The next two nights, John is permitted to sleep alone in his own bed upstairs. He thinks that he should be more pleased with this fact than he actually is. In fact, it almost sets him with a bit of unease.
It's been a long while since they've had a case of real interest and excitement – of the "chasing criminals through the streets and staying one step ahead of danger" variety. The thrill of those cases always keeps the nightmares at bay, because his mind doesn't need to relive the war to remember the adventure.
It's not so much PTSD anymore - sounds are fine, smells are fine, pictures are fine – but more about missing the uncertainty, feeling so alive. It's not that the nightmares are at all pleasant, because they are anything but, however they tend to leave more of a feeling of loss than of torment these days.
So when John wakes up just a few hours after falling asleep - panting and sweating as his heart races and the sounds of shots and screams fade away in his ears - to find Sherlock kneeling next to his bed, he's not entirely surprised. Sherlock knows better than to touch him, but his right hand is incredibly close to his left shoulder, their left hands centimeters from each other as Sherlock's concerned gaze takes in every detail of John's face.
John is still panting, but slowly getting his breathing under control. His muscles ache from being tense and he stares tiredly at the ceiling instead of Sherlock's eyes because he is just so mentally and physically exhausted. Once he calms, Sherlock finally speaks.
"Do you want some tea?" He asks quietly.
John shakes his head tiredly, "No, not this time," sometimes he does, depending on how emotionally upsetting the nightmare was; other times he simply wants to go back to sleep. He's always nervous that he may slip right back in to the nightmare where he had escaped, but it has only actually happened a handful of times.
Sherlock's left hand moves to cover John's finally, squeezing reassuringly, "Okay."
John doesn't have a good grasp on his friend's hand in return, but he squeezes back reassuringly as best he can. As John unknowingly begins to drift off, face turned away from the other man, Sherlock speaks up again.
"John?" He questions quietly, a bit unsure of himself.
"Mmm?" John grunts in response, eyes opening slowly as he turns his head to look at him again.
"Could I stay with you?"
John simply smiles sleepily before he turns on to his right side, leaving room behind him for Sherlock to join him. His bed is smaller than Sherlock's, but it's certainly big enough for two. Sherlock stands gracefully before situating himself behind John, also on his right side so he's facing the other man. There is, as usual, a small expanse of unclaimed space between them; a neutral void where the rules do not apply. Sherlock reaches his left hand across this space to place the backs of his fingers against John's spine comfortingly. He feels John breathe in a deep breath before letting it out slowly, the tension leaving his body.
Sherlock bites his lip as he fights a guilty feeling in his gut. He knows as well as John does that his nightmares come back when there's a lull in the cases that involve a larger amount of leg work – the more dangerous, the better.
The next morning, after John has left for work at the surgery, Sherlock takes a cab to New Scotland Yard.
"What do you mean you have nothing for me?" Sherlock yells at Lestrade in his office.
"I mean that the only cases on right now don't even hit a 5 on your scale," Lestrade bites back in annoyance.
"Oh please, don't try to pretend that you understand the first thing about my scale."
Lestrade practices calming breathing for a few moments so that he doesn't strangle the git, "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I really don't have anything requiring your assistance."
"But I'm bored," he stresses with a small pout.
"And I am not your bloody nanny in charge of keeping you entertained!"
Sherlock knows he has a point, but he needs to find an exciting case. Now. "Please," he asks quieter, desperate.
Lestrade closes his eyes (he's always done better dealing with Sherlock if he can't see his manipulative face) and shakes his head, "Alright," he concedes, eyes opening again and grabbing a stack of files from his desk, offering them out, "These are the cases we have right now. You can take a look and see if there's anything you can help with, but I swear there's nothing here worth your time, bored or no."
Sherlock graces him with a small, grateful smile as he grabs the files and sits down, "Thank you."
Lestrade shakes his head again, in bemusement this time, and goes about ignoring the other man.
"Come on, John, we're losing him!" Sherlock shouts at his companion as they chase the murderer.
Sherlock had discovered the case earlier in the day and followed the leads. It was a death that was being half-heartedly investigated by NSY due to "slightly suspicious circumstances". The grandmother was slowly poisoned by her grandson for the inheritance; he had fallen on some hard times and needed the money sooner rather than whenever the old bat decided to die herself.
As soon as John had gotten home, Sherlock had dragged him out on the case and now they were chasing the lad through backstreets and alleys, the blood pumping through their veins. Sherlock may have found the case for John, but he was enjoying himself immensely, as well; they had both needed this.
"Right," John agrees, pushing himself faster.
After another minute of pursuit, the murderer changes tactics. He stops suddenly and doubles over, causing John to fly over him on to the pavement. John groans as he lies on his back, attempting to get his breath back. Before he can, the suspect has him standing in his arms, held steady as a knife is placed against his neck hard enough to draw a bit of blood.
