I'm certain many of you were convinced I would never get this chapter up. I actually wrote John's chapter first as a 221B but Sherlock's ended up being longer and I felt John should have his chance too. I'm rather pleased with how this came out. Especially since this went through five different drafts, two of them being lost after they were finished.

Many thanks to MapleleafCameo, if not for her none of this would have been shared.

Sadly, I don't own them. Not even the quote. It belongs to Dr. Seuss. :-)

John's eyes scanned through his latest case write-up. Satisfied there were no spelling mistakes, he posted it on his blog then closed his laptop. After setting it to the side, he gave a good stretch and glanced across at Sherlock, the man captivated by the book resting in his lap.

Six years had passed since he'd first laid eyes on the dramatic genius. Hints of gray now mixed with dark, curly hair and reading glasses were propped upon the aristocratic nose. When Sherlock reached up to scratch at his left ear, John smiled, mind drifting, slipping backward.

As a young boy, his family loved to laugh at the youngest Watson's love of sleep. John's Gran would tell him of his ability to rest through the night when only two months old. How his parents were certain it wouldn't last but last it did. For the young boy, there was something lovely about snuggling down into the fitted sheet, the duvet covering him, protecting him, while he rubbed his head against his pillow three times, took a deep breath and let himself fall into dreams.

Many nights he would go up to his room before bedtime and later, as his father drank and Harry fussed in a nearby room, little Johnny dreamed. Some nights he was visiting his Nan, the two of them baking his favorite biscuits. Other times he was fighting dragons or patching up animals that needed his help.

As John grew, girls or injured people replaced mythical creatures, but even after leaving his parents' house, he still loved a good night's rest. Yes, he might drop into bed exhausted during medical school, but a night out with his mates at the pub didn't stop him from being the first to leave so he could get some real sleep before the next day. In Afghanistan, circumstances and commanding officers controlled every part of John's life.

Once discharged and back in London, he fought to fall back into a regular sleeping schedule. John was quick to learn he might not be in the active war zone physically, but his mind was more than happy to send him back there as he dreamed. He started taking long walks in an attempt to tire himself so he might sleep through the night, determined to regain one of the things stolen from him. Weeks of moderate success passed.

Just after the New Year, Mike introduced him to Sherlock Holmes and life again changed. Not only did his limp disappear, but also the boredom and consistent hours of sleep John had started reclaiming. Now John spent many of his nights helping to solve crimes. Mycroft had been correct their first meeting. A person did see the battlefield when they walked with his brother and John was happy to be by his side for two years.

Then Reichenbach happened and one of John's worst nightmares became a reality.

Even after finding Mary, John's dreams were haunted; a smile only he could see, shared giggles after an insane moment, violin music, both men in 221B. At times, he fought tears as the contentedness seeped from his bones upon waking. When Mary teased him about his loving sleep more than he loved her, John smiled as guilt pricked his conscience.

Then, as only he could, Sherlock Bloody Holmes returned.

John filled his days with wedding plans and shifts at the surgery, his nights spent sleeping beside Mary or solving cases with Sherlock. Happy to have his friend in his life again, John found his dreams more pleasant. He slept less but better than he had since Moriarty's final move.

John chose to not spend more than a few seconds of thinking on his time with Mary after their wedding. One month of bliss before everything had gone to hell: Sherlock bleeding out in front of him, Mary not as he'd believed, Magnussen dead and Sherlock shipped off on a suicide mission as punishment.

After everything had settled down, thank God Moriarty was well and truly dead, more lies came to surface and the Watsons, with no baby on the way after all, had finally admitted there was nothing to salvage. John, feeling like a complete fool, left his marriage with only a single bag of clothes and made his way to Baker Street once more. Sherlock knowing what had happened as soon as he opened the door was not a surprise, but the tight hug that followed was and John had fought back tears at the comfort he felt in the gesture.

Two years later, they were still catching criminals and John couldn't remember a time when he had felt more content. He was still fit for his age, was part of something important and while he slept less than recommended, he found he didn't crave the escape it had once offered him. He loved the time spent working with Sherlock on a case, listening to the violin if he woke from a nightmare, reminiscing about previous adventures or simply sitting across from one another. Silent, as they were now.

John heard his Gran's voice as he remembered something she had once told him. "You know you're in love, Johnny, when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams."

Sherlock stretched his legs out and bumped John's feet with his own. At that moment, John knew how Sherlock felt when all the pieces of a case came together in front of him and a puzzle that had once been unsolvable was now complete.

John's breath caught when he realized, "I love Sherlock."

Before him was the person who mattered most. The one whose absence had left a ragged tear in the fabric that made up who John Watson had become. It was insane, wonderful and at the same time terrifying. Before John could begin to smile at the life-changing revelation, he remembered Sherlock's remarks their first night at Angelo's. His continued lack of interest in the area of romantic relationships made John pause and the times he had heard Sherlock repeat what Mycroft had taught him, "Caring is not an advantage," made John frown. Speaking about his newly discovered feelings was too much of a gamble, he decided. The odds were not in his favor.

Squaring his shoulders, John determined what he had just learned would never be shared with another soul. The possible loss of Sherlock in his life was not worth the risk.

No, forgetting the beautiful truth was best.

I had planned on a third chapter, one where confessions take place but now I'm not sure if this shouldn't be left as it is. Thoughts?