John had heard of mothers who woke up when something was wrong with their children. They'd wake to find their infant suffocating in bed, or their daughter crying. Several weeks after moving into 221B, John gained the same instinct.

It usually happened about once a week. John's body would jolt him awake, and—at first—he'd remember his war days. But then, quickly, he'd remember the quirky detective living a bedroom down and sigh. He'd climb out of bed, usually already cursing, and find Sherlock performing some scientific experiment that resembled a tribal ritual. On occasion, Sherlock wouldn't be in the kitchen; it was during these nights that John panicked—after checking the rest of the flat—because the detective was almost definitely getting shot at somewhere in downtown London.

It was one of those nights. John threw on his robe in anger, but no one heard. Sherlock wasn't home. John ran a hand through his hair and checked the flat once more, just to be sure, before calling Lestrade. No, the police force hadn't called him in. No, they hadn't heard from him. John hung up and dressed quickly (he had a premade outfit set out just for occasions such as these) and headed out the door.

He called Sherlock's phone four times on the way down the stairs. Any other time, he would have smiled at Sherlock's voicemail ("Sherlock Holmes. Don't be boring.") but not now. Taking out his keys, he walked to his car and—

—it wasn't there. He turned and banged on the front door until Mrs. Hudson—all complaints—opened the door.

"John, it's four in the morning. You're just now coming in?"

"Sherlock's missing, and so is the car." John took a deep breath and sat on the stairs, knowing full well that panic never did any good. Okay. Sherlock was probably…well, who knew? "Did you hear him leave?"

"No, dearie, I haven't heard a thing except the usual."

"He must have…what?" John tilted his head. "What's the usual?"

"Oh, you know." Mrs. Hudson sat next to John and wrapped her robe tightly around her shivering body. "The same old thing, always around two or three in the morning, at least twice a week. You know."

"Oh, you mean the violin." John shook his head and turned up his coat collar against the wind. "I'm sorry. I've been trying to get him to stop. It always keeps me up, too."

Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows collided as she shook her head. "John, I'd never dream of asking him to stop. It's the sweetest thing that boy's ever done."

"Sweet?"

"Well, yes. I wish I had someone to calm me down during nightmares."

"I don't…" John coughed and, like being hit by a brick, realized what Sherlock had been doing for him. The visions of war were becoming more and more frequent; nothing he did would keep them off. But—apparently—Sherlock tried.

He pushed the thought away, along with his guilt, and stood as his car turned the corner.

Sherlock parallel parked the car, unbuckled, and rolled down the window. "John? What are you doing up?"

John approached the window and crossed his arms. "Care to explain?"

He pointed to a bag in the passenger seat containing two gallons of milk. "We were out."

"You don't have your license yet. Do you know how—"

"How did you know I was gone?" Sherlock climbed out and leaned against the car door. "You never wake up after three."

"I do when you're being an idiot. Get inside." He grabbed the milk and paused, looking at Mrs. Hudson. He took a deep breath. "You parked well, you know."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I was expecting a lecture, not a compliment."

"Yeah, well. Don't get used to it."

Sherlock looked at him for a few moments with squinted eyes. John squirmed; he hated being deduced. His entire body froze as the detective's eyes scanned every nook, every secret and lie. Sherlock's eyebrows raised and his mouth opened in horror as his gaze moved to Mrs. Hudson. "You told him?"

She huffed. "How could you possibly—"

"That wasn't to leave our conversation."

John moved in between the two. "Mrs. Hudson, shouldn't you be getting off to bed? We'll be in shortly?" She willingly scattered off. "Sherlock, she didn't—"

"It wasn't her place."

"It wasn't your place to drive that car in the middle of the night. It wasn't your place to tell Lestrade that his wife's cheating on him. It wasn't your place to tell Mrs. Hudson that the bloke she likes is married. It wasn't your place to tell me that my sister was still drinking. And it definitely wasn't your place to try to comfort me during the night." He looked the detective in the eyes, a rare experience to captivate his entire attention. "But you don't know your place, and for that I'm grateful. Don't ever change, Sherlock."

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. "It, um, wasn't anything."

"It was." John snatched the keys out of his hand. "But no more driving until you get the license, alright?"

Sherlock smirked and pulled out his wallet, producing a glistening card.

"When did—"

"I went down yesterday while you were out with Stanford." He opened the door and moved so John could enter first. "And I bought milk, John. I really thought you'd be more grateful."

John bit his lip, deciding to hold off on cutting comebacks for just a little while longer. It was the least he could do.