This idea came a few weeks ago (I forget what prompted it…something on DeviantART I think) and I had written most of it out…but then school got in the way -_- At least I (finally) finished it!

Nightmares, Rain, and a Leaky Roof

For the past ten minutes, John had been staring at a particular spot on his bed. Well, not really his bed; it's the hotel's bed. Though technically, it's John's bed for the night. For two nights– however long it takes for Sherlock to solve this case. So most likely for this one night. Of course, John would rather be in the bed rather than staring at it, but what can you do when the hotel apparently has a leaky roof?

Why did it have to be raining? John asks himself hotly. Out of all the times we book a hotel with a bloody leak, it just has to be the time it's raining.

"John, what are you staring at?"

Even without turning around, John knows the exact position Sherlock's in. Sitting up straight, legs stretched out in front of him, his hands will be tucked underneath his chin in that prayer-like pose, and lastly his head will be staring straight ahead.

John turned his head to face his companion. He'd been exactly right in detailing Sherlock, except for one thing. Sherlock's face was looking at John, tilted in a questioning way.

Oh course he's looking at you, John thinks. He asked you a question idiot.

Sighing, John turns his face around to stare at the bed once again before he answers. "A problem Sherlock. I'm staring at a problem."

John waits for Sherlock to use his magical deducing powers to kick in– though Sherlock would of course disprove and scoff at the notion of 'magic'. And in three, two o–

"Ah, you're talking about the leaky ceiling." Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second before he spoke again, "You know John there are two beds in this hotel room."

John looked over at the consulting decretive; at his flat mate; at his recently non-deceased friend. Had it really been only a few months since Sherlock popped back into his life. (Literally popped; it's a long story.) Before John met Sherlock, he had nightmares about the war. After, the nightmares had decreased (but they were unfortunately never gone for good). But when Sherlock had 'died,' John's nightmares returned. Only this time, it wasn't images of the war the army doctor kept reliving; it was the moment when Sherlock fell off the building. The moment when he called John telling him that the lie was the truth. The moment when John tried to reach for Sherlock's hands, but kept having people push him away. "It's for your own good," they had said. For my own good my arse, John thought acidly, both then and now.

"…I know Sherlock."

"I won't mind sharing. Probably won't sleep anyway."

John looked at his friend with a sort of resigned annoyance. "Sherlock, you need to get some sleep. It's been, what? A week since you've slept?"

"It's only been nighty-eight hours, John; barley over four days. And you're avoiding my statement."

"It would-"

"No one else is in here John," Sherlock said dryly. "You need to sleep and I need to deduce. But neither one of us can do anything so long as you stand there like a complete and utter fool, watching the puddle on the bed get larger. For the both our sakes, please just get in my bed."

John blinked. He stood there for a moment longer, vainly trying to think up an excuse, before finally obliging the younger man's wishes. John suddenly became acutely aware of his pajamas. A white tank top with red and black plaid pants. Sherlock was wearing his thin grey T-shirt with his equally thin blue-ish pants. As John crawled into bed, staying at close to the edge as possible, he wondered why he was suddenly aware of his night attire.

"What did you say?" John rolled over partially to look at the murmuring man beside him.

Sherlock didn't answer him, but he appeared to be talking to himself. John caught some words and understood immediately. He was thinking about the case. After all, that was why they were out here, in this bloody hotel room in the middle of nowhere.

"Change of scenery will do me good, John," Sherlock had said. "And besides, this was the last place our Mr. Nepley was before he was found gutted." John was just grateful that this wasn't the exact room where he was found. That was still under quarantine.

Rolling his eyes, John turned over so his back would once again face Sherlock. Knowing that it wouldn't faze the concentrating detective in the slightest, John reached up and turned off the lamp. Of course, Sherlock made no response signally he had registered the sudden lack of light.

"Night, Sherlock," John whispered to the darkness.

It was hours later, when he had finally solved the case, did Sherlock even realize the cool darkness all around him.

"Wait, John did you say something?" He turned to the man in question only to find that he was fast asleep. John was now lying on his back, one hand raised above his head, the other laying near his side; a position Sherlock identified with as when John entered (or was currently in) REM sleep. He looked completely at peace. In other words, no have nightmares plagued him as of yet.

He knew all about John's nightmares. Sherlock even knew that John knew his flat mate had discovered the nightmares. Really, it was difficult to hide anything when around the consulting detective. But nightmares were just filed under the "Do Not Discuss" list in Sherlock's brain. He never had one until he met John. All of the items on the list are relevant to John in some way or another. Either it was directly related, or indirectly (something that John had explained was 'not good' to say).

Nightmares were the top of the list. Living with an ex-army doctor, Sherlock would've been surprised if John didn't experience some form of nightmare from his past life. The next thing on the list was one that had formed only recently. Ever since he returned, Sherlock noticed that John got into the peculiar habit of touching him. To the common eye it was very discreet, but to the trained Sherlock Holmes, it practically screamed bloody murder.

At first, Sherlock tried to ignore it, figuring that John was only doing it to remind himself that Sherlock was actually alive. John would discontinue it eventually. But as the months passed, John didn't quit. And Sherlock went from wishing John would stop to not caring to finding it oddly comforting and strangely...endearing? The frequent shoulder bumps while walking, the seemingly random hands-on-the-shoulder, even the three times John accidently fell asleep on Sherlock's shoulder while watching late-night telly felt normal. This happened in the span of five months.

