Soo good news! Since I'm too weak to do any heavy lifting I finished helping with the move early and had plenty of time to write. :) And what a great day for an update huh, with it being Benedict's birthday and all!

Also, thanks to everyone for reading and voting and commenting and following! I mean, almost 4,000 reads and over 100 votes?? It's unbelievable. So thank you guys so much, and here's chapter fifteen!

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Once John and Sherlock returned to the flat after a very interesting and chatter-filled lunch at 'The Vineyard', they'd spent the rest of the afternoon watching TV and playing Cluedo. John actually won a round and Sherlock had sulked for about fifteen minutes before demanding a rematch. He'd then gone on to win two games in a row before they decided to quit. Then John made some tea and they drank it while watching detective shows until late in the evening. John was particularly engrossed in one episode involving a stolen truck and an international drug ring when he thought he heard sounds coming from the couch.

"John," came Sherlock's muffled voice. John, who kept his eyes trained on the television screen just nodded his head in Sherlock's general direction to let him know he had his attention.

"Yes Sherlock?" he asked when Sherlock didn't continue speaking. There was still no answer, so John turned around in his seat to find that Sherlock was asleep. The detective was curled up on the couch, facing outward, both hands resting underneath his head as he slept. His eyelashes were fanned out over his cheeks, and his lips were parted slightly. His expression could only be described as peaceful.

He looked so unlike himself...so innocent. Like an angel child who had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for Santa to show up on Christmas Eve. For a while John watched him as he slept, his chest moving ever so slowly as he breathed. John's eyes scanned over his face, taking in every detail he saw. His eyes remained fixed on his pink, bow-shaped lips longer than anything.

Suddenly Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and the corners of his lips turned downward.

"John..." His voice was barely above a whisper, but John still heard him say his name. Sherlock took in a deep breath and his frown became more prominent. He began tossing and turning and John heard a deep moan escape from him. John immediately rose from his seat and knelt down in front of the couch. His hand hovered for a bit over Sherlock's head before he gently stroked his curly hair.

"Sherlock," he said softly, "wake up."

Sherlock took in another deep breath and started tossing again, but John held his shoulders and kept Sherlock facing towards him.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly opened and he stared directly at John. All John saw in those multicoloured eyes were fear and confusion, two things he hardly ever saw in Sherlock. John watched as both emotions disappeared from Sherlock's eyes and he eventually calmed down. He sighed and let his head drop.

"Oh, John, thank God."

"What is it Sherlock?"

The detective sat up and ran his hands over his face. He shook his head and took in a deep breath. He let it out slowly, then looked down at John, who was still kneeling on the floor. Their eyes remained locked for a moment, and John felt a lump growing in his throat. Sherlock kept completely silent, and John remained on his knees in front of the couch.

"Are you alright Sherlock?" he asked in what he hoped was a gentle and soothing tone of voice. Sherlock just yawned and nodded his head, still not saying a word. John guessed he was still in the process of waking up. They both sat there for a few moments, not moving or saying anything while Sherlock seemed to be gathering his thoughts.

"What time is it?" he asked after a short while. John looked around for a clock, saw Sherlock's phone sitting on the floor nearby and grabbed that.

"It's only about eight or so." Sherlock sighed and brought his bottom lip between his teeth. He nodded his head slowly, then turned so his back was against the back of the sofa. He let his head fall backwards and closed his eyes. John made himself more comfortable on the floor and sat staring up at Sherlock.

"Are you okay?" He asked again. Sherlock still didn't answer, but let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Sherlock?"

"I'm fine John." John winced at his tone. He sounded annoyed. "I was just having a bad dream, is all."

"What about?" Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling.

"I'd rather not talk about it." John looked down and nodded, though he knew Sherlock couldn't see.

"Alright then," he said, starting to stand up, "I think I'll just...go to my room then."

"Would you mind staying out here for a moment longer?" John froze, then sat back down on the floor.

"Okay, if that's what you want." Sherlock looked down at him and smiled.

"Thank you." He slid over some and placed his hand on the cushion beside him. "You can sit up here if you want." John hesitated to stand. His mind drifted back to Fiji, when they'd shared a bed, and he thought about how it had felt to have Sherlock laying beside him while they were both trying to fall asleep. He could remember the warmth he felt from Sherlock's body even though they weren't touching. He thought about waking up every morning with Sherlock's head on his shoulder, and his heart began to beat faster. He thought about a drunken Sherlock grabbing onto the belt loops of his jeans, and he thought about the kitchen scene that he had yet to figure out. He thought about their stakeout, where he'd fallen asleep on Sherlock's shoulder, and about how comfortable he had been with his head resting there. His heart skipped a beat as he stood up and sat down beside Sherlock.

