AUTHOR'S NOTE -

This story takes place about a day or two after season 4 episode 3 ended.

Explosions

The explosion ricocheted through Sherlock's subconscious waking him with a start. Unfamiliar shadows further disorientated him until his brain promptly caught up and reminded him that he was sleeping in John's spare room. That he was temporarily living at his house until 221B was restored to its former glory.

Groping for the bedside clock he groaned at the time.

2am.

Exactly the same time as last night.

And the night before.

Slumping forward, he dragged his hands through his hair in frustration. At the same time there was a knock at the door and John peered into the room.

"You OK?"

Sherlock lifted his head. "Fine," he returned a little too defensively. "Nothing a nice cup of tea won't cure."

John looked unconvinced. "That's the third night in a row you've called out in your sleep."

Sherlock's brow twitched interrogatively. "I did? What did I say?"

"No."

"I said no?"

"Yes." John eyed him in concern. "And rather frantically. It's a miracle you didn't wake Rosie."

I was frantic, Sherlock realised, his heart quickening at the memory, but he kept the thought to himself.

"Want to talk about it?"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "It was just a dream...a bad dream."

"But you don't have bad dreams, remember? You boast about it often enough. Gruesome murders galore and not a single nightmare. What is it? Your sister?"

"No."

"Moriarty?"

Sherlock baulked, the idea annoying him. "No."

"Who then?"

Sherlock sighed. "Molly."

John blinked his surprise. "Molly?"

Accepting that he wasn't going to get back to sleep any time soon, Sherlock dragged himself from the bed and into his dressing gown. "Tea!" he repeated with gusto as he tightened his belt and strode passed John.

"Shush," John hissed as he hurried after him down the stairs. "Or you will wake Rosie."

"No. We have an understanding," Sherlock whispered back, a smile tugging at his lips. "She refrains from any night time shenanigans and I reward her with copious educated play."

"Educated play? Is that what you call it?" John frowned as he caught up with him.

"I am merely interested in her observational skills."

"She's a baby, Sherlock. Not your lab rat."

"Oh, John. That is harsh."

Sherlock swept into the kitchen and headed straight for the fridge.

"She is a sponge, John," he threw over his shoulder as he reached for a carton of milk. "Every second counts during the first few years."

John folded his arms and regarded him wearily. "Since when did you become a child psychologist?"

Ignoring him Sherlock switched on the kettle and rummaged around for tea bags and sugar. "Imagine it, John. Mary's DNA and my influence."

"What about my DNA?"

"I could mould her into the second best consulting detective ever to have lived."

John rolled his eyes. "What if I don't want my daughter to be a consulting detective?"

Sherlock stared back at him blankly. "Why ever not?"

"Because I don't want an arrogant arsehole for a daughter, that's why."

Sherlock feigned disappointment. "But I have matured, John. Isn't that what everyone is saying? I have become humanised?" He made a face as he rolled the word upon his tongue. It still left a bad taste.

"You can be human and still an arrogant arsehole," John smirked.

There was a pine table in the centre of the kitchen and he pulled out a chair and sat down. "Now enough about Rosie. We came down here to talk about Molly."

Except for the ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the fridge, there was silence whilst Sherlock busied himself making the tea. When he finally handed John his steaming mug John regarded him expectantly.

"Well?" he prompted.

Sherlock didn't sit down. Instead he leaned back against the work top, sipping at his tea thoughtfully.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed again. "In the dream she refuses to comply."

"Comply?"

"To say...I love you."

"Oh."

"And Eurus..." Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably, "...blows up her flat." He faltered before adding: "and Molly with it."

"And that's why you called out no?"

"Obviously," Sherlock returned sarcastically.

John lowered his mug. "Like you said, it's just a dream." He shrugged. "The brain dwelling on the worse case scenario."

"My brain doesn't dwell, John. It conquers and moves on."

"The old Sherlock, maybe."

Digesting the thought, Sherlock continued to sip at his tea.

"Look, Molly knows what happened," John tried to reassure. "Mycroft told her everything while they were removing Eurus's cameras from her flat. She knows you did what you had to do to save her life."

When Sherlock continued to zone him out, he yawned, his eyes growing heavy, threatening to close.

"I need to talk to her." Suddenly resolved, Sherlock slammed his mug back down onto the worktop.

John blinked the world back into focus, nodding compliantly. "It'll probably help. She's looking after Rosie on Friday."

"Now!"

"Now?"

"I need to talk to her now."

John's eyes flicked up to the wall clock. "It's 2:20 in the morning!"

"It must be now, John."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. That's a bit unsociable."

It was Sherlock's turn to smirk. "I'm a high functioning sociopath. It's what I do best."

John rolled his eyes again but didn't have the energy to talk Sherlock out of it. He desperately needed sleep.

Admitting defeat he stood up. "No, you're a bloody drama queen. That's what you do best." He hesitated, regarding Sherlock more seriously. "But Sherlock...please...whatever it is you need to get off your chest. Just...be nice."

Taking a deep breath Sherlock nodded soberly. "Don't worry, John. I intend to be."

John watched him curiously as he hurried from the kitchen. "What are you going to say to her?"

Sherlock hesitated in the doorway, finally glancing back at him. "I have absolutely no idea." But his mouth twitched into a smile. "Though I assure you I will keep the arrogant arsehole well restrained."