Late again. I'm so sorry. Two chapters, as per my rule when I'm late.

After Nightmares is officially over I may take a break before starting in on The Great Game. It's a heck of a lot of stuff fit into an episode, and I want to do it justice.

The next morning John blinked himself awake and walked out into the sitting room to find Sherlock curled up on his couch.

He smiled, pulled up her duvet, and made tea, coming back in to find her awake and alert, though her curls were in a cloud around her head as if they had a mind of their own.

"Morning," he said, pushing a mug of tea and a plate with some toast over to her.

"I don't know how you sleep on here," she muttered as she reached for the cup. "My back hurts."

John shrugged. "Suppose I'm used to being sore."

"You didn't have any nightmares last night," Sherlock commented, and John almost spit out his tea. He'd thought they weren't talking about this, but Sherlock was looking up at him expectantly and he swallowed.

"Yes, well, all's well that ends well, I suppose," he said, and she looked at him searchingly.

"You were captured in Afghanistan," she stated, and John frowned.

"Right. Yes. Well. Wasn't the only one."

Sherlock nodded. "You survived." She took a bite of her toast and John stared at her.

"What?"

"You survived," she repeated. "You said all's well that ends well, and you were right. You survived."

"Yes, well, sometimes survival doesn't feel like the better option," he snapped before he thought, then shut his mouth with a click, wishing he could take the words back. Sherlock's eyebrows rose as she looked at him, and he looked past her, jaw clenching.

"I know," she said quietly. "Still."

John let his eyes flicker back to her, and the understanding he saw there made him relax a bit.

"You don't have nightmares," he said, changing the subject, and Sherlock shook her head.

"Used to," she answered. "They're starting to be rarer, now."

"What helped?" he asked, and she gave him a small smile, but didn't answer. "Right, then, thanks for the help," he said grumpily, and bit into his toast with a crunch.

"You're welcome," she said seriously, and he glanced up at her to see that smile lingering, and gulped down his toast before sighing and pulling his laptop closer, opening his blog and pulling up The Blind Banker, making himself comfortable and beginning to type with two fingers, ignoring Sherlock as she began to shift on her chair with boredom, and then as she pulled her cello over and began to pluck out various tunes, ignoring the use of her bow. Finally John finished the post, hitting post with satisfaction and then flicking the lid closed to give Sherlock a pointed look.

"All right," he groaned. "What's on your agenda for today, then? Any cases on?"

Sherlock frowned. "No."

John raised an eyebrow at her. "Experiments?"

"Finished my last one," she replied, a bit of a whinge in her voice.

"So you're saying I have a day off and you aren't going to drag me round London?" he asked, and Sherlock outright pouted. He grinned.

"Right, then, get dressed," he said, getting up to put his laptop carefully on the coffee table, and she looked at him eagerly.

"You have a case?"

He shook his head. "I have a plan. We're going to the park."

She frowned. "What's at the park?"

"Ducks," John said, grinning at her look of distaste, and went to get dressed.

"What's going to happen to Timothy?" John asked Sherlock as she stomped along the path next to the pond, scowling at the ducks as though they'd personally offended her.

She shrugged. "Don't know. Likelyhood is Mycroft's found his next of kin, now, for him and his sister."

"It's sad," John said frankly, and shoved his hands in his pockets, then grinned over at Sherlock, whose hair was coming out of her messy ponytail in the wind. "When's the last time you went to the park?"

She frowned. "I think I was twelve. Mycroft insisted."

John chuckled. "I bet you were cute, all curls and questions."

Sherlock gave him a curious look. "I believe I was told I was 'annoying' more than 'cute'."

"Well, they were wrong," he said stubbornly, and Sherlock smiled unexpectedly. John had a thought, and grinned back. "I want to see photos."

"No!" Sherlock protested, and John chuckled.

"I bet Mycroft will give them to me," he replied, and Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and grabbed his arm. "Come on, John, we have to go home."

They had barely closed the door of the flat - Sherlock had practically dragged John the whole way home - when she turned to him. "Right," she said quickly. "I need you to take off your clothes."

John blinked at her. "What?"

"Your clothes, John, I need them."

John shoved his hands in his pockets, setting his jaw. "I am not stripping for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face paled, and she shook her head, loosening several curls from her ponytail in the process. "Not here! Go, change, now," she insisted, pushing him toward his room, and he rolled his eyes, not really caring just so long as he didn't have to get naked in front of the detective.

"Why?" he asked when she slammed his bedroom door behind him, and he began to peel off his jumper, grabbing an old t-shirt from his closet and beginning to change.

"Mycroft's bugged you, I want to know where the bug is."

"What?" John was a bit alarmed, now, and Sherlock didn't answer. He changed quickly, and soon he was tossing his clothes at Sherlock, dressed in some old sweats. She sat on the floor and rummaged through them, inspecting the linings, pockets, and the bottom of his shoes before holding up his jacket with a quiet, "Ha!"

"When did he...?" John asked, but then he remembered being ushered in to Mycroft's office, and Anthony's small tap on his side, and groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I feel like I'm in a James Bond film."

"A who film?" Sherlock asked, using a pocketknife to cut the bug off his jacket lining.

"James Bond - don't tell me you haven't watched James Bond," John said, looking at her in exasperation.

She shrugged, putting the bug on the floor and closing the pocketknife to use the handle as a makeshift sledgehammer, gleefully pounding the bug into so many pieces into the sitting room rug. "I probably deleted it."

"How can you delete James Bond?" John asked. "That's it, change of plans, we're watching them today."

"I am not filling my head with useless drivel, John, especially if it reminds you in any way of my brother," Sherlock insisted, and tossed his clothes back at him with a frown.

"Fine," John grinned, catching the wad of fabric. "I'll watch them, with the volume up. You'll come over to look sometime."

"Says who?" Sherlock challenged him.

"Says you," John said, throwing his clothes on the bed. It's not like he was going to go out again anyway. "You're too curious not to look."

Sherlock waved him off dismissively, and John grinned. The game was on.