John dragged himself up the stairs to the flat. It had been a long day, and he was exhausted. He hadn't been sleeping well lately- his nightmares had returned. He was looking forward to a nice cuppa, a bit of telly and an early night.

He walked through the door to the flat and froze. The sitting room had been straightened and the kitchen had been scrubbed.

"Sherlock?" he called, curious as to what was going on.

"Oh, good, you're home," Sherlock walked out of his bedroom, carrying a folder. "Have a seat, I'll make tea."

John sunk onto the couch, feeling as if he had stepped in to some bizarre parallel world. He waited patiently for Sherlock, thinking that this looking a lot like an apology.

"What did you do?" John accused him as he returned with two steaming mugs of tea. This was all so out of character for Sherlock that John was beginning to wonder if he had taken a blow to the head.

"I did not "do" anything," Sherlock looked hurt, "Am I not allowed to be nice?"

"Sherlock…"

"I just wanted to thank you."

"Whatever for?" John was bewildered. He didn't recall doing anything that warranted thanking.

"For being my friend and for putting up with my idiosyncrasies. I know that I'm not particularly easy to live with," Sherlock said, sinking into his chair, "Or be friends with, for that matter."

"Sherlock, you don't need to thank me for that," John said, feeling sad for him. How many friends had abandoned him in order for Sherlock to feel he must thank John for just staying?

"Well, I just wanted to show my appreciation for all you do, even if I whine about it on occasion," he smiled, "I also have something for you." Sherlock handed the folder to John, who opened it. Inside he found sheet music, it looked like an orchestral composition.

"What is this?" John asked, perplexed.

"I have noticed your nightmares have become increasingly worse over the last few months. I have also noticed that when I play my violin, you sleep more soundly. So I wrote you a piece of music. It's called "Dreamers of Dreams," taken from the poem by O'Shaughnessy."

"So this is why you've been learning all those instruments."

"Yes. I felt that I couldn't really write an orchestral piece without a rudimentary understanding of the instruments I planned to write for. Do you want to hear it?" he asked tentatively.

"Very much so."

Sherlock stood and got his computer, hitting play. They were soon surrounded by a slow, sweet melody. John was amazed at the beauty of the piece, and was soon lost in the moment. When the music ended, they sat in silence for a few minutes, savoring the melody.

"Did you record this yourself?" John asked.

"That was the other reason I learned all those instruments."

"It seems you got better at French Horn," he said, drawing a laugh from both of them. "I really don't know what to say. That was so beautiful, thank you."

Sherlock gave him a small smile, "You're welcome."

John stretched, "Well, what do you want for dinner?"

"I'm not terribly hungry."

"You need to eat, Sherlock. How about Indian?"

"That's fine."

The two men spent the rest of the evening watching telly and eating. And when John went to bed, he listened to Sherlock's composition. It was the first time he slept through the night in months, completely free of his nightmares.

This is the first multi-chapter story I've put up since I started writing again! Thanks to those of you who have been here with me the whole way. I would love to hear what you think, reviews definitely help me keep writing.