This isn't the first story I've written for Sherlock, but it's the first one that I'm posting here. I know there's a lot of these kinds of stories on here, but I wanted to do this one a little differently than those, in that this features both Sherlock and John comforting and needing comfort.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did... oh, how things would change... how they would change...

If my devils are to leave me, I'm afraid

My angels will take flight

As well.

-Rainier Maria Wilke

221B Baker Street was never quiet, per se. There were periods where no one was home, of course, as its inhabitants were working or were out to dinner. There were periods when they were angry with each other and chose not to speak with each other, and there were times when one inhabitant refused to speak to anyone at all. There were experiments that usually made some kind of noise, especially when Sherlock Holmes was exceptionally bored. There were the exclamations of John Watson when he found some of these experiments. The telly was usually left on, as Sherlock and John would leave in a hurry and forget about it. There was the whistling of the kettle, the sizzling of food in a pan, contented noises of eating after nearly three days. There was the discordant scraping of a bow across violin strings and the flowing and beautiful music from the same instrument. There was laughter, shouting, crashing, gunshots, fighting… and that was just during the day.

At night, the noises were the same, over and over. There was still violin music, but now it was melancholy and slow. There were the sounds of the city outside the windows, playing nightly as if on a loop. Then, there were the sounds of Sherlock and John themselves.

John tended to be the most common source. He was still plagued by nightmares of Afghanistan, although he did have fewer after meeting Sherlock. However, when they returned, they did so with a vengeance. The medic would wake with a shout or a sob, drenched in sweat, his leg throbbing, his shoulder on fire. Sherlock, ever the light sleeper would immediately wake and come to him, blue robe billowing behind him. The detective then sits with the medic, speaking comforting nonsense in his deep voice, carefully massaging the pain from John's wounded shoulder. Usually, John cries, knowing Sherlock won't judge him for it. That sound depends on the night. Sometimes, the only indicator is his quiet sniffing or the hitching of his breath. Other nights he breaks down into full-on, body-wracking sobs, wailing like a wounded animal, tears streaming down his face. It is then that Sherlock carefully gathers the shorter man into his arms and holds him protectively to his chest, where John can feel the words of comfort rumbling gently. John clings to Sherlock like a lifeline, like he might disappear at any second. It helps to calm him. John never talks about his nightmares, and Sherlock doesn't press him. He does, however, stay with the medic for as long as he wants him to, and more than once, the detective was there all night. Sherlock would lay beside John and simply envelop him in his arms, his face pressed into the soft, blonde hair.

On occasion, Sherlock was the source of noise. This was a somewhat rarer occurrence than John's making noise, but it occurred nonetheless. The explosion at the pool had rattled the detective, had shown him how foolish he'd been with John, how careless he was. Moriarty had shown him his one weakness, a new one: John Watson.

So, when Sherlock wakes with a cry in the middle of the night, covered in sweat and terrified, it is John's name on his lips. The medic comes to him quickly, concern etched in every line of his face, The detective is breathing hard, close to hyperventilating, and the medic climbs into bed behind him, his chest pressed up against Sherlock's back. He breathes slow and steady, trying to force the detective to breathe the same, to calm himself. The warm weight pressed against him is a comfort in itself, vibrating slightly as John murmurs that everything is alright, that he isn't leaving, isn't gone, is right here. The detective's breath shudders as he takes it in and lets it out. The medic continues to whisper as he runs his fingers through the dark curls, strokes his hand up and down the pale arm. Sherlock clings to the feeling of John behind him, letting it ground him. He listens to John begging for him to come back to him, to stay with him, his lips close to Sherlock's ear. This breakdown is the only emotional release the detective usually has, and it shows in his behaviour. Despite John's ministrations, Sherlock's breakdown is inevitable. The dam bursts, and Sherlock sobs heavily, his thin frame shaking in John's arms. The medic carefully turns the detective to face him, pulling him tight to his chest. He strokes the dark curls, rubs the thin back. Sherlock weeps pitifully into John's shoulder, hands fisted in John's shirt so tight it might tear. John just holds him, trying to keep his friend together for at least the night. It takes him a long time to calm down, to stop crying. He keeps his face planted against the medic's shoulder, breathing in his scent. Sherlock doesn't talk about his nightmares, and John doesn't press him. Instead, he coaxes the detective into laying back down on the bed, still holding him tightly. He holds Sherlock all night, face pressed into the soft, dark curls, dropping chaste kisses whenever he felt it necessary.

They never spoke of it. They simply woke and went about their business as usual. It just becomes another part of their routine, dealing with each other's demons. They at least took solace in knowing that, while they had some major issues, they had each other for comfort, that it might be the only thing that holds them together… but for now, it's enough.

Reviews are a lovely surprise. Please give some concrit on my first foray into the fandom. I'd really appreciate it!