Thank you again for all the lovely reviews, they really keep me writing! This is a short, fluffy style chapter which I shall dedicate to 'doctorcoffeegirl' for her lovely review, and also because she came up with the idea for this chapter! Thanks all! Please R&R!

'I wish that when I wake up you're there
So wrap your arms around me for real
And tell me you'll stay by side'

Sweet Dreams, Beyonce.

John was alone in the flat that night, Sherlock had been out on one of his numerous mysterious cases and John had not seen him for days. It had been quiet, which was a change, but he had been bored stiff. He missed the thrill and excitement of being out on a case with Sherlock. Or even being with Sherlock. He smiled secretively to himself. He still found it hard to believe that Sherlock was his boyfriend, even though it had been almost 3 weeks now. The word caught on his tongue. He still hadn't gotten round to telling his family, but it was inevitable. And Mycroft hadn't visited either, which was unusual. He missed Sherlock badly. He didn't want to be alone. The flat was empty and miserable without his eccentric, sociopathic presence. John's eyes flicked over to the clock. He couldn't hold it off any longer. He had to go to bed. He gulped loudly, images and memories of his nightmares springing into his head.

John leant against the wall of his bedroom, staring nervously at the seemingly innocent bed which inspired such fear in him. It had been different with Sherlock, he was always there to comfort him, and then to cuddle him, but now John was alone. He had taken as long as possible; brushing his teeth for almost ten minutes, combing his already straight, short hair, even using deodorant. He just resisted the temptation to paint his nails, he was that desperate. He couldn't postpone any longer. Sighing deeply, he rubbed his eyes and trudged apprehensively towards the bed. Pulling back the duvets, he lay stiffly in the bed, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Slowly, as much as he tried to resist, his eyes started to drag and he fell into a painful, twisted sleep, his nightmares burning inside him.

The blood and gunshots appeared almost instantly after his eyes closed, and John relived painful memories of seeing his best friends blown to pieces, a small child shot to death in front of his very eyes, entire villages blown away, a young girl being raped, he even saw himself staring down at his own bullet wound in his shoulder, replaying again and again. He was screaming and shouting, yelling again and again Sherlock's name desperately, like a mantra, for what seemed like hours. All he wanted was for this to end. And then suddenly, it stopped. John felt a wave of peace flow through him, and he opened his eyes. When he saw Sherlock's face, he thought it was an angel sent by God. His pale, high cheek bones, silky black locks and melting green eyes looking down in concern at him seemed heavenly.

"John, John! Are you alright?" Sherlock's usual checked emotions had been set loose, worry and concern spilling over his words. John just gripped Sherlock's hand tightly.

"Thank you," was all John whispered in reply, but Sherlock understood. Their connection sparked.

"Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock spoke gently.

"No, no!" John cried in desperation, he needed Sherlock. "Please stay." he begged, looking up at Sherlock.

"Of course," and in a single flurry, Sherlock was in bed with John, arms wrapped tightly around him, stroking his hair and whispering comforting nothings into John's ear.

John snuggled into Sherlock, drifting off into a peaceful, undisturbed sleep, Sherlock curled up around him like a nest. John had found his home.