A/N: Warnings - More fluff. Mildly sexual situations - nothing graphic (one-sided only). Some profanity.

Beta: The very patient and helpful Jarri Scythe

A Night at the Symphony - 4

Sherlock herded me through the dispersing crowd and out to catch a taxi home. I was in a bit of a daze from my newfound revelation, coming down from my slight alcohol buzz, and the emotional turmoil of the evening.

I knew I had to maintain my composure at all costs; I just wasn't mentally or emotionally prepared for Sherlock to find out about my newly discovered feelings. I hadn't had a chance to properly sort through them myself yet.

As usual Sherlock was able to magic a cab almost immediately, and I sank gratefully into the dark interior, Sherlock following. Once we were on our way Sherlock turned to me and gave me a searching look.

"Are you sure you're alright John?"

"I'm fine, just a little wrung out. I wasn't expecting the September 11th tribute. It was...surprisingly moving. It made me think about friends I lost in Afghanistan." True, so far as it goes!

Sherlock looked skeptical.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. It was a good birthday present. I enjoyed it. I think it was...good for me to realize what I've been holding in." If he only knew!

Sherlock stared hard at me for a few seconds. I forced myself to hold his gaze and remain calm. After a few seconds he gave a satisfied nod and dropped his scrutiny.

"I didn't know that was going to be the first half of the program. If I had I would've mentioned it ahead of time."

I smiled. "It's ok Sherlock. I'm not that fragile. A good cry is good now and then. It's cleansing."

Sherlock looked like he disagreed, but was trying to be considerate and not voice it.

I chuckled, "Leave it, Sherlock. I'm fine, just tired a bit is all."

I yawned largely to emphasize my point.

We rode the rest of the way home in silence. After we were inside the flat Sherlock turned to me and said sharply, "You're limping John. Why are you limping?"

I scowled at him but refused to answer.

Sherlock looked suspicious, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Good grief Sherlock! Since when are you so interested in my state of mind? I'm fine. I'm a little overly-emotional at the moment, and tired, but I'm fine. I just want to get to bed and get some rest so I'm fit for visiting Mycroft tomorrow." Oh God! Mycroft! Another Holmes to try and bluff. I'm so buggered...

Sherlock shrugged, "Alright. I guess I just feel a little - responsible - for you being upset."

I successfully resisted the urge to break into hysterical giggles. Instead, I turned and limped toward the bedroom tossing over my shoulder with a smile, "Don't. Remember, I'm the fool who invaded Afghanistan."

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it for a second, taking in some deep breaths. If I didn't get - whatever this was - under control soon my life was going to become a living hell.

The sooner I got to bed and got some sleep, the better off I was going to be. I fervently hoped that Sherlock would follow his usual routine and put off coming to bed for at least another hour, when I could at least pretend I was asleep, even if I really wasn't.

I undressed and put on pajamas as quickly as possible, then emerged from the bedroom to go brush my teeth.

The scene in the sitting room had my heart in my throat instantly. Sherlock had removed his jacket, tie, vest, shoes, and socks and had unbuttoned the first few buttons of his dress shirt. He was standing in the middle of the floor with his violin under his chin, evidently just finishing preparations to play it. Seeing him in his disheveled finery nuzzling his face into the chin rest and his long, graceful fingers curling lovingly over the instrument was decidedly not helping with my current inner turmoil. I limped my way to the bathroom.

Christ! I breathed to myself, not knowing if it was an oath or a prayer for help.

I stared at myself in the mirror, as I heard the first notes of music from the sitting room. I was praying that he was going to engage in one of his "experimental" pieces, when he tried to get the most outlandish sounds possible from the bloody thing. That would definitely help to clear my head.

I should have known better. The universe was not inclined to show me any mercy.

Instead, I heard him duplicating some of the melodies from Beethoven's Ninth. Mostly ones from the problematic (for me) third movement. Of course. Clearly, some evil entity had decided that I needed to be tortured in every way possible this evening.

Sherlock wasn't duplicating the melodies directly, but weaving elements of them into what I assumed was an arrangement he was coming up with spontaneously. But, they were similar enough to remind me of the comfortable warmth of his body next to mine, the desire to caress his body, hold his hand...