Watching John breath and the peace that was clearly evident on his face brought a smile to Sherlock's lips. He couldn't fathom why. He had always liked John. He was dubious at the first meeting of course (he'd already been through too many failed flat mates), but when John had described his deducing as 'amazing' and actually enjoy the thrill of the chase, Sherlock's irrational heart immediately took to liking the doctor. His rational brain soon followed.

Seeing John strapped into a bomb –no matter how terrifying it was– actually helped Sherlock understand something. John was truly special. He was a once-in-a-lifetime type of person and Sherlock was not going to let anything happened to him. That was the first time Sherlock acknowledged John as to what he really was: Sherlock's friend. Maybe even best friend. Sherlock's never had a friend –let alone a best friend– before, so he wasn't entirely sure what you're supposed to do with one. It had taken him months to actually tell John to his face that he considered John his friend, and that was partially from the illogical fear of the bloody imaginary hounds.

Tentatively, Sherlock brought his hand to John's hair and stoked it soothingly. They had a strange relationship. People often mistook them for lovers, which is actually feasible considering how they are so regularly around each other. More so than regular flat mates or regular friends. But they're not lovers. First off, Sherlock despises being touched by any other human beings other than necessary gestures. They're so boring and dimwitted. (John is excused since he's not dull –or stupid– in the slightest and his constant touching is a reminder of a good thing: Sherlock's life.) And second off, as John so blatantly repeats, Sherlock's flat mate and friend is heterosexual. Even if Sherlock wanted John in that way (which he doesn't), it wouldn't have mattered since John wouldn't have been interested and might've even been scared off.

(If that's the case, why is some part of Sherlock mind –the irrational part that he's always careful to lock and seal tightly up– insistent on not following his 'married to my work' rule?)

"Sherlock…" John murmured.

Sherlock quickly withdrew his hand. Had he woken John? That would be under the 'not good' category– waking someone by running your fingers through their hair, right?

But no… John wasn't awake. Though it was dark, Sherlock's eyes managed to catch the precise movements to understand what was happening. Fists clenching and unclenching, breaths coming out in small puffs, jerking movements with the body (particularly the head), eyes scrunched up, and a hushed, panicked voice… John was having a nightmare.

"Don't…jump…"

And you didn't have to be clever Sherlock Holmes to know what it was about.

"Please," John all but whimpered.

"Shh John," Sherlock said quietly. "It's…" He trailed off. How were you supposed to comfort people at a time like this? Hug them? No, John wouldn't want to be held. Let them be? No, that seems cruel.

John's breathing become more erratic. His hands no longer clenched, but trembled. It was only a matter of time before–

"NO!" John shouted, bolting into a sitting position. His breathing was heavy, his eyes were on the verge of tears, and his heart was beating a mile a minute.

"It's okay John," Sherlock said awkwardly. "I'm here; I'm alive."

John turned to face the man who had just died in his dreams. He was still panting.

"Sherlock…?" He whispered. Slowly, John reached out. It was almost as if he were scared to touch Sherlock. Like Sherlock was only a figure in the wind and as soon as it was disturbed, the imaginary being would disappear. However, Sherlock was not imaginary. And as John's fingers felt the fabric of Sherlock's clothes and the feel of Sherlock's hand atop his, John knew that the nightmare was over.

"Sherlock," John breathed out, his voice no longer full of panic. "Sherlock!" Without warning, the doctor flung his arms around the consulting detective. Sherlock could feel a growing patch if wet forming on his shoulder.

John's crying… He realized.

Unsure of what else to do, Sherlock embraced his friend, rubbing his back in a circular motion. He hoped this was good. He hoped he wouldn't make a mistake. He never knew what to do when it came to regarding human emotions, even if it was John. Especially if it was John.

The two stayed there for a long while; John draped over Sherlock, who was trying to comfort his friend. When John's cries were subdued, Sherlock discovered that John had fallen asleep once again. Even though he was in a deep slumber, John's arms were still wrapped tightly around the detective. Without waking him up, Sherlock attempted to wriggle out of the doctor's grasp, but he only tried in vain; Dr. Watson was a very strong man. Surrendering, Sherlock slowly eased down into the bed and shifted until he was in a more comforting position.

John's head was tucked under his chin, tilted up slightly so the arch of his nose was touching the nook of Sherlock's neck. Laying prone (and only partially on Sherlock), one of John's arms rested atop the detective's chest –his hand stopping just above Sherlock's shoulder– while John's other arm was flexed and pressed tightly between one side of his body and Sherlock's embracing arms. It felt so strange, touching someone in this way –Sherlock's arms were wrapped around John, almost as if he were protecting the army doctor– but Sherlock found he didn't mind. Not really. This was John after all. John had always been different. The man had a patience that would've make Mother Teresa seem like a child in their "terrible two" stage, which was probably how he tolerated Sherlock at all. Secondly, there was an air of mystery around Dr. Watson. So full of paradoxes, that man. He became a doctor to help people, yet he also joined the army. He acts just like all those boring human beings, yet has nearly the same sense of humor as Sherlock. ("We can't giggle at a crime scene!") John was a mystery. And if there was anything Sherlock loves, it's a mystery.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock welcomed sleep. Lying here, with John in his arms, Sherlock could think of nothing else he wanted more. John was with him, why would he even need more?

I was going to add more, but I like how this ended. If anyone wants, I might write up a second chapter to make this one-shot a two-shot. Only if anyone wants to see what happens in the morning ;D