you know I get overly possessive of my things, and you are one of my favorites, And Mycroft owes my anyway, and you know how he constantly worries."

"First of all, I'm not one of you 'things', but thank you anyway," John keeps following Sherlock's pacing with his eyes calmly while he allows himself to smile at Sherlock's words. "And Mycroft worries about you not me."
"He worries about you because of me. He knows I need you to stay sane. Besides, Mycroft worries about everything. Constantly."
"He thinks you need me to stay sane?" John asked befuddled. Not that he was surprised. He had stopped being surprised. He should, at least.

"Of course he does. And I do, I just don't want him to hear me admit it. He gets so annoying when I admit things," Sherlock rambled as he texted furiously and paced the room like always. John just huffed a laugh. "Okay then. You win."
"Obviously. There, it's done. Now, are you up for some madman hunting?" typical Sherlock, always on his way to the next thing on his agenda. "I need food first." John said, putting a hand on his stomach. "I haven't had breakfast and I'll bet you haven't either."
Sherlock grumbled. "But Mrs. Hudson hasn't made us anything."
"Oh," John realized, "No, I suppose she'll only make us dinner. That's only fair I guess. Well, then you'll have to make it."
Sherlock sputtered, "A-Wha- Me? Make you breakfast? You know I don't cook!"

"Make us breakfast, Sherlock, and there's a big difference from 'don't cook' and 'can't cook'. You're the genius, I'm sure you can manage. I'll be there to help you as well."

Sherlock growled in annoyance. "And then can we go catch a madman?"
"Yes, then we go catch a madman," John agreed, snickering at Sherlock's petulance.

"…Fine," Sherlock finally agreed. "I'll made breakfast. And you're helping!"