Sherlock couldn't sleep. After waking up in a cold sweat, the night wouldn't let him drift off. Maybe John's snores were too loud. Maybe the fact that the baby were actually sleeping the night through without waking up or wailing. Maybe a nightmare kept him from falling back asleep. But Sherlock was over 40 years old. People that age didn't have nightmares. That was for children. People who went through trauma. Upsetting experiences. That was years ago. It was just a dream.

He needed air.

Well, that was easily manageable. The house he had bought with John was huge. Four floors, wide open rooms. He had his own laboratory. John had his own office. It was times like these when he hated the house. Sherlock never liked big houses - that's why he hated living at home as a child. Now, the Holmes-Watson residence wasn't nearly as big as the Holmes Mansion, but was still annoyingly large.

Sherlock liked narrow corridors and low hanging ceilings. He liked small spaces. He liked physical pressure, the feeling of being enclosed, like a comforter wrapped around him. That's why he liked his close fitting clothes, his bulky coat he wore even in the summer. That's why he liked it when John took the time to run his hands along Sherlock's bare torso, pushing down with his soft fingertips. Pressure. He slept with more than one blanket, and was cold without it. He pressed his fingers under his chin, pressing together, tucked under his chin. Holding his own child against his chest, a heartbeat almost in sync with his. A heartbeat he and John decided should be in this world.

The house though, was just too big for three people. The guest rooms were taunts, rooms they didn't need, rooms that simply had to be filled. The fourth floor was an unfinished project - John and Sherlock could just never figure out what to do with it.

But they needed the change. They needed to get out of the flat after...well. Musing over it, staying in the flat might have been even worse. The memory, lingering everywhere, in the not tidied dust, the sink that became clogged up with dishes. John and Sherlock had moved to get away from it.

The flat had been small. It had that pressure Sherlock liked. He wondered who lived in it now. Someone wealthy enough for the rent. Maybe a nurse? St. Bart's was a quick commute away. Was there a new landlady? Did she make pudding for the people upstairs? Did she tutt over the bullet-riddled walls? If she was half of what Mrs. Hudson was, she was a queen.

Sherlock blinked. When did he get to the living room? The big living room, with the big windows that showed their big neighbourhood. He brought his hand up to his eyes, wiping away the moisture there. When did he start crying?

John stood in the opening that led to the foyer, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed.

"Sherlock?" he asked. Worried, his face showed.

"This is house is too big," Sherlock declared.

His husband sighed, crossing the space to wrap his arms around Sherlock's waist.

"Come back to bed," John murmured, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder. Pressing. It was oddly reassuring.

"Can't sleep,"

John hummed in response, pulling away to look up at Sherlock. He expected an elaboration. Why couldn't he just know? Why couldn't he just see things the way Sherlock did, and just deduce it?

"I...it...it was a bad dream," Sherlock started.

John's grip grew steely around his waist, then released. His face remained the same. Concerned about Sherlock.

"Need to talk about it?"

No. No, I really don't want to talk about it. But maybe I need to.

"We, uh..."

Sherlock wet his lips, looking down at his feet. John stepped back, his arms dropped to his sides. Sherlock cleared his throat, shaking his head. Pressure, pushing behind his eyes. He didn't like it. He really didn't like it.

"We were...we...do you remember 221B?"

"Aye," John answered. It was dawning his face. He knew, but he was going to let Sherlock say it. Damn him.

"We were arguing about the milk. I told you to go get some from Mrs. Hudson, since you were complaining about going to the store."

"Sherlock," John sighed, cupping the back of Sherlock's neck. It spoke words only Sherlock could translate. It's okay, you don't have to if you don't want to, I get it. I'm sorry for pushing it. You don't have to.

But it came out like a floodgate opened, a broken dam.

"You left, and you were gone for hours. When you came back, there was spilled milk on your shoes and you were crying. You told me...a-and I didn't believe you,"

"I wouldn't have believed you," John offered gently, easing the pain. John was like the physical pressure, pushing down until Sherlock's limbs were locked, until he felt secure and warm. It still hurt, but it was years ago, and time healed. The scar was still there, puckered against flawless skin, a ripple in a bowl of cream.

"Even when I went to her room, saw the cold body...I didn't believe you. I thought someone did it,"

"Everyone dies, Sherlock. It's the fact of life."

Sherlock swallowed, "I know. I've spent my entire career exploring that fact. I just never thought-"

John was nodding, his other hand coming up to brush against Sherlock's wet cheek, "Never thought it would be her."

"She was a good person, John. She was our landlady, she was the housekeeper, she was-"

"She was a friend?" John offered. Sherlock nodded.

"I miss her."

"I know,"

Pressing. John's hands, steady on his back. Sherlock's face, bent over, pressing against John's shoulder. Pressing. The ache of a lost friend, a morbid silence hovering in the air.

AN: ... I realize that I've been really mean to Sherlock lately. Uhm. I'll get him a puppy or something.