1.

A heartwrenching scream almost causes John to lose his grip on the book he'd been trying desperately to focus on. It had come from Sherlock's room. John jumped up just as another cry ripped through the silence of Baker Street.

"No!"

The book is thrown unceremoniously to the floor as John jumps up, barreling through the kitchen and having to stop himself before he faceplants into Sherlock's bedroom door.

Every instinct is telling him to throw open the door, to be ready for a fight with whoever made Sherlock scream. His gun is upstairs, but it will make to much noise running up the stairs.

He decides that he is wasting too much time by thinking so instead he gently opens the door hoping to surprise any enemies if one is present. A quick glance around the room reveals nothing out of place or wrong until his eyes fall to Sherlock's bed.

A white sheet is wrapped around Sherlock trapping his arms on his otherwise thrashing body. His face is scrunched up in pain, sweat covering his features. His head is moving side to side and when the moonlight from the window hits his face, John is surprised to see that Sherlock's eyes are open. Unfocused, terrified.

"Sherlock," John whispers calmly. He has enough knowledge of nightmares himself to know he shouldn't try to restrain Sherlock unless he is close to harming himself. But this is something else. Something worse.

Sherlock's thrashing has weakened and now he has taken to pleading with whatever it is that he is afraid of. "Please, stop. Please," Sherlock cries, fresh tears making their way down his cheeks before another broken scream rips from his throat. It sounds painful and John feels his heart clench.

He sits on the edge of the bed, putting a safe distance between them and watching Sherlock's carotid rapidly beating beneath stretched, pale skin. "Sherlock, please listen to me. Whatever you think is happening to you, it's not real. I promise. I'm here. I'm here." John does his best to keep the rising panic from working it's way into his voice, not wanting Sherlock to sense that anything is wrong.

At the sound of his voice, Sherlock bolts up, staring down at his weakly flapping his arms and breathing hard. "Get them off!" Sherlock growls, trying desperately to rip his arms from captivity. "The ropes-"

John takes his chances and reaches out to place his hand on his shoulder, gentling Sherlock's movements. As John reaches out to untangle him, Sherlock flinches and begins to sob. It's close to the worst sound John has ever heard and decides enough is enough. He shifts around on the bed to sit next to Sherlock and pulls him into a hug, which Sherlock instantly melts into.

John whispers a quiet mantra of "You're safe. I'm here. It's alright" until Sherlock takes a deep shuddering breath and his sobs have turned to whimpering gasps. Sherlock stares into the corner of the room until he looks up and his eyes, wide and dilated, finally connect with John's.

"Hey. There you are." John smiles, continuing to gently rub up and down Sherlock's arm and brushing a hand at the tears on his cheek.

"John," he says with a voice barely loud enough to be a whisper. He's exhausted, John thinks. He pushes down the nagging urge to ask Sherlock what he had been so afraid of. Sherlock is unlikely to remember and the most important thing right now is making sure Sherlock knows that he is safe.

John gently lays them both down onto the bed, keeping his arms locked gently around Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock whispers again and this time it is questioning, but the second they settle into a comfortable position and John urges him to take a deep breath, he falls asleep.

2.

They don't talk about what happened three months ago when John had held a shivering mess of Sherlock in his arms for hours. Sleep was not important that night. Not as important as making sure that Sherlock was ok. So John stayed. Held Sherlock for six hours and thirty-two minutes until the call of coffee and breakfast was too strong after a sleepless night.

He isn't even sure Sherlock remembers. Everything returned to normal. Well, as normal as life can be when sharing it with Sherlock Holmes and John researched everything he possibly could about adults having night terrors. Of course, he has had his fair share of horrible sleepless nights. He hadn't even ever thought of the distinction between nightmares and night terrors.

He now knows that night terrors occur less frequently in adults-leave it to Sherlock to be an anomaly in every possible facet of life. They can be a result of anxiety disorders, substance abuse, or just plain lack of sleep. Sounds about right, John had thought, sighing and closing his laptop.

Ever since that night, John has been forsaken from his own dreams. It seems that even in his sleep, worry for Sherlock creeps through his mind. The first few nights after were the worst-waking up at every little creak and having to force his sleep-addled body out of bed to check on Sherlock. Semi-peaceful rest only came after he saw that sleeping pale face absent of grimaces of pain or found him sitting at his microscope. Even dreamless, after making sure Sherlock was alright, the sleep following was the best he'd ever had.

More time passed and John began to worry less. He would give Sherlock a lighthearted lecture on the mornings he found him still in the midst of last night's experiment. On the days Sherlock did sleep, John made tea and breakfast and tried his damnedest to make sure Sherlock consumed both. Mostly it was unsuccessful, but John had to learn to be content with a bite of toast and half-drunken tea...Sometimes.

Maybe he was mother-henning a bit too much, but it was barely more than usual in John's opinion and if Sherlock noticed the change, he didn't seem to care enough to say as much. He actually seemed to enjoy it. Watching John through amused eyes as John fussed around the kitchen and threw said toast back on the table in front of Sherlock, only to have it hurled back at his head.

After all, that was the way it had always been. Too much change and Sherlock would become more suspicious than he already was. But John was still worried. Even with his extra mother-henning, not much had changed. Sherlock still had terrible habits and the fear of a repeat of three months ago loomed over John.

The case had been exhausting for both of them. Immediately after they walked through the front door, John had grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and steered him to the bedroom. Sherlock didn't say a word as John pulled his shoes and coat off before sitting him on his bed. A noise of complaint started to sound in Sherlock's throat as John urged him to lay down, but the moment his head hit the pillow, Sherlock's eyes closed.

Two hours later, John was still fighting the edges of stress and adrenaline from his body. The TV is turned on, but the volume muted. His head lay back on his chair. His limbs feel heavy, his body exhausted, but sleep is not forthcoming.

A door creaks open and John is jolted from trying to force his mind to relax. From the dim light of the TV, John can see Sherlock shuffling into the kitchen, stopping in front of the stove.

"Sherlock?" A sinking feeling of worry settles in his stomach, his whole body on high alert.

Sherlock is standing in front of the stove, clumsy hands trying their hardest to grip one of the knobs. The dim light of the kitchen shines off the sweat coating Sherlock's forehead.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asks, as gently as he can while trying to keep the rising panic from seeping its way into his voice. Sherlock's movements are becoming more aggressive, frustration creasing his brow. Finally, he latches onto one and turns until it clicks on. The fire burns bright and Sherlock waves a hand over it.

"He's going to burn me, John," Sherlock whispers as a full body shiver runs through him. His hand is getting close, way too close to the flame. Alarm bells are going off in John's head as he panics, his knowledge to not interfere with someone sleepwalking going out the window.

Suddenly, he is beside Sherlock, ripping his pale hand away from the small flame and switching it off. Sherlock melts into him and collapses until they are both on their knees, Sherlock's breath burning hot against John's neck.

"It's alright." John doesn't know if he is saying it for Sherlock's sake or his own because, to be frank, this is scaring the shit out of him. "I won't let him."

They sit there for awhile, John's arms rising and falling with each heavy breath Sherlock takes. Everything is quiet and for a moment John starts to feel calm, but there are still tremors running through Sherlock's body and he can't take the quiet anymore. "Talk to me," he pleads into Sherlock's hair.

He doesn't even know if Sherlock is fully awake yet, but he needs to hear his voice. He needs something to prove that this isn't his own nightmare.

"It was Moriarty. He-...I have to stop him. I have to-"

"You will," John whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of Sherlock's head. "We will. I promise."

One year later Sherlock stops both himself and Moriarty.

3.

Serbia.

Torture.

Pain.

John.

This is not a night terror. This is real. Sherlock would take any form of sleep right now. But, finally, when he passes out from the pain, reality follows him into his sleep.

4.

The next time it happens is the night of the wedding.

He doesn't want this. Not anymore. Not since John. But suddenly the needle is in his hand, a tight belt wrapped around his arm. The needle slides into his arm without his permission and he pushes all his strength into not pressing down on the plunger, his hand shaking with the effort. Energy drains from his body and his thumb thrust down down down. His veins burn until his whole body is a quivering mess. All he can think is 'I'm sorry, John'.

I'm so sorry.

He squeezes his hand around the empty syringe, which crumples instantly, dissipating into smoke that drifts and swirls through the air of his bedroom. Following the smoke, Sherlock's eyes fall to the floor. It's covered in filled syringes.

And now he can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe!

He has to get out!

Suddenly, he's on his feet running towards the bedroom door, glass breaking beneath him and slicing through his skin. He reaches out to grab the doorknob, but right as he is about to make contact, it disappears.

He screams, at least he tries to, but no sound passes through his lips and the ability even take a slight breath is gone.

He stands silent, screaming inside his mind. Begging, pleading for John to help him. Save him. Help him breathe. He can't take it anymore, so he lets go. Falling backward and expecting to land on broken glass. It's soft instead. His eyes burst open, revealing his quiet, dark bedroom.

Alone.

The feeling sinks into his sternum and if he thought he couldn't take a breath before, he certainly can't now. He needs John.

Sherlock is shocked to feel wetness rolling down his cheek and he gasps. He does it again because at least the inhale felt good. So he does it again and again, sobbing into his hands and gasping for breath. It feels like dying.

"John!" Sherlock shouts, his body feeling impossibly heavy as his mind continues to shout at him. Where is John. Where is John? WHERE IS JOHN? And now that he can breathe, he screams. Screams for John to come and thank god nobody's home because if they were they would hear the sobs at the end of every tortured sound coming out of him. But if it was John he wouldn't care. Those nights that John held him in his arms were possibly the best of his life and he needs it.

"John!" The buzzing in his ears is deafening. He tries to calm his breathing so that he can hear- footsteps, a response, anything- but the sensation sinks deeper into his bones. The sense of being empty, alone. John is not here. John is not going to be here anymore.

Sherlock sobs a litany of a name into his pillow until he passes out.

5.

Sherlock is fighting.

A ghost.

A shadow of a person.

Or a monster. Sherlock can't tell at this point. He feels as though he has been fighting this apparition for years.

He uses all of his strength to throw one last punch at the thing, refusing to give up, but his weakly clenched fist barely lifts up before falling limply to his side again.

Desperately, he uses his eyes to plead with his assailant. There is nothing left. No energy he can use to fight. But when he looks up the monster finally has a face. Mary.

She shoves him to the ground and a gun appears in her hand. She pulls the triggers once, twice, three times. He doesn't even feel the impact of the bullets, but when he looks down, red is blossoming every on his white shirt. The murderous look in her eyes is too much for him to bear, so he closes his own and gives up.

He's on the kitchen floor and though his vision is blurred by the water filling them he finds himself surrounded by the remnants of two shattered teacups. Blood drips from his palms and he squeezes his hands into fist watching in fascination. How did he get here?

Someone's arms are around him. They radiate warmth that spirals through his veins. Strong hands loosen his clenched fist. He can feel the breath of whispered words in his ears, but none of them register in his mind. The embrace feels warm and safe-he could stay here forever- and everything he'd wished for in Serbia. So he lets himself fall. Knowing, hoping that John is the one catching him.

As the ringing starts to fade from his ears he can hear someone crying, screaming two names. One name drips with terrified dread and the other is being asked to protect. It must be him. No one else is here. Arms squeeze him tighter and he is reminded that..no. He is not alone. Not anymore. He would know this solid embrace anywhere, but it can't be true.

The last sound he hears before unconsciousness takes him is a voice filled with honey, warmth, and promises. "She's gone, Sherlock. I won't let her hurt you anymore. I'm here."

John.

His John.

6.

Sherlock knows he is dreaming. At first, it was confusing because the overwhelming feeling of happiness reflects how he feels when he is awake now too.

John sitting on a blanket smiling up at him and gesturing for Sherlock to join him. Sherlock smiles back and in a second he is surrounded by warmth. The warmth of John. His John. Sherlock breathes him in and these days breathing has become easier and easier. Especially when John is holding him as though he will never let him go.

Only this time he does let go, and Sherlock embarrassingly panics for a moment before watching John reach behind himself. Sherlock tries to deduce what John is reaching for and suddenly Sherlock's eyes are filled with tears, the black box with outlines of gold going blurry.

John is laughing and smiling fondly at Sherlock. He is speaking to Sherlock, but all he can do is blink the mess of tears away and reach up to place a hand on John's cheek. This time, he has the strength. So he uses it.

Sherlock bodily throws himself onto John kissing every part of the man he can reach. And then they are both laughing, rolling around on the blanket both seeking gentle dominance over the other.

And it's only when John has ended up straddling Sherlock, still clutching the beautiful box, both trying to catch their breath that John asks, "Will you marry me?"

Sherlock gasps awake, his eyes burst open, blinking rapidly at the tingling sensation behind them.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John asks groggily, concern dripping off the edges of his voice as he sits up, shaking his head in an attempt to rouse himself.

Sherlock just stares. His eyes bore into John's worried ones as he breathes, "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, John. I will marry you."