Once again sorry for the long wait. Moving, and two new jobs does that. I hope this chapter makes it worth it. If you like it let me know and if there is any way I can make it better especially let me know! Enjoy!

It is universally acknowledged that children fear the dark. They fear the boogeyman, and monsters under the bed. They fear witches and ghosts and things that have no name but slobber and growl with clawed paws that threaten their safety. Their fears are often dismissed as childhood whimsy but what nobody sees is the well-founded reality of their fear. It is not the monsters that make children fear the dark but the possibility that they may exist. Children fear the possibility of the dark and the idea that their only half realized grasp on reality is tissue thin. Now, as silence hovered over the two men, John Watson was afraid of the dark, and the possibility of what may exist.

A divide of covers separated the two men and John listened carefully to the accordion rhythm of the other man's breathing. He was keeping good time with a steady in and out and John tried to match it, hoping to lull himself to sleep, or at least convince the other man that he had succumbed. It was quite useless. Thoughts, innumerable, buzzed like lazy flies in his head. They would alight on his consciousness one at a time and as he shooed one away another would descend, upturning its acidic stomach contents on his peace of mind. He was beginning to think he had made a mistake in coming to the detective's room but the thought of his own bed made him shiver. Something about an empty bed had always reminded him of a grave. There are never two bodies in a coffin, so if he was with someone the silk sheets didn't remind him quite so much of the macabre box.

The doctor had turned his back on his friend and watched as darkness settled in his eyes. The room that had, only moments ago, been awash in pitch was settling into a midnight blue. He could make out the now familiar shapes of the bureau, the slightly open closet, and the fluttering curtains as they solidified and reminded him of the time he had spent wallowing here. He took stock of his surroundings, as any good soldier does in a time of distress, only to find the shadows of anxiety creeping in corners preparing for an ambush attack. He turned his back on the army of memories and refocused his gaze.

In the darkness Sherlock's ivory skin glowed. The small green light from the baby monitor didn't compete with the natural luminescence of the marble man but lent his skin an ethereal under-leaf life, incomparable to anything the doctor had previously witnessed. His eyes raced along the sinewy muscles that expanded and contracted with each breath and a large knot began to form in his throat. He felt the distant alarms of a panic attack, an assault he knew he could not suffer in silence. He had to call out for help.

"You still awake?"

"I wasn't until you asked me if I was."

The pale man could almost feel the heat radiating from the other man's cheeks. Sherlock could never quite understand the man's susceptibility to embarrassment. Then again he very rarely understood the social rules and constructs one must break to feel embarrassment. He turned over in bed, causing the covers to shift lower on his body and the two men to be face to face. Sherlock's vision wasn't very good in the dark and he wiggled a few inches closer until he could make out the pleasant peaks and valleys of John's face.

"I assume you had some sort of reason for waking me up."

"I couldn't sleep…"

"…and?"

"sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep."

He had been foolish for saying anything in the first place. His eyes were almost completely adjusted to the dark and he searched for some level of empathy in the other man's eyes. What he found were two pupils blasted into endless black pools, siphoning any available light and information deep into the chasm that was the detective's superlatively enigmatic mind. Somewhere, surely, there had to be an experience he could draw on to relate to John's restless insomnia. The doctor knew the man barely slept, his rocket brain too busy tearing itself to pieces, so he must understand what it's like to have anxiety snapping along every synapse.

"I can hear you thinking."

"I'm sorry, I'll politely ask my anxiety to keep it down so you can get your beauty sleep." Irritability. John silently chastised himself for letting his fear mutate into the familiar monster of frustration. He knew his little snarky outbursts never registered with his flatmate as a personal attack. Even as the words left his mouth he knew the other man had psychoanalyzed them and would be logging them away in a mental file labeled "John's misdirected aggressions". He shuddered to think how large that file had become.

"Are you alright?"

Although immune, and often amused by the blogger's petulant frustrations, Sherlock couldn't help but worry. He was in an unfamiliar situation, one in which he had very little practical knowledge. He had only shared a bed with Mycroft, and that was only on a single occasion when he was twelve and the incompetent travel agent had bungled his parents rooming request during their vacation in France. Beyond that adolescent unpleasantry , he was a total stranger to the decorum of sharing a bed and felt he had to cede to John's sentimental tendencies, seeing as he was the expert in this situation.

"You know, I don't think I am." The honesty took both men by surprise. The doctor's obsession with maintaining a certain level of normalcy, however thin and delusional the façade may be, had always forced him to subscribe to the knee jerk responses when it came to questions of mental well-being. He could distinctly remember the rare occasion he had responded to his therapist's "how've you been, John?" with anything other than a well measured "been alright. And you?". It was just what people did. Nobody really expects the truth when they ask that question. It was one of those silly social constructs that all of England somehow decided upon. A construct that he was sure Sherlock would never waste his time with. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, very few people asked Sherlock how he was doing. And even more rarely did Sherlock ask someone else how they were doing. John had always assumed that Sherlock either deduced their state without needing to ask or simply found that sort of information unnecessary. It was this rarity that wrung the honesty out of the doctor.

"Well… why aren't you alright?"

John's laughter made the detective tense up. He often did things that made his friend laugh but it was almost never purposeful. Usually it didn't bother him; the laughter never had the cruel edge that would transport him back to his days on the playground, where vicious Neanderthal spawn did their best to smite his genius with derision. This laughter, however, was alien to him. It was riddled with the metallic clang of bridled tension.

"Sherlock, the love of my life has died, I have a daughter who I can't look at without seeing her mother's face, I have barely resurfaced from a violent depression, and I am a fully grown man who has seemingly acquired a very real fear of the dark. My life hasn't just been upturned, it's been bombed, blown to smithereens. I don't know who I am, what to do, and I can't seem to get my brain to quiet down for more than three seconds. And you… you've been acting oddly, well oddly for you, well, not oddly… I don't know… you just… it's not the same between us anymore. And Mary said…"

He finally put screeching breaks on the verbally derailed train that had come barreling out of his mouth. The darkness and close quarters were more than willing to cradle all of his pent up truths but he knew he wasn't ready to make Sherlock privy to Mary's final words to him.

"I'm sorry… I just won't be alright for a while. I'm…I'm trying though. I'm sure I'll get there."

The room felt like it finally had begun to breathe again and the stifling repressed energy began to dissipate. Even the city crickets picked up their chirping violins and lent a tasteful soundtrack to the silence that rest its head on the single pillow the two men had somehow come to share. John waited for the imminent response. He waited, in full knowledge that he was about to receive a perfectly logical lecture on why he shouldn't be so upset, death was an inescapable part of life, and darkness is simply an absence of light, no use crying over the departed or fearing something benign and intangible. He would dismiss it all as foolish sentiment and the doctor couldn't deny that factually he would be correct.

"…is there anything I can do? To help, that is." Perhaps, the doctor pondered, he had actually fallen asleep and this was some hyper realistic dream, only just now straying into the realm of the fantastical world where Sherlock Holmes offered emotional support rather than a lecture. He discretely pinched himself only to find the same two expectant silver shards gazing at him. They were waiting for an answer but the doctor found his endless well of words had inopportunely run dry.

The burgeoning dawn pressed eagerly at the edges of the drawn curtains, prying to see what had transpired between the two men in its absence. John's heart willed the sun to wait just a few minutes before it shattered the porcelain figure's new found indulgence. He knew that with the new day reality would be restored. He would be a father again. Sherlock would be a high functioning sociopath and the most brilliant man in the world. But in this flickering moment none of that mattered. Sherlock cared. He cared about John and that was enough to make all the monsters in his mind slink back to the sewers and catacombs they had come from.

"John…" the way his name sounded, rolling like hot baritone lava out of the detective's mouth, warmed John to the core. An odd, fuzzy little thought burrowed into the doctors sleep-deprived mind and made a happy home there. It didn't feel unfamiliar. It was a thought that played on the periphery of his mind, usually making its home in that soft stretch of land between waking and sleep. He had noticed it before but this was the first time it had ever dare venture into the forefront of his consciousness. The thought stretched its legs, happy with all the attention it was now receiving and refused to leave, even with the doctor's insistence. He wanted to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

He became acutely aware of the feeling of the other man's breath tickling his nose. Somehow Sherlock Holmes didn't get morning breath. He seemed too posh for it. His usually caustic tone seemed to cleanse his palate of any offensive mars. John, however, knew that he got and currently had morning breath. He could taste it at the back of his throat, or maybe it was just the aftertaste of anxiety, but he tried to reason with the thought using his halitosis as ammunition. If Mary refused to kiss him in the morning, why would his best mate ever agree to?

The ridiculousness of his train of thought finally caught up with him. He had barely slept in the last 48 hours and the effects were beginning to show. Obviously he didn't want to kiss Sherlock, he was just sleep deprived and lonely. Trying to fill the hole that Mary had left in her wake. Kissing Sherlock would be like trying to fill the Grand Canyon with the contents of a child's sandbox. And besides, he was Sherlock Holmes …and besides, John was straight… and besides, that was just something that couldn't and would never happen.

"John, I want to be of assistance."

"Maybe just… could you maybe hold me for a bit? Whenever my PTSD got bad Mary would just hold me and it would make it a little better."

Although he had refused the original thought, holding was different. Holding could be platonic. Sherlock had said himself that he understood the concept of physical comfort, and in this moment nothing appealed more to John's needs than a hug.

"Just holding?" For once the ever present self-certain quality that pervaded Sherlock's voice vanished. He sounded tentative, afraid almost, as if he wasn't quite sure he could physically accomplish the act. John's patience had begun to wear thin as his body begged for comfort and sleep. Wordlessly he closed the now miniscule gap between the two. The taller man's arms ensconced him so delicately, two unfamiliar wings taking their first stab at the impossible concept of flight. But like a bird to the sky the position came naturally to the two men, the doctor finding himself nestled below the detective's chin in a marble spot that seemed to have been carved just for him.

The world had moved onto the second act as bird songs replaced the crickets' orchestra. John's mind finally slowed to a sluggish trundle and the funny furry little thought began doing back flips as it was welcomed back into its primary lucid terrain. It was inescapable, un-ignorable, and in the moment the most logical thing in the quickly fading conscious world around him. The doctor smiled, knowing how much Sherlock appreciated logic. In fact, the furry little thought argued, he would be mad if John didn't listen to this very logical thought.

The strong arms around him felt logical and right, the quiet breathing mixing with the ever growing dawn light felt logical and right and the sleep deprived, anxiety-addled doctor did what his heart and mind thought to be logical and right. He wiggled up, a journey of only an inch or two and gently kissed the man he had come to know and care for deeply. The brief moment where their two lips met was the most right John had felt in months, maybe years. He slipped back into his little hollow not realizing fully what he had just done and fully content on making a quick getaway to dream land, if he wasn't there already.

Suddenly the room dropped ten degrees as the comforting embrace became a frigid abandonment. Sherlock was out of the bed and dressed before John had time to open his eyes. He dragged his mind from the brink of unconsciousness and his actions finally dawned on him.

"Oh God…Sherlock…I'm so- "

The slam of the door shut his mouth. Panic returned with cavalry as the doctor threw himself out of bed. The chill hard wood floor bit into his feet only reminding him further of the insanity he had just committed. He heard the definitive thumps as Sherlock rocketed down the stairs. His body was still recovering and he cursed his cement feet into a quicker pace, stumbling on the last step and watching the navy coat tails flutter a jaunty goodbye as the door to the apartment building sealed his fate.

Mrs. Hudson, with the morning tea, tsked as she eyed the door.

"Where is he in such a hurry that he thinks he can skip on breakfast? And you, young man, shouldn't be running down the steps. You're going to trip and break a hip. It happened to my friend Barbara just last week."

John simply stared in disbelief at the vacant foyer where his best friend had just been.

"Of course Barbara is 82… and a bit daft." Mrs. Hudson's smile turned to a frown as John picked himself up off the floor. "Everything alright, dearie?" And for the second time in twenty-four hours, John had to be honest.

"No. It's not." His entire body rattled. Sherlock was surely gone forever. Or worse… he would come back and the doctor would have to explain himself. Face up to all the years of ignoring that little thought. He could just say it was a mistake. That in his condition he lost track of reality and his habitual nature mistook him for Mary. Even the thought sounded hollow to his minds ear. He had kissed Sherlock knowing full well who he was kissing. His heart crashed around his chest shattering every preconceived feeling he had ever had and his lips began forming the sentence against his will.

"I just kissed him."

"You what?"

"I just kissed Sherlock Holmes." And as the words left his mouth it all became horrifyingly real.

The tea set clattered to the table as Mrs. Hudson supplied a swift slap to the back of the doctor's head.

"What the bloody hell was that for?!"

Mrs. Hudson already had her cellular out and was dialing as quickly as her arthritic fingers would allow.

"You don't 'just kiss Sherlock Holmes'!" Her eyes flickered worriedly to the door. "Nobody's ever done that! He can't handle it. Especially not coming from you… oh goodness. I just hope he's alright."

"Alright? Why wouldn't he be alright? I'm not poisonous." A pointed finger silenced him as Mrs. Hudson pressed the phone to her ear.

"Yes, Mycroft, dear…. We've had a bit of an event here… yes yes… everyone is alright. It's just John and Sherlock had a bit of an interaction… yes well we did all see it coming I know… but I think it's shaken Sherlock up a bit. I'm afraid it might send him back to some old habits. Would you mind terribly checking up on him?" She paused and a small smile eased back onto her beautiful and withered face as she watched the doctor do a wonderful impression of a chameleon trying to hide in front of an apple. "You're such a dear Mycroft. Thank you."

The mortification John Watson felt could not be put down into one of his blogs succinctly if he tried. Nothing made sense. The sweet matron gave him a gentle pat on his shoulder that did nothing to comfort him.

"I hate to be the sort of person who says I told you so… but I always knew you two would end up together."

"It was just a kiss. We're not- "

The screams of the hungry baby cut his pointless retort short. His paternal instinct overrode any need to defend his heterosexuality and he leapt up the stairs two at a time grateful to have anything to distract him from the nightmare he had created. Just as he was about to shut the door he heard Mrs. Hudson's musical laugh.

"I already told you dearie. You don't just kiss Sherlock Holmes."

Thank so much for reading! Hopefully next chapter soon which will be an entirely Sherlock driven one. Some new faces will make an appearance. Reviews make me so happy. Peace and love everyone