Hello people! This is my second fic and I hope you enjoy it. This is a AU version of the series in which John and Sherlock know each other since they were kids. Sorry for any mistakes, English is not my native language. Anyway, don't forget to review, comment and anything else you want to.

Disclaimer: Sherlock isn't mine (yet), nor John, nor Mycroft, nor Mrs. Hudson, nor any other character. They all belong to the great ACD, Moffat, Gatiss and BBC.

"Make sure your worst enemy is not living between your own two ears." Laird Hamilton

He could hear gunshots. A bullet grazed his left ear, the small bruise itching more than the skinless knee and the bullet wound. John was kneeled behind a huge boulder, missiles passing over his head. He was having quite the problem with his gun, the trigger was stuck and with his foot in a pretty bad shape, he was in immediate danger, unless he left his position as many of his comrades and sought for a hiding place. This thought crossed his mind several times in the last few minutes, but every time he'd look to see his friend throwing back the bombs to keep everyone else safe, he would reunite all the forces he believed he didn't have any longer and join him, fighting till the end.

That was until he saw Sebastian get shot on the stomach, the man grasping his torso with bloody hands. John shouted his name, trying to get there in time to save him, though it was too late. The moment he realized that, he heard a bang, and the last thing he remembered was everything turning black…

John woke up with a startle, sweat running down his face. The image of Sebastian being murdered in front of him still as clear as water. He punched the pillow over and over again, the pain slipping away every time he'd hit the soft white bolster. When he felt his arms couldn't hold any more effort, he collapsed on the bed, digging his head deep in the pillow.

"Feeling better?"

John grumbled and turned to face the wall. "Yes, thanks for your concern."

"War?"

"Yes."

"Sebastian?"

"Once again, yes." Emphasizing the word 'yes', John spun around on the bed for a second time to face the man sat on the wooden chair in front of his desk. "What do you want? All I wish is to have a good night of sleep, no worries and no fucking nightmares! What the hell could you possibly need this time?" John started shouting and only after he watched the dark silhouette moving closer to him he stopped.

"Remember last time you shout and someone had to invade your flat to calm you down?"

Listening to the other man whispering, the blonde began to whisper too. "Yeah, what about it?"

"Do you want that to happen again? Because last time, you were almost sent to a madhouse and I had to go with you an-"

"I got it, I got it! Just… shut up." John rubbed his hair and stretched his legs. He pulled the covers to the end of the bed and put his feet on the floor. Feeling it super cold, he leaned to the front, trying to find his slippers. "Where did you hide them?" John looked up to tackle the slim figure in front of him when he noticed them at the door of the bathroom. He rose from his spot and headed to the toilet.

"I believe you owe me an apology?"

John gave a laugh as a response, lowering to grab the slippers. "That would be quite ridiculous, don't you agree?" With the slippers on, he moved to the annex that was called kitchen. The first time he got to see the installations, his mouth fell to the ground. He couldn't live there, even if temporary, but with the miserable army pension he received, there was nothing to be done.

"Why so? If you already talk to me, I think you could also apologise."

"It's simply not happening. In the end, I would be saying sorry to myself." John started to make his breakfast. He opened the drawers, looking for tea. He found a box of camomile. 'I've gotta go shopping.' He then proceeded to make some toasts with two-days-old bread. The familiar smell reached his nose, a smile plastered on his face.

"If you don't want to speak to me, why don't you take the pills?" John's smile disappeared. Both men stayed in silence for a couple of minutes, not saying a word. "The toasts are getting burnt, John". The doctor jolted and pressed the button to make the toasts jump of the toaster.

"Damn." He threw the burnt bread to the garbage and searched for any food left. He found none. "I'm going to Starbucks. Coming?"

After a delicious white chocolate cookie and a mocha, John took a walk on Regent's Park. It was practically empty, since it was seven o'clock of a Saturday morning. He had everything to be happy in that moment, if he forgot about the cane: he was enjoying the environment, his stomach wasn't complaining anymore and everything was quiet. Well, that was the problem, it was too quiet. He looked at his left to see his friend right next to him, hands in the coat pockets and head down. That was unusual of him. John was just about to ask him what was going on when he heard someone calling out his name.

"John! John Watson!" He turned around and saw a small man approaching him.

"He looks familiar, doesn't he?" The tall man pinched his chin, scanning the other's face.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford." The man pointed at his chest with his right hand, the left one carrying a case filled with medical documents.

"Oh! That Mike!"

"We were at Bart's together." He extended his hand and John accepted it, apologizing immediately.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello, hi."

"You really need to practice your English, John."

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!"

"Pff, fat? Last time I saw you, you could rip your shirt apart with your abs when you'd inhale. Every single girl was after you, no idea why." John gave his tall friend a stern look and replied to Mike.

"No, no."

"Saying it twice won't change anything, John."

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

"Seriously? You stated the obvious."

John shrugged, ignoring his friend. "I got shot."

The men walked to a park bench, stopping by a coffee shop to get a hot beverage. Mike sat on the end of the bench, John on his right and the other one on John's right also.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?"

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things, like we used to be."

The tall man leaned forwards, placing his right elbow on his knees. "What's your definition of 'bright'?"

"God, I hate them." John laugh and Mike gave him a wide smile.

"I don't even know them and hate them too, if anyone's interested."

"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"I'm not the John Watson." The blonde man started to clench and unclench his left hand. He could feel it shaking once again. It seems his therapist wasn't making the effect she should have been. Perhaps he had to complain about it….

"Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

"I don't know… Get a flatshare or something…"

"No! No way! Tell him, John! Don't you dare ignore me!"

"Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

"John!" Mike observed his old friend suddenly faced the opposite direction and started protesting as if someone else was right there, close to them. Genuine concern surfaced and became quite visible on his face. He put a hand on John's shoulders and shook him softly, calling his name. It took a couple of minutes to bring him back to reality.

"You ok, John? What was that all about?" Good old Mike and his need to take care pf everyone else.

"Oh, sorry about that. I'm feeling a bit tense now, nothing too much."

"Did you hear anything I said when I taught you how to lie properly?"

"My therapist says it's common to most people who have PTSD to do…" John wagged his arms in the air. "… this."

"He's not that dumb, John. He'll notice through the lie sooner or later."

"Shut up."

"Sorry?"

"See? PTSD." He put his index finger on his temple and hit his head three times.

"Oh! I never heard that."

"He's getting suspicious. Cut the grass." The tall man began to slide way from the two men still on the bench. John eyed him and indicated him to stay exactly where he was, not that he would do it whenever John begged him or not. Knowing that his short friend didn't know how to get off that compelling situation, he whispered on his ear what to do. He received an inconspicuous nod and stood back, ready to leave.

"Oh, look at the time, it's so late already! Time to go! Nice to see you, Mike, I'll call you to have a drink some time!" John stood up and began to run after the silhouette in front of him. They ran all over London until they reached John's flat. Both man leaned against the wall and started laughing, getting harder and harder to breath. "That was the most ridiculous thing we've ever done."

"It was fun, yes, but not the craziest one. Remember the day after the prom?" The duo began to laugh once more, this time not so long.

"I can still vaguely recall I was being taken to a hospital. After that, I must have blacked out."

"Yes, you did. I had to explain your parents what happened. They were so mad at me that I actually thought they were going to murder me right there."

"First they would have to go through this." John pointed at himself with his thumbs, and swung around the room, showing off in front of his friend.

"It wasn't that hard at the time. You were almost as big as that hobbit thing of the book you forced me to read. Not that it's harder now, you just grew up three inches since then."

Noticing the smug face, John withered and gave a slap on the younger man's head, making him let out a small cry. "Careful, you're getting in dangerous territory. I'm not small, I'm well-knit." The blonde's arms went up and down along his body. The other one ignored him and catch a glimpse of a newspaper under thousands of papers. He dragged out the tabloid and perused out loud the main news.

"Suicide cults. The body of Beth Davenport, minister of Transports was found late last night in a building on the outskirts of London. Preliminary investigation suggests suicide. The police confirm this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Mr. Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore, and so on, so on… They are obviously wrong." He discarded the paper and slump on the small couch. "We could solve it, you know? I'd tell you what I deduce and you would tell the police officers. Of course, if there was something different on the new crime scene it would be a lot eas-"

"Oi? What do you mean with 'we'? We are certainly not going to interfere with the investigation. And how the hell could you know there's a new crime scene?"

"During our way home, we ran through Brixton. I saw the DI who's investigating this murder. I can tell it was him because of the photo on the newspaper."

"Murder? It says those were suicides."

"I repeat: they are wrong. Can't you see?" The man hoisted from the couch and bent down until he was on the same level as John. "If we go there, we'll solve the case! And there's more! I'll be able to finally have something to keep my mind busy and you'll get the adrenaline you are in desperate need."

"We won't go there! I just came back from the war. All I need is peace and quiet." John sat where his friend was previously and looked straight in the other's eyes. Knowing him, he was not going to give up that easily.

"I promise I won't be rude to any of them."

"I'm the only one who can hear you, did you forget it?"

"I promise I won't be rude to you."

"When that day comes, it'll be the apocalypse."

"That doesn't make any sense. Anyway, please? I really need this. Just one more time." He was now pleading. He never pleads. Well, the real him would never do such thing, but this is not the real one. This is a projection created by his mind to help him to shut the pain away after his best friend's death. This was his way to make pain a bit at ease to deal with. At least, according to his therapist. She advised him to take the pills to bring an end to those images, but he didn't have the courage to do it. Taking the pills would mean kill his friend, and to see Sherlock Holmes disappearing from his life twice was too much to handle.