Update: Thanks for all the reviews so far! I love all of my readers, and I want you to know that. So in this chapter, John is going to force Sherlock to do something he would never normally do. Hehehe, this shall be fun. Enjoy!

The next time John had a flashback was during the normal, everyday routine that John had. Well, as routine as he could be around Sherlock. Just about the only schedule he could keep was getting up at seven in the morning to make coffee (and this was provided Sherlock didn't wake him up in the middle of the night to run some insane test on him). Most days, when Sherlock had a case, John didn't even get to brush his teeth before they were out the door headed to whatever fresh crime scene.

Today, however, there were no cases, and, despite this fact, Sherlock had not woken John up at an ungodly hour. John had woken up a little later this morning (due to sleeping rough the night before) and was preparing a pot of coffee for himself and Sherlock when the memory hit.

It was 08:30, and John was in charge of seeing to all the patients that morning. He readied a tray filled with breakfast items and set it on the top rack of a rolling cart, where it joined many other similar trays. He wheeled the cart around the makeshift hospital, delivering medications and foods to those that could eat. For those that couldn't eat, he checked the fluids in their iv bags. He wasn't finished before a siren went off, warning of bomb going off. None of the staff panicked, as this was quite standard procedure by now, instead wheeling patients down a ramp into the bomb shelter dug out below the building.

Time passed, and eventually the sirens died down. John helped the other doctors and nurses wheel the patients back up to the main floor and back to their stations. John was on his third trip back up the ramp when the unexpected explosion tore a hole the size of a tractor in the side of the building. bodies went flying off of beds, limbs were torn from sockets, and blood sprayed the walls. Fire from the explosion spread, burning the flesh off of the poor men and women that couldn't move themselves out of the way. Screaming could be heard from all over the building, and all John could do was stand in a corner, helpless, as it all went on.

"John?" The voice seemed far away, not real to John. "John," it repeated, more forcefully this time. "John, are you all right?" He finally snapped out of his reverie, his daydream. He had been standing there, hand on the coffee pot, during the entire vision that flashed before his eyes. Sherlock, of course, had noticed that something was wrong and came to his friend's aid, shaking his shoulders and calling out his name.

John turned to face his flatmate, his one true friend, tears streaming silently down his face, which held no expression. His eyes had dulled over, making him seem dead. Sherlock bent down a little to meet John's eyes. "Oh, John," Sherlock whispered, hugging John close. "It happened again didn't it?" John nodded his head softly in response, one, two, three, four times. Sherlock counted. He always counted. Four was John's safe number, the thing he reverted to when things went south.

After a moment, when John had calmed down a little, he spoke. "Yes," he mumbled, staggering out of the kitchen as Sherlock released him and flopping down in a chair in the front room. Sherlock's chair. He wanted to be held, to be loved. Not just wanted, needed the attention from his friend. From his unexpected lover.

Sherlock followed him immediately out of the kitchen, standing in front of him as he collapsed in the seat. He sighed, then picked John up, bridal style, sitting down in his chair and carefully, slowly setting John in his lap. He gently stroked his friend's hair, listened to his breathing pattern and tried to match it. When he succeeded, he slowed down his breathing, encouraging John subconsciously to follow suit.

John did so, and felt immediately better. Perhaps more so because he was being cuddled by the least cuddly man alive than because he was breathing slower. He forced a smile at Sherlock. "Coffee?" he asked meekly, his voice cracking.

Sherlock blinked slowly, his hand pausing halfway through John's hair. "Whatever makes you feel better, love." John was shocked. Never had Sherlock ever called him love. Not once. He slowly grinned, faking an evil laugh.

"Actually... I know just the thing."

An hour later, much to Sherlock's surprise and discomfort, they were seated in front of the telly with Doctor Who on, and each had a plate of fish fingers and a bowl of custard in their laps.