A/N: This is my entry for SWC2014 on Tumblr. My prompt was originally a WWI AU, but I took artistic liberties and changed it to WWII, due to candied apples (which apparently are called toffee apples in not-America!) and lack of proper gun info for WWI. I am sorry if any British vernacular is off- I am American. (And no matter how hard I close my eyes and hope that America is just a bad dream, I don't live in England or Ireland when I awake. *sobs grossly*)

WARNING: This is not a fluffy story. It deals with PTSD, war, and death. If you can be easily triggered by any of these, please consider not reading this fic. While I may not have written it as realistically as I had aimed for, I do care very much about you and your health, and I do not want anything I write to be a trigger for you.

Anyway. This is unbeta'd, so I apologize for grammatical errors or anything. I tried my best to catch mistakes, but I didn't feel like waiting for my editor friend to get home and comb through it. I also apologize for any OOC dialogue or such. This is my first Sherlolly fic and I am a little wary of writing characters I love so much out of fear of misrepresenting them.

It actually ended up being like 12 pages so I am going to put it up in chapters.

And now, without any further ado, the story.

SWC2014 WWII AU: Sherlock has returned from the war and is suffering under shell shock. Molly tries to help him in