I shook my head and glared at myself in the mirror. I realized that the torture was really coming from myself. I could stop this; absolutely nothing had materially changed this evening. So I had become aware of some sort of romantic attraction I had for Sherlock. So what? I was overreacting. If a man can't face the truths about himself, then he really is a coward. I was going to brush my teeth, then march out there and tell Sherlock goodnight just the way I always did. And that's exactly what I did do.

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge me; he was lost in his music, swaying slightly as he played. So I watched him for a few minutes, and if there was an added element to my usual interest, well, he would never know, would he?

I went to the bedroom and shut the door, just as I would normally and crawled into the bed, heaving a sigh of relief. My leg and shoulder ached dully, as did my heart, but I ignored all of them, or tried to anyway. I could still hear Sherlock playing in the living room, although he was playing more quietly now, probably trying to let me go to sleep.

My heart gave a sudden lurch when I heard Sherlock begin playing Elgar's "Nimrod." Was he thinking about me? And if he was, what were his thoughts?

As the music went on, I did finally start to feel sleepy. Sherlock finished the piece and I only heard silence after that. As I drifted off to sleep, it did pass through my mind that if nothing else, I could take comfort that I was the one that Sherlock wanted to share a bed with, even if we weren't sexually involved. That meant something, didn't it?

That night, I had one of my recurring dreams about Afghanistan. I hadn't had a severe war nightmare since Sherlock and I had started sleeping together, but this one was as bad as any I ever had. It was one of several that regularly rotated through my REM cycle: I was responding to the scene of a Taliban attack on a unit. There were so many severely wounded that I knew I couldn't possibly help them all. I ran to help the most injured, but they each died just as I reached them while the remaining survivors screamed for help. I was calling frantically for additional help that never came, cursing and begging, and trying to exhort the dying to stay with me. It ended as all the bad ones do, with me startled awake, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, temporarily disoriented.

I collapsed back on the bed, trying to breathe deeply.

The bedroom door opened and I saw Sherlock silhouetted in the doorway.

"John?"

"Yeah," I croaked.

"Are you alright? I heard you shout."

"Sorry. No, I'm fine. Just a nightmare."

He came padding across the floor, still dressed in what remained of his evening wear. He sat on the edge of the bed but kept his face turned away.

"It was the concert wasn't it?"

I interrupted, "No, Sherlock. Of course not. My nightmares are rearranged from my memories - I would have them, concert or no concert."

"But you were upset, tonight. And then you have a nightmare."

I sighed, "I can't live my life trying to avoid anything that might trigger my memories. For one thing, it's impossible, and for another it wouldn't be a life, just a half-life spent in fear. I'm only sorry that I disturbed you."

Sherlock shrugged, "I was just about to come to bed anyway."

He got off the bed and collected his pajamas, "Be back in a minute."

I laid there listening to him brush his teeth and felt my heart sink. This is just what I had wanted to avoid - being awake when Sherlock came to bed. At least the lights were off. As added protection, I turned away toward my side of the bed.

I heard him come back, and then felt the bed shift as he slid in beside me. There was a moment of silence, then I felt more movement and before I could fully comprehend what was happening, Sherlock was spooning me!

"Sherlock! What - "

"I've noticed that you don't have bad nightmares when we're together. I just want to make sure that you don't have any more."

My mouth went totally dry, as his words tickled against the back of my neck. What was worse, a certain part of my anatomy was now eager to get in on the conversation.

"I don't know if I can sleep like this," I said as calmly as I could.

"What's wrong?"

"It's a bit...warm. I'm all sweaty already."

"Yes, I noticed. A reaction to the dream."

"Yeah, so...I don't think spooning is a great idea for me right now." Understatement of the century so far!

"Sorry, I was just trying to help."

He shuffled back to his side of the bed.

I couldn't help smiling, "I know, I appreciate it. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

But it was a long, long time before I got back to sleep again.

END

A/N: There will be a companion piece to follow shortly - "Sunday With Mycroft" - which will pick up the narrative immediately following the events told here.