"JAWWWWN!" Sherlock called from his spot on the couch.

John was just coming up the stairs, back home. "Yes, Sherlock. What is it? Don't shout!"

"HELP ME, JAWN." Sherlock's voice sounded distressed and pained, as if it hurt him to shout as loud as he was.

John set his shopping bags on the floor and walked over to the couch. "Alright, alright. Stop shouting, will you? What's wrong?"

Sherlock moved his right arm, revealing a large gash on the side of his abdomen, sticky with dried - and fresh - blood. "H-help..." Sherlock gasped out.

"Oh," John gasped, not quite believing what he was seeing. "My god! What happened?"

Sherlock coughed a few times before replying in a scratchy voice. "Assassin... Caught me off guard while I was sleeping..."

John frantically began searching for his first aid kit. "Sherlock, I'll... I'll need to stitch it. And cover it with gauze. And apply a cold compress. I'll be back in a moment."

Sherlock nodded, using his limited strength to pull off his shirt. That would at least be a bit of help.

John disappeared into another room for a moment and returned with a large, white box. He was momentarily stunned by the sight of a shirtless Sherlock, but he quickly regained focus in order to save the man's life. "Now, lie still..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, I'm going to thrash around." He muttered sarcastically. Even in a life threatening situation he still had to be Sherlock.

"Don't be an arse, now, Sherlock. You're injured and I'm trying to help you. Would you rather I let you bleed out? It wouldn't be easy to watch, but who says I'd have to stay here?" John threads a sterilized needle and ties it off.

Sherlock nodded and gazed up at John. "Thank you, John." He mumbled, his mind starting to get fuzzy from blood loss.

"Hush." John pushed the needle through one side of the wound, wincing as he did so.

Sherlock didn't really feel it. It already hurt beyond... Well, anything, so the needle didn't really do much for causing pain. He just closed his eyes and tried to focus on something else.

As quickly as he could, John stitched the wound shut. Tears were pricking the back of his eyes as he did, and he wasn't sure why. He cut the threads and picked up a large cotton ball and the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Sherlock finds that the wound feels at least a fraction of a bit better, and he opens his eyes again.

Gently, John cleanses the wound and the surrounding area. He then covers the stitches with a large square of gauze and tapes it down. He picks up the cold compress, snaps it to activate the cooling chemicals, and presses it to Sherlock's side, over the gauze.

Sherlock winces slightly at the pressure, but after that the cooling feeling really helps. Suddenly, Sherlock feels extremely tired, and closes his eyes again. " 'night, Jawn..." Sherlock mumbles in his already half-asleep state.

John gives a half smile, relieved that his friend will live to see another day. "G'night, Sherlock." He watches him drift off to sleep.

Sherlock is thrown into a swirl of nightmares, something that hadn't happened in over ten years. He hadn't even dreamed for the same amount of time, either. In real life, Sherlock twitched a bit, sometimes having full muscle spasms and all together looking like he was having a seizure.

John notices the fitful sleep and becomes immediately concerned. He rushes back to the couch. "Sherlock. Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!"

Sherlock finally starts awake, his eyes darting fearfully around the room as if searching for whatever was haunting hum in his nightmares. Finally, after accepting that he was awake again, he looked over to John. "Hi."

John scoffs. "Hi. You scare the bloody hell out of me with your sleep seizing, and when, in a panic, I wake you up, all you've got to say to me... is 'hi'?"

"Oh, uhhh... Hello, then." Sherlock says with a weak chuckle. "Sorry about that... I, uhh... I think I just experienced a nightmare..." Sherlock confessed.

"Well, you're bloody casual about it: 'Oh, I just experienced a nightmare and scared you half to death. No big deal, Jawn.' I could kill you, you know that?"

"But you wouldn't." Sherlock replied swiftly. "And I'm sorry, if that helps anything."

"You're damn right, I wouldn't. And no, it doesn't. You're impossible sometimes, and I don't even know why I'm mad at you."

Sherlock chuckled. "See?" He relaxed again, still tired since barely got any sleep. His side still hurt like a bitch, too. "I've said it already but... Thank you John."

"You're bloody welcome."

Sherlock smiled up at John, one of the rarer occurrences in their flat.

John, scowling, looked down at Sherlock. Seeing his smile, he softened and smiled back.

Sherlock reached up and poked John. "Don't be so upset. No one's going to get rid of me that easy."

"I'm not upset. I..." he sighed.

"What?"

'I just... don't appreciate how many people try to kill, hurt, injure, or otherwise maim you."

Sherlock chuckled. "So you're worried about me, then" He teased.

"Yes... well, it would seem that way, wouldn't it? You're the genius detective. You figure it out."

Sherlock nodded and sighed slightly. Apart from the large, almost-fatal wound, today had been one of their better days; in Sherlock's view, anyway. The days when they were friendly like this were the best.

"Don't you sigh at me, Sherlock Holmes. What is it this time?"

"Hmm? Oh, it was just a relaxation sigh. A sigh of bliss, shall we say."

"Bliss?"

"Well, umm, yeah... I guess?"
"Apart from this wound, today has been great."

"Bliss caused by, what, exactly?"
"Oh? Sleeping on the couch and having nightmares is oh-so-wonderful, is it?"

"Hmm, well, apart from those, too."

"Well, what else has there been? Sleeping, an attack, a wound, and nightmares."

"Well, I had a delightful breakfast for once. It consisted of a muffin Mrs. Hudson bought and, well, that's it, but you get my point. I usually never eat. Secondly, you're here." He smiled up at John after his statement.

John looked immediately to the floor trying to hide the blush that was creeping up onto his face. "I do live here, Sherlock. I'm frequently here. You just seem to forget to notice."

"Well, I mean we are actually communicating like people should. We can sometimes go entire weeks without speaking a word to each other." Sherlock pointed out.

"I'd like to point out that that is not my fault. You like to ignore me. Frequently."

"Yes, okay. Still."

"I'm waiting for your point to be valid, Sherlock", an amused grin was plastered on John's face as he said this.

"Well, what I mean is that we are actually acting like friends instead of just flatmates. Yes, I admit to becoming buried in my thoughts and tuning everything out, but don't take it personally."

This was just too much… too easy. The amused grin stayed where it was. "Oh, but Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends," John teased.

"I don't." Sherlock agreed.

"So, we're back to square one: flatmates. Excellent work, detective."

"That's not what I meant." Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "I don't have friends, I don't have a friend, and I don't have just a simple flatmate either." He attempted to explain.

John's face fell into a serious expression. He knew when to stop teasing. "Then what do you have, Sherlock?"

"A best friend."

That damned blush came creeping back and John looks to the floor again. "Thanks..."

Sherlock nodded and looked over to John. "What do you think of me as?" Sherlock asked. It was a question he had actually been pondering for a while now.

The blush deepened and John didn't look up from the floor. "A best friend. You said it. Yep. Exactly that."

Sherlock blinked. "You don't sound very sure..."

John looks up at Sherlock. "Oh, why does it matter? You see me as a best friend, I'll say the same. Everyone is happy."

"Why, what do you /really/ see me as? Don't worry, it can't be that bad. I've most likely heard worse." Sherlock scoffed.

"You can't tell me you don't notice."

"Don't notice what? What am I missing?" He asked. "Always miss something..." He muttered under his breath.

John sighs and holds out his arm, looking Sherlock in the eyes.

Sherlock looks confused, a look he rarely wore. He gazed back into John's eyes, but for some reason wasn't able to read him for once.

"You figured out Irene. Can you deduce me, Sherlock?"