The night at 221b Baker Street was as typical as ever. Sherlock and his long limbs were draped over the sofa, while John took refuge on the floor in front of it. He would love to be in his usual arm chair, but Sherlock kept calling him over to read more files. More articles, to look over more evidence. More than he was used to doing after a full shift at the surgery and little sleep. Sherlock looked exhausted too. Light purple bags settling in under each eye, his voice growing hoarser as the night went on.

John didn't even notice that Sherlock took on his normal sulking position on the sofa. He was so focused in on reading that he also didn't notice the younger man fall asleep. John put the folder down and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling quietly. He was about to rise when he heard a noise emerge from the depths of Sherlock's chest. It was soft, but it wasn't pleasant. John settled down again and waited (assuming he interrupted the start of his sleeping cycle.) He turned his head to look at Sherlock. His body was still, but his hands were beginning to grasp the soft leather of the sofa to which he was facing.

A noise left Sherlock's mouth again, and John looked on with more concern then he started with. It was a quiet sob. His body was slowly tensing, "Sher-" John started before realizing waking this man was most likely an awful idea. He wasn't one to admit any negative feeling. Or any amount of gratitude, for that matter. If John woke him up to comfort him he would take it as an insult to his pride. No, it was much wiser to let him sleep.

John watched on. He was no stranger to nightmares, not at all, but he wished he was. He couldn't help but tell the differences between how the two dreamt. John's nightmares were violent. Yelling, gun shots, hands pulling on flesh the wrong way, tears mixed with sand, death. He would thrash in his sleep. Yell. Sit up and pull at his hair trying to find a way back into reality. Trying to break through the fog of sleep into a place more solid. He knew this because this is what Sherlock told him. It was inevitable, of course he would observe such a thing. John's gaze was still locked on Sherlock, and he urged his mind to do what Sherlock's did. Observe. Sherlock's nightmares were… quieter. Which said something about them just in those silent desperate actions. Sherlock let out sobs. Soft sobs, quiet ones, but ones drenched in emotion. He would not thrash, but his body would tense within an inch of it's life. That means he isn't dreaming about losing his own life. He is dreaming about someone or something losing their own. Maybe his mind has him placed at the time when he learns someone has died. Those moments after a death where those sounds can't be contained. The complete devastation was written across Sherlock's back. There was, indeed, so much to learn without talking.

The difference between the two were so obvious. John's nightmares were dangerous. Sherlock's were delicate. Mourning in silence, in stillness, was sometimes worse than mourning with anger, he thought.

John lifted his hand slowly, as if approaching an un-caged animal. Sherlock let out yet another cry, slowly growing in sound. If this was how Sherlock looked at the start of his nightmares, John didn't want to know how he looked during one of his. Sherlock's body was now completely tense with stress and fright, his vocalizations becoming more frequent. John decided to go in for the kill, slowly placing his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades. The soft satin of his dressing gown almost welcoming the touch. His brow forming in a concentrated shape as he looked at the thin figure. He urged his hand to move in small circles between the two pointy but thick bones, slowly making a rhythm. John almost said Sherlock's name again when he did not feel the muscles relax quickly, but soon enough they did. Loosening up under his gentle touch. Letting the rest of his body follow suit. Shorter and softer sounds continued for a bit longer, but John did his best to wish them away. Sherlock nuzzled his head into his hands and let out a sigh. His breathing slowly going back to normal. But John didn't stop. Obviously it wasn't waking him up, and it was bidding the nightmare away.

He looked forward and picked up the file again, situating himself in such a way that he could continue to rub absent minded circles onto his friends back while still being able to thumb through pages of evidence. This continued for another hour before it was John's turn to sleep.

When John drifted off to sleep, he started heaving his breaths, moving his head about side to side, scared. Reality was drifting away from him at rapid speed. Soon enough he had a gun in his hands. Screams engulfed his ears. Red staining his vision. He would do anything to be back at Baker Street. But there was nothing to grab onto here. Everything that seemed like a solid mass would curl away at John's touch. It felt as though he would be trapped there forever. The long green grass scratched across his cheek and he closed his eyes. Tears threatening to escape and dissolve him into nothing. He was convinced there was no way out of this. He would just need to accept it.

John was suddenly pulled from the ground in a wave of blurred confusion and pastel tones. He was placed in the lovely quite place between sleep and reality. It was comfortable here. There was dim lights that danced around John's blue eyes. A sigh of relief humming throughout the room. He laid down and let his eyes drift. He could breathe easily and rest. Close his eyes without the fear of breaking away.

After all, a soft pale hand with long agile fingers were anchoring him there by his shoulder. And it wasn't going to let go.