He frequently dreams about John. It's not intentional, and it's not every time he closes his eyes, but it's often enough he's forced to acknowledge it as a pattern. The dreams are almost always of his basement prison, of fists and knives and humiliation and pain and loneliness, and sometimes he shakes himself awake with shivering.

Sometimes, though, John is there. It's always different, then: sometimes John is chained down beside him, cowering and silent. Those are the worst times. Sometimes the dream is bittersweet, in which John comes and hugs him, curling up against his body in the dark, their tears mingling on the dirt floor between their faces. And sometimes the dream is better. Those are the dreams in which John breaks down the door and stoops to pick up Sherlock on his back. In those dreams, John carries him out into the sunlight, and there is no embarrassment, no pain - all Sherlock's wounds are magically healed. All that's left are the two of them, holding each other tight like lovers, bodies slipping against each other in easy motion, reaffirming their connection, the fact that neither will be alone anymore. John's lips are warm and confident against his own, inviting Sherlock to taste and explore and show with more than words how much John means to him.

It's after one of those dreams that Sherlock awakes. There's only diffuse light coming in the bedroom window, suggesting the pre-dawn hours. He could roll over and check the clock, but that would mean looking away from John. Knowing the time - orienting himself - isn't important enough for that.

John is asleep face-down on the bed next to him, eyes closed and mouth open and snoring slightly. His legs are scissored apart in an awkward sprawl, tangled in the sheets, and his knee is nearly touching Sherlock's thigh. It's not a photogenic position, but it's honest and trusting and so undeniably John that Sherlock can barely stand it.

His mind is still reeling with the imagined taste of John's kiss and his cock is more than half hard. It's only a matter of a foot or so for Sherlock to shift forward on the bed and press his lips to John's forehead. Creased - worried in his sleep? Or stress? Sherlock closes his eyes and repeats the gesture, slower, savoring how John's skin feels against his lips-

"Sh'lock?"

He startles and pulls back.

"Mmm." John smiles a sleepy smile and reaches out to spear his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Do that again while I'm awake enough to enjoy it."

Sherlock has doubts about whether John is "awake" in any traditional sense of the word, but his doubts are driven from his head completely by John licking his lips and molding his fingertips against Sherlock's trapezius. And then the distances closes - through John's actions or his own, Sherlock couldn't say - and they're kissing for real. John's lips are warm, warm and soft from sleep, and Sherlock discovers himself relaxing into the contact as if it were something they'd been doing for years. He ventures a tiny bit more pressure, a tentative first step, and John responds with a faint moan and a sudden shift in position, rolling their bodies so they're pressed together length to length and John's weight is pressing Sherlock into the mattress.

And something snaps. Suddenly Sherlock is back on the battered wooden table in the old farmhouse, heavy weight of a stranger pinning him down, steel restraining his wrists and ankles, and he is fighting. He can't breathe, can't think for the panic of just needing the stranger off of him, needing the man's hands and tongue and cock and cigarette and bastinado away from his body -

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

John's voice only gradually impedes on the scene, until suddenly Sherlock recognizes John's face hovering above him, abject horror scrawled all over it. A sound in the room stops, and Sherlock belatedly realizes it had been his own panicked whine.

John sits back the moment Sherlock stops struggling. He kneels on his side of the bed, eyes wide, hand rubbing nervously at his sternum. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips again, but he seems at a loss for words.

"John." Sherlock's voice sounds more like a croak.

"God, I'm sorry," John whispers. He raises a hand as if to touch Sherlock's shoulder, then pulls it away. "I'm so - I'm so sorry-"

"No, I-" Sherlock forces a deep breath into his lungs, tries to stop trembling. "John."

"I didn't mean to - I don't expect you to-"

"Wait," Sherlock says, still shaky. "Please - turn that way, just for a minute. I need one minute. Please."

John nods and turns, sitting on the very edge of the bed so he's as far away from Sherlock as possible. His head is bowed, his shoulders still twitching. Sherlock props himself up to almost-sitting, takes several deep breaths, and reaches with his good hand to turn on the bedside lamp.

"John."

John doesn't turn around.

"That wasn't you, it was me."

"PTSD isn't something to be ashamed of, Sherlock." John is still hovering right at the edge of the bed, ready to flee. "It's not your fault."

Sherlock huffs out a breath. "Not that," he says. "I know that part isn't my fault. I meant, the - the kiss. I surprised you, and I'm sorry. You weren't fully awake."

John does turn, then, curling his good knee up on the bed. He examines Sherlock for a long moment in the yellow light of the lamp. "You didn't mind kissing me," he says finally.

Sherlock nods. "I had to - to do something. You're a better man than I could ever deserve, John. I woke up from a dream and you were there and I just had to make sure you were real." He closes his eyes against the memories threatening to overwhelm him again. "There were so many times you weren't," he admits quietly.

"Bloody-" John breaks off, swallowing hard. "I can't lose you again," he finally says. "And I hate that I couldn't be real for you every time, kissing away your hurts."

Surely he hadn't heard that right. Sherlock knows he had to have been imagining John wanting to kiss him, on purpose, not when caught by surprise half-asleep and in a pitying mood and-

John reaches for Sherlock's uninjured hand, pulls it toward himself, and touches his lips to Sherlock's palm. "I'm going to be there for you now," he says solemnly, eyes locked on Sherlock's. His thumb rubs tiny circles over the flesh where his kiss is now burning into Sherlock's skin. "I'm going to be here for as long as you need me."

Sherlock squeezes his fingers around John's and smiles for all he's worth.