Rating: K+ for mild language, some violence, danger and angst.

Category: Hurt/comfort

A/N: This chapter's a bit more serious than the last one, but all's well that ends well, right? And thank you to the people that viewed, reviewed, and followed this story!

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Another time John punched Sherlock, he was asleep.

If one could call being wracked by PTSD-drug-enhanced nightmares 'sleep'.

It was several days after their trip to Dartmoor. John had written up the case and had posted it on his blog before nagging at Sherlock to clean up some of his stuff before he shuffled off to bed. He had been about to tell Sherlock to try and get some sleep himself, but one oh-don't-be-ridiculous-John look and he snuffed his doctoring. Sherlock didn't need (much) sleep. Sleep was boring.

Sherlock was in the middle of painting some of the toenails from the fridge (in order to later test the effect of different acids on the different nail polishes) when the screaming started.

Earlier in the week, Sherlock had heard John having a nightmare. He had been quiet, soft sobs mostly. Begging, pleading. Wordless mutters. Not an uncommon occurrence—John still had nightmares, about once or twice a month by Sherlock's reckoning, but they weren't too dreadful—John usually didn't even remember them in the morning. So Sherlock had ignored him. It had gone quiet after a bit, as usual. Sherlock had made a hot breakfast for his flat mate… no, friend, when he woke up in the morning, looking more haggard than usual. No tea or coffee though, John didn't trust him with that anymore, with good reason.

But this time was much more than a Bit Not Good. A gut-wrenching bellow had first jolted Sherlock out of his experiment, followed by an explosive scream that made Sherlock feel as if someone was performing open-heart surgery on him without anesthesia. He was across the flat, up the stairs, and through the door before John could draw anther shattered breath.

"John," Sherlock said. Nothing. John was usually a light sleeper; Sherlock could wake him by just coming up the stairs, never mind charging through the door.

"John!" more frantic now. Nothing. John continued to writhe on the bed, yelling incoherent orders and unmasked raw emotion.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted, gently laying his hand on John's shoulder. The wounded one, he realized too late. Shit.

John punched him, hard, threw himself out of the bed, tackled the reeling detective to the floor, and whipped a pistol out of nowhere in less time than it took for Sherlock to utter his oath. With one eye rapidly swelling shut, Sherlock carefully watched the loaded firearm pointed at his head and the oblivious man behind it.

"John," Sherlock said once more, cautiously, calmingly. He watched as the nightmares gradually faded from his friend's eyes, a look of utter horror coming over John's face as he realized what he had unknowingly done, what he had been about to do, the pistol dropping from his shaking hands onto the carpet.

"Jesus, Sherlock."

"It's ok, John. It's ok." Sherlock soothed as John tried to regain his composure. "Let me, um, get you a cup of tea and…"

"No."

"I'm not going to do anything to it John, I think we've determined that…"

"No. You are getting some ice on that eye. Come on," he muttered, picking himself up off the floor. John dashed his sleeve across his too-bright eyes before stumbling down the stairs. His time in the army might have ruined his sleep, but he was an army doctor and he had a patient. Everything else would have to wait.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Ouch! Stop it!"

"Hold still, you big baby! If you don't want punched in the face you shouldn't startle ex-army captains! I told you, in case you've deleted it, to turn on the bloody lights if you can't wake me up. Whatever possessed you to…"

"I'm glad you sleep with your gun," Sherlock changed the topic unexpectedly.

"What? Why? Dear god, Sherlock, I almost shot you!"

"If I had been one of Moriarty's henchmen, you couldn't have had a faster, or a better reaction."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. There. Swallow these and make up a good story to tell Lestrade tomorrow. If word gets out that we had a bloody domestic…"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"…and that's how I got this hematoma," Sherlock finished.

"Riiight. If you think I'm going to believe that, you're dumber than you think Anderson is. What really happened, John?" Lestrade scoffed.

"Don't look at me, I wasn't there. He told me a completely different story, if you're curious. Something about a primary school field trip and a pink umbrella, if I remember correctly."

Sherlock shot John a dirty look that was expertly ignored.

"Really?" Another, even filthier, look. "Whatever, keep your secrets. I need you to look at this file, I think you might find it interesting…"