THE NIGHT TERRORS

John tossed and turned, but he couldn't get the images out of his mind. It wasn't the war that infiltrated his dreams. Not anymore. Meeting Sherlock had finally driven thoughts of the war, and its psychosomatic symptoms, from his life.

Mycroft had pointed out that John had missed the war. He never would have seen it that way, but meeting Sherlock… that changed everything. Sherlock gave his life meaning again. Meaning and danger: the two things that had driven him to become a medic in the military. It seemed fitting that he would find a replacement for that in his civilian life.

The only problem with being part of Sherlock-and-John was that one day, Sherlock-and-John would cease to exist. These nightmares were new, and focused on what he jokingly called his flatmate's greatest hits. Sherlock was a danger magnet and John had lost count of how many times either one or both of them had faced down death. Eventually, one of them would die, probably while saving the other's life.

In his dreams, he kept watching the detective die.

#

Sherlock sat in his chair, rereading his favorite book on beekeeping, "Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen". The walk in Regent's Park had helped calm him down - the rose garden and the bees' effect on the plants had given him something to focus on besides the boredom. He was hoping the book would distract him from the way John made him feel in the park, but it wasn't working. There was something about the way John's body had fit against him. The way John eagerly responded to being touched. The way that John made him feel. That unknown feeling welled up inside of him again.

Insomnia was a constant in his life. Some nights it was because he was working on a case and his brain wouldn't stop thinking about the details. When he wasn't on a case, he would spend his sleepless hours cleaning out his mind palace or reading. In the days before John moved in, he spent those sleepless hours playing his violin, composing his own music. He tried mightily to not play in the middle of the night out of respect for his flatmate.

John's nightmares changed that.

The first time John had a nightmare, Sherlock was thinking about his new composition. He had pulled out his score and begun to look it over when he heard the Doctor moaning and thrashing about in his bed. Testing a new theory, he began to play. Within a minute's time, John's room fell silent again.

From that point on, every time Sherlock heard John begin to get restless, he played the new piece and John stilled almost immediately. He could complain all he wanted about the noise, but the violin music seemed to pull him back to reality and back to a restful slumber.

#

"SHERLOCK!" John's voice rang through the flat, making Sherlock jump. "SHERLOCK! NO! DON'T! SHERRRRRRRRLOOOOOOOOCK!"

Tossing his book aside, Sherlock sprinted up the staircase and threw open the door to John's room. He was whimpering and repeating Sherlock's name. Sherlock knew that the man was deeply asleep, but the fact that the nightmare seemed to be about him concerned him. What could John possibly be dreaming about?

In his nightmare, John was reliving the moment he shot the cabbie. What would have happened if he hadn't shot the cabbie in time? Would he have watched Sherlock die what was possibly a terribly painful death from the poison? He knew that he had saved the detective's life, but the thought that he might have been too late haunted him.

Sherlock reached out to touch him, and then changed his mind. He wasn't sure how John would react. Instead, he calmly said, "John, it's OK. I'm right here."

"Sh'lock?" John's voice was soft, thick with sleep. "Sh'lock? That you?"

"It's me, John." This time, he did reach out and touch John on the shoulder. He was surprised when John grabbed his hand and held it. This wasn't helping. In fact, it was making Sherlock's confusion worse.

"Don't leave, 'k?" John mumbled into his pillow and Sherlock couldn't be sure if he were dreaming or if he meant it. He tried to pull his hand away, but John tightened his grip and moaned a little bit. Sherlock sighed and managed to get himself into the chair John had near his bed. It didn't look like he was going to be leaving any time soon. He wasn't sure he wanted to leave.

#

John woke up aware that he was holding onto something. He slowly opened his eyes a crack and saw Sherlock sitting next to the bed, his fingers interwoven with John's. Sherlock, himself, was sleeping sitting up in a chair. If Sherlock hadn't been snoring softly, John would have never believed he had fallen asleep. The better question was why was Sherlock asleep in his room and holding his hand? He didn't remember anything after he fell asleep. Not even Sherlock's violin.

The detective shifted slightly before opening his eyes. "Good morning, John."

"Good morning, Sherlock. What are you doing in here?" He pulled his hand away from Sherlock's and rubbed his eyes.

"You were shouting my name last night and I came up to make sure you were OK. You wouldn't let go of my hand and you asked me to stay." Sherlock tried to look away as the doctor blushed a deep red. "Normally, when I hear you tossing and turning, I play the lullaby I've been working on, and you fall back to sleep. Last night was… different."

"Oh."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're welcome." Without another word, he left John's room. John's embarrassment was unexpected. What would have caused him discomfort? He had initiated the handholding. Was it possible he didn't remember?

John puttered around his room a little bit, looking for clean clothes, and trying to figure out what happened the previous night. He wished he knew what he had been dreaming about. Shouting Sherlock's name in the middle of the night wasn't a good thing. Not at all.