(A/N: So it has been far too long since I touched this story. I kind of got swept up by others *cough*To Test a Man's Character*cough* and struggled on continuing this one. But now I'm back, working my ass off to get a chapter out because I left you guys on a serious cliff. You may not have been hanging too much, but this damn cliff had been building and building for the last twelve chapters.

Because it had been so long, I went back and read my last two chapters, just to get a feel for the narration style and to refresh my memory. And reading through it, I was a bit amazed. I don't remember writing half the shit in there and it seemed so odd like I had never written it at all. I hadn't touched this story in so long it felt like I was reading something somebody else wrote. I mean, really?

I needed to fix that, so here's this chapter. :) Sorry about the long wait and I hope you enjoy it.)

John jerked upright, chest heaving and instantly awake. Glancing at the clock, John saw it read "03:06". He was used to midnight wakeup calls, being haunted by the war tends to do that, but this night the dream hadn't been that bad. For the first time in a while, John had been floating in a relatively peaceful haze instead of fighting to survive in a memory that had only one ending. He even knew where he was: in 221B Baker Street, his new home. So what had woken him?

Listening carefully, John heard nothing. But that doesn't mean it had always been silent. Carefully getting to his feet, John took a moment to marvel at the lack of pain before shuffling to the door. It opened without a sound, something John was thankful for, and closed with only a small click. Now in the hallway, John could hear quiet shifting from the living room. John tackled the stairs with as much caution as he had the door, wincing every time the aging wood creaked.

Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, John peeked around the corner. Sherlock was on the couch, still dressed in the clothes from the night before, but he wasn't sleeping. Instead he was sitting up, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped securely around them. Sherlock's head was buried in his lap and his shoulders were shaking. John's eyes widened and he inhaled sharply.

In the two days he had known the consulting detective, Sherlock had shown only excitement and irritation. The man claimed to be a "High functioning sociopath", a psychiatric diagnosis that John had yet to see any evidence against but still didn't believe. Nevertheless there Sherlock was, showing more emotion than any diagnosed sociopath should. And John had no idea what to do. So he did what he would do after one of his nightmares.

Without saying anything to Sherlock, John passed through the living room and put on some water. It took a minute to find some clean mugs and tea that John was pretty sure wasn't contaminated with something or other. Not much later, the water boiled and John began steeping the tea. When he walked into the living room with the two mugs, Sherlock was still curled up on the couch, but his shoulders have stilled. John set down the tea he had fixed for Sherlock on the table beside the couch before settling in the red armchair with his own.

They just sat there, the silence being broken only by John's quiet sipping. It took Sherlock a few minutes before he unraveled himself. His head was down, obscuring any view of his face, but he grabbed the mug and held it in his lap. John didn't push for any sort of information, he just sat and waited. Finally Sherlock cautioned a sip of the cooling beverage and, after a small moment of silence, took another. He quickly drained the mug and rubbed in-between his hands before holding it out to John.

"May I have another?" Sherlock's voice lack the conceited bravado that John was accustomed to hearing after only one day and John felt like a cold bucket of water had been dumped over him. Whatever had woken Sherlock, and consequentially woken John, had to have been very traumatic. Perhaps it related to Sherlock's childhood in some way; a man that desperate for praise must have been deprived affection in his childhood. John nodded and took the cup to the kitchen.

He came back with some fresh tea and gave it back to Sherlock who gave quietly thanked him. John mumbled something along the lines of "no problem" before lowering himself again into the red chair. Sipping his own cuppa, John watched as Sherlock glance from his feet, to the mug, up to John, and then back down to his feet again.

John took one last swallow of his tea and lowered the mug to his lap. "Do you want to talk about it?" John asked softly. Sherlock shook his head. "Will you ever want to?" Sherlock shrugged. John thought a moment. "Anything you do want to talk about?" Sherlock shook his head again. John shrugged and settled into his seat, bringing the mug up to his lips. "Fine," he muttered around the lip of the cup. "I'll just sit here and enjoy my tea."

Silence fell again, but this one was far more comfortable.

Sherlock wasn't unaccustomed to panic attacks, but this was definitely a first. Never before had Sherlock experienced such a gripping attack from a dream, although something in him screamed it was a memory. And never before had there been someone there to comfort him. Sure, Mycroft had tried to offer support in his own way, but it never really worked. Sherlock was never affected by any medication or therapy that had been presented to help with whatever ailed him. He was always generally apathetic to the whole situation.

But there sat John, presenting perfectly prepared tea and nothing but silence. And Sherlock felt himself calm far quicker than he ever had before. John, after only two days of knowing him, had become a grounding anchor that calmed and focused Sherlock's mind. It was unprecedented and completely unanticipated.

The largest surprise came when John offered to listen. That was Mycroft's usual approach and Sherlock would always warn him off with sharp words, but none of the same irritation rose at John's proposal. Instead Sherlock felt vaguely touched that he cared. Mycroft was obligated by blood to listen and offer a shoulder. John was under no such obligation; it was his choice. And, when Sherlock refused the help, John didn't push.

In silence they remained as Sherlock mulled through that dream. That impossibly realistic dream. Sherlock knew every face he had seen, including Ion's. But who was the blond? How did Sherlock have his memories? Why did Ion's death affect him so? Such questions swirled through his mind until the sun rose, the light in his eyes pulling from his musings.

Siting straight, Sherlock turned towards John, ready to demand breakfast, but his head was lolled back with his mouth open and soft snores were being emitted. Sometime in the night the man had succumbed to sleep once more. Sherlock closed his mouth and watched the slumbering man for a moment before getting to his feet. He gently spread a blanket over John, careful not to jostle him. Sure John's neck would be in pain later that day, but the ex-army doctor needed his sleep. Especially if he were to keep up with Sherlock.

Snatching up his laptop from the coffee table, Sherlock paused to observe John before smiling softly to himself and slipping into his own bedroom.

(A/N: Not half as long as some of my other chapters, I know, but at least its something. A bit of a filler, too. Huh. I hope that they weren't too out of character in this vulnerable moment. AND LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I HAVE NEVER EXPERIENCED A PANIC ATTACK SO FAR IN MY LIFE [thank the Lord] AND IF THAT WAS THE WRONG WAY TO DESCRIBE IT I AM SORRY. LET ME KNOW AND I WILL REMEDY MY MISTAKE IMMEDIATELY. I have, however, experienced the adrenaline rush of almost dying in an accident which is aLwAyS fUn. Anywhooooooooo, I hope you liked this chapter. Leave a review if you like. :3)