Sherlock never understood why John slept so isolated.
In the rare moments he'd catch him sleeping somewhere other than his bed, he was curled up on the couch, completely shrouded with a blanket.
This was one of those moments.
The detective was up as usual, stirring up what looked like oatmeal and blood, talking to John. Who, of course, didn't have the courtesy to reply since he was asleep. Until he did.
"John, you know that granulocytes seek and destroy all harmful bacteria. But how would it react to the solution of water and oats?"
Instead of the sarcastic response Sherlock expected, he got a small grunt. The detective dramatically sighed.
"You know how I hate mumbling John, you should try speaking actual words if you don't mind."
Another grunt.
Sherlock looked up from his experiment to find his companion in a fetal position, wrapped securely in a blanket. His brows were furrowed and his face turned into a tight frown. Sherlock sighed again, knowing how sour John would be in the morning from the cramps he was sure to get from sleeping like that. He marched over to the couch and grabbed the sleeping form.
"John. Jooohn. Get up."
"Hmm."
"John."
Sherlock hesitated a bit when John's breathing pace grew quick, and his frown grew tighter. Before he could observe more, the sleeping man turned and shoved his face into the couch cushion. The doctor's hands uncurled from around himself, and he covered his ears as if there was something being heard.
Sherlock gingerly turned him around, and the moment he did, John's eyes shot open and his hands clawed out, desperately grabbing Sherlock's shoulders.
For a second, John's eyes were clouded in terror, but quickly focused on Sherlock's face. John was panting, and he removed his hands from Sherlock to run his fingers through his hair.
"Jesus Sherlock, you scared me." He breathed.
"John...Why haven't you told me your nightmares came back?"
John stared at Sherlock, and in a quick attempt to cover up the situation he chuckled a bit.
"No no, it wasn't a nightmare. It was...erm...a sex dream. I was dreaming about sex." He lied.
Sherlock gave him a quizzical look.
"You're crying."
The older man brushed his eyelid only to find that it was drenched in tears he didn't know he had shed.
"You know what, fuck off. I'm going to sleep."
John jumped off the couch and retreated into his bedroom. He made sure to slam the door loud enough for Sherlock to hear, and dove under the covers.
Sherlock was a bit shocked at John's outburst. Completely ignoring the strange smell immersing from the mixture left on the kitchen table, he grabbed John's laptop and began researching.
"How to cure nightmares."
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He was dizzy, the world around him a blinding white save for the crumpled form ahead of him. He ran fast, his shoulder burning in pain and his leg threatening to give out. John reached out to the figure and gingerly turned it over. He didn't need to see a face to know who it was, yet he felt an urge to prove his mind was wrong. His heart dropped.
Lifeless grey eyes pierced his own, and the crimson red splatters stood out on his companion's pale skin. He reached out to brush the curly hair out of the dead man's face, but as he prepared for the feel of the velvet locks, the body before him began to sink into nothingness.
John desperately tried to prevent the corpse from disappearing into the void it was slowly descending in, and the cold hands of the body he was pulling up grabbed his arms.
The glazed eyes looked at him in a ferocious gaze, and the perfectly shaped lips were sculpted into a snarl.
"You could have saved me."
The words spilled like stones out of the dead man's lips, and John sobbed as he was pulled into the black hole threatening to swallow his friend.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
The world around him disappeared and the darkness spilled into his mouth like water. His lungs felt as heavy as his heart, and his mind couldn't seem to grasp on anything.
'I can't breathe. I can't breathe.'
Please God, let me live.
With a gasp, John woke up.
His eyes were filled with tears yet to be shed, but with blurry vision he could make out the silhouette of his friend at the door.
Wordlessly, the figure moved in on him. Sherlock peeled the covers open and climbed into the bed. John was in no shape to deny it, and could only stare. They fixed their eyes on each other, and John was the first to break the gesture. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he looked away, ashamed of his emotions getting the best of him.
Long and lanky arms wrapped around him awkwardly. Sherlock rested his head on the older man's shoulder, unsure how to react to this new stage of 'friendship.'
John relaxed into the grip of his companion, and in the first time in months, dreamlessly slept.
