A/N: Thank you so much for the favorites and lovely reviews!

Sherlock hated sleep.

The reasons were legion; a litany, a sermon on time wasted and opportunities missed, a lecture that John had heard a thousand times over.

But there was more to it than the obvious. There were always the uncomfortable facts that everyday idiots never cared to look for. As it turned out, John wasn't the only one in 221B who fought off nightmares. Sherlock's were quieter; he accepted them with resignation. Like everything else that inhabited the detective's brain, they were complicated and somewhat bizarre. Most of them were steeped in memories that took place at the Holmes estate. Tonight's, for example, was not a new one. Sherlock was ten, and the kitchen flooded. Father stayed in his chair, stone-faced as waves of brandy lapped at his ankles. Sherlock tugged at his arm, screamed, cursed, cried, yet his father never moved. He simply turned his head away as a single tear rolled down his cheek. This dream was a loud one. The background noise was a muddle of roaring water and overlapping shouting matches: think about what you're doing to the boys, Mycroft can't even look at you, Sherlock cries himself to sleep. Soon, as always, Mycroft appeared and tore Sherlock away from their father, steeling his resolve as the younger Holmes kicked and screamed against him. Out the door they went, across moors and through cities, until they finally arrived at Baker Street.

Sherlock awoke silently, disgusted with himself as he hastily wiped the tears off his face with the sleeve of his second best dressing gown. His brow furrowed with shame and anger, he turned over in bed, determined to attempt sleep once more. As he began to drift off, a muffled cry tore him awake. John.

All along, the two men had more or less pretended as though John's night terrors never happened. The yelling, the wrenching sobs, none of it. Sherlock would have been happy to discuss it. In fact, he would have been overjoyed at the opportunity to psychoanalyze his roommate. However, John was the first person with which Sherlock seemed to adequately understand boundaries. More than that, for some strange reason, he felt a deep desire to maintain those boundaries. And so the nightmares went ignored. As much as John's pain tore at Sherlock in a way that he himself failed to understand, he pushed it out of the forefront of his mind, and he was prepared to do so yet again when a new sound interrupted his resolution. A glass seemed to have shattered on the upstairs floor and was quickly followed by harsh, hissed curses.

Curious. John's nightmares usually didn't result in the destruction of property, intentional or otherwise. Sherlock rolled onto his back and absently reached towards the ceiling. An internal debate quickly arose: Should he check on John, or, as always, ignore it? The detective released a heaving sigh. Why? Why was he even asking himself these questions? Sentiment, he quickly reminded himself. But, he countered just as rapidly, sentiment in regards to John is acceptable. He had reached this determination several months prior, upon his return from his unfortunate "suicide." Against his will, he cried twice that day: once, out of surprise, when John's fist collided with his nose, and again when the doctor collapsed against him, wrapping his arms around the detective just as fiercely. Sherlock nudged his brain away from those memories and back to the situation at hand. I should check on him. This is an anomaly.

That was that. He heaved his long limbs out of bed and up the stairs to John's room. He paused briefly at the door, and decided to knock softly for propriety's sake. No words came in return, only a muffled grunt. Sherlock entered cautiously, and what he saw broke his heart. Yes, I have one. If John can hurt it, then I have one.

The doctor sat at the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. The muted light from his bedside lamp allowed Sherlock to see the streaks of blood running down his fingertips and palms. "'S my fault. Tried to pick it up. Stupid." Unsure of what else to do, Sherlock hesitated. "It's alright," he whispered, his voice catching for some strange reason. "I'll be right back."

A minute or so later, he returned from the bathroom with a damp washcloth and a tube of antibiotic ointment. John hadn't moved. He looked up at Sherlock, his deep blue eyes questioning. "Did I wake you up? You never…" He paused as Sherlock calmly sat next to him on the bed and reached for his hands. Puzzled, John remained still but allowed the detective to do what he wished.

"I was already awake. Sleep doesn't come easy to me," Sherlock replied as he gently wiped the blood from John's hands. Calloused. Average-length fingers. Surgeon; dexterous. He flushed. John's hands felt…nice. Such a stupid word. Nice. "You don't have to do this," John said as Sherlock began to rub carefully measured stripes of ointment into the thin cuts. "Really, John," Sherlock muttered, looking up for a moment. "I don't do anything that I don't want to." John snorted. "I suppose that's true."

Sherlock finished the task in silence. He grasped John's wrist loosely. What the bloody hell are you doing? "Was it… was it Afghanistan again?" he asked. John looked up in surprise. "Afghanistan? No. No, Sherlock," he replied with unusual gentleness. "I don't really have those dreams anymore. It was about you. About your fall."

Sherlock froze. His heart began to pound. Before he realized what he was doing, he involuntarily tightened his grip on John's wrist. "I… I had no idea. I didn't…" he trailed off, his breathing shallow. John patted Sherlock's knee with his free hand. "It's not your fault, love." Love. Sherlock chose to ignore that particular deviation in diction for the moment. He felt the beginnings of anger cloud his thinking.

"All these months… Every time I heard you up here… It was me? I'm the one doing this to you?" Nausea. That was the word he had been subconsciously searching for. He was nauseated. John looked surprised. "You can hear me?"

Sherlock flushed again. Damn involuntary responses. "Yes."

"So why did you come up tonight, all of a sudden?"

"I don't know."

Lie. That was a lie, a boldfaced deception. Every night, he had been growing more and more agitated. His nightmares were broken up by fantasies. This sentiment, this room John occupied in his mind, it was all growing larger and larger. Pent up affection, brought to its breaking point. He cleared his throat. There were waters to be tested. "I've just been becoming…concerned."

John smiled ever so slightly. "Thank you."

They sat in silence once more. Slowly, Sherlock let his arm reach around John's shoulders. He pulled the doctor close, possessive, but uncharacteristically tender. John let himself relax into his flat mate's angular frame.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Your pulse is elevated."

Dammit, John. "What of it?" Coy? Are you being coy? You've had this discussion. He knows. He knows.

"If I looked you in the eye right now, would your pupils be dilated?"

Sherlock winced. Honesty, or countless more months of subterfuge?

"Yes. Yes, John, they would."

"Mine are too."

"Let me see."

John shifted, momentarily disengaging himself from the detective's grasp. He placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and looked him solidly in the eye. "See?"

That night was the first time they kissed. It was the last that either of them slept alone.