Both John and Sherlock freeze and the suspect (Larry, of all the silly names) pants in to John's right ear.
"Do not move," Larry tells Sherlock.
Sherlock places his hands in the air placatingly. John can see them shaking slightly, but he knows the other man is in control. John wills himself to remain calm and to think.
"What is your plan?" Sherlock asks calmly, though inside he is frantic with the need to get John out of harms way.
"You let me get away, or I kill your friend."
Sherlock shakes his head, "That's not going to happen."
"Which part?"
"Neither."
The knife digs in a bit deeper and John can't help the pained grunt that is pulled from him. He doesn't really believe that Larry will kill him, but he sure is making things uncomfortable.
"Stop!" Sherlock shouts angrily.
"Just proving a point," the arrogant young man sneers.
Sherlock sees that John is calm, plan worked out and ready to go, he just needs to give him an opportunity to act. He takes a step back.
"Did you know you weren't in your grandmother's will before you killed her, or was that a fact that came to light later?" He asks innocently.
The statement is enough of a shock to Larry that his pressure on John's neck is lifted. John pulls his head to the left, away from the knife, as he elbows his captor in the solar plexus, steps on his instep, punches him in the nose, and then lands a final blow to his groin all in quick succession.
Larry groans pathetically from his fetal position on the ground and Sherlock rushes forward to kick the knife out of his reach.
John touches the laceration on his neck lightly, trying to gauge how deep it is simply by the amount of blood. He can't tell for certain, but he's fairly sure that it's superficial. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and places pressure on the wound, a slight grimace on his face at the discomfort.
Sherlock has Larry on his stomach now, face digging in to the rough ground as his right knee presses in to his back, his long-fingered hands grasping Larry's together. Lestrade and his men arrive just two minutes later and take Larry away. The cab ride home is silent.
Shortly after returning home and bandaging his neck, John shifts uncertainly near the doorway, ready to head to bed.
He finally clears his throat, gaining the attention of his friend on the sofa, "Will you be sleeping tonight?" he asks as casually as possible. The safest route of asking the real question: 'Which bed am I sleeping in tonight?'
Sherlock considers. He's not done going through the case in his mind, perturbed with himself for having gotten John hurt when all he wanted to do was help him. Yes, it wasn't really much of an injury but... "Maybe in a bit. Feel free to sleep in your own bed tonight if you'd like."
"Right," John says with a firm nod, trying not to think about the feeling of disappointment in his gut as he heads upstairs to sleep.
Sometime later, John wakes to the sound of his name being shouted, along with other sounds that don't quite seem to form real words. He rushes downstairs to find Sherlock still on the sofa. The younger man is slouched awkwardly and is obviously in the fit of a nightmare.
"John, no!" he shouts again, face screwed up in pain and worry.
John hasn't had to comfort someone having a nightmare before, like others have done for him, but he knows some basics. Without needing to worry about PTSD in Sherlock's case, he makes a decision. He sits on the cushion next to his friend, not yet touching him. He lays his right hand very lightly against Sherlock's left shoulder, the whisper of a touch. This appears to drain the worry from Sherlock, but replaces it with an intense sadness.
"John," he calls quieter, as though he himself is lost.
John rests his hand more solidly against the shoulder while whispering "Shhh."
They alternate this way for a few minutes: Sherlock calling out to him and John whispering "shhh" or "it's okay" or "I'm here" as his hand slowly, gently moves down Sherlock's arm. When John's hand reaches the other man's and entwines their fingers, Sherlock finally wakes.
"John?" he asks, uncertain and a bit frightened.
John smiles reassuringly, "You had a nightmare. You're alright."
Sherlock's brow furrows as he calms down fairly quick. He seems to be reliving snippets of the nightmare before his entire being sags further in to the sofa tiredly.
"Want to talk about it?" John asks gently, not placing any pressure on him to do so.
Sherlock simply looks at him sadly, taking in his face and squeezes his fingers to reassure himself, but he ends up shaking his head no.
"Alright, time for bed, then," he says, not unkindly, before standing and helping Sherlock to his feet, leading him by their still-entwined hands to the bedroom. John helps him in to his side of the bed before going back around to his own and climbing under the covers. Sherlock - lying on his right side - looks slightly confused as he watches John's progress, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't relieved that the other man plans to stay with him.
From his position lying on his back, John looks over at Sherlock softly and quietly bids him, "Come here, then."
Sherlock doesn't need to ask what he means. John knows Sherlock needs his comfort right now and he willingly gives it, wrapping his arms securely around his too-thin body as Sherlock settles against his side.
After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock whispers the answer he couldn't before, "I had lost you. My nightmares are always about something happening to you."
John swallows thickly as he pulls him closer and entwines their legs. He places his lips against Sherlock's wild curls before whispering vehemently, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
No more words are needed and they eventually fall in to a peaceful slumber, Sherlock's head and left hand resting near John's beating heart.