The nightmares had returned, this time added to. He started remembering the night he had lost his friend, his genius, his Sherlock. It was a horrible mix of death and loneliness. He had taken to sleeping on the couch where he could hear Sherlock in his room. The detective was quiet when sleeping, but that didn't happen often, so he would retire to his room to give John some space. One night, he knew that John was having fits when he walked out of the room to retrieve a bag of evidence. John was tossing and turning on the couch, reaching out and calling for someone who Sherlock knew would never come.

"John?" He asked cautiously, making sure that his doctor was asleep, before walking over and sitting on the table, studying him. He had a strange urging to comfort John, but had no idea how. The only time he could remember from personal experience is when Mother would hold him when he was crying. Maybe that would comfort John as well. Slowly, he attempted to slide onto the couch next to John, but only succeeded in making him roll over and knock Sherlock off. He finally decided, after many tries, to just move John. He gently maneuvered himself as to not cause John to stir, and picked him up. Granted, he was much heavier than first assumed, but Sherlock managed to move down the hallway to his bedroom, only stumbling slightly, and only hitting John on the door softly. Quickly, he placed him on the bed as softly as he could, before cuddling into his side. He knew that John would probably be gone when he woke, as the doctor had said many times that contact such as this was not good, but Sherlock knew that John wanted to be near him, and was only denying contact because he was afraid of what he would do. At least he got this moment though, cuddled into John, noticing as he relaxed in his hold.