They were sitting less than a few inches apart, and John was incredibly aware of that fact. He reached up and ran his hand across his chin, and let it fall to his knee. Sherlock jumped slightly beside him, and John realized it wasn't his own knee he had just grabbed. His hand slowly slid away from Sherlock's knee and moved to rest on his own.

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Every now and then John would glance out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock just to make sure he was alright. He had seemed pretty freaked out by whatever dream he'd had. The fact that he refused to talk about it worried John even more.

After a while of not speaking, Sherlock sighed and covered his face with his hands, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. John looked over at him, wishing he knew how to comfort his friend. he raised his hand, then after a brief hesitation, he placed it on Sherlock's back. John began to subconsciously move his hands up and down Sherlock's back, not even realizing that he was doing so until Sherlock leaned over towards John and rested his head on his shoulder. Without saying a word John moved his hand so that it was resting on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock just sighed again, then stood up. John stared up at him as he paced back and forth. Every now and then Sherlock would stop walking and open his mouth as if to say something, but then would only shake his head and resume walking.

"Sherlock," John called out to him. Sherlock stopped and turned towards John, but kept his eyes downcast. "Are you alright?" Sherlock just nodded. "Would you tell me if you weren't?" Sherlock brought his hand up to his chin and stroked it, and John found it hard to look away from his slender fingers as they ran over the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock's jaw.

"Probably not," Sherlock finally said before walking out of the living room, stopping in the doorway to turn back and look at John. He flashed him a wide smile. John knew the smile was incredibly fake and forced, but he still found himself smiling back before Sherlock spoke.. "But thank you for the concern." John sighed and nodded his head.

"Alright then," he said, standing up, "I'm going off to bed." Sherlock simply nodded his head in reply, and the two men parted ways. Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen and John guessed he was making his way to his room. It was dark, so John took extra caution as he went up the stairs so he wouldn't fall. He dressed for bed, then climbed underneath the sheets and settled down. His eyelids were just beginning to fall shut when he heard the sound of a violin coming from downstairs.

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Three days after Sherlock and John's visit to St. Bart's, Lucy stopped by the flat to tell Sherlock that Matthew had been taken off of life support. John had poured her a cup of tea while she and Sherlock sat at the table in the living room and she talked about her final moments with him before she left and his family showed up. She told them they were more than welcome to come to the funeral, and though Sherlock had smiled and told Lucy he'd try to make it, John knew he didn't really mean it. After all, Sherlock was never one to get emotionally invested in any case or any of the people involved. He didn't really get emotionally involved in anything. Aside from the occasional mood swing, quiet chuckle, or random displays of anger and contempt, John would have assumed that Sherlock had no emotions.

Still, he was a pro at pretending to have them, and was able to give Lucy a very convincing smile as she left before collapsing onto the sofa. He covered his face with his hands and groaned. John stood by the door that Lucy had just walked out of. He closed it slowly and kept his eyes on Sherlock as he did so.

"Are- are you alright Sherlock?" he asked when Sherlock didn't move for several moments.

"Peachy."

John could tell by Sherlock's tone of voice that he was anything but. He strode over to the sofa and moved Sherlock's feet out of the way so he could sit down. Sherlock rolled over onto his back and placed his feet in John's lap. They stayed like that for a few minutes while John tried to think of something to say to comfort the obviously upset Sherlock.

"Sherlock, if you are upset by Matthew's-"

"I'm not upset about Matthew." Sherlock lifted his head to glare at John, and John just smiled at him. He figured it would do no good to get angry with Sherlock, when he should be used to stuff like this by now. He placed a hand on one of Sherlock's feet and began massaging the underside with his thumb. He heard a sigh escape Sherlock's lips, and when he looked over at him he saw that his eyes had closed, and his fingers were steepled together and resting beneath his chin. Neither of them said anything, and it was a comfortable silence. John continued to massage Sherlock's feet, and Sherlock let him.

After a while John's stomach began to rumble and he realized he was quite famished. He patted Sherlock's foot lightly before standing up and grabbing his coat from the back of his armchair.

"I think I'm in the mood for some take away," he said, sitting down to put on his shoes. "Do you want me to grab you anything for you?"

"No thank you," came Sherlock's reply. "Not hungry."

John had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and though he wanted desperately to talk to Sherlock and try to convince him to eat something, he figured it would be best to leave him alone for now. He simply nodded his head, then after making sure he had his keys, phone, and wallet, walked out of the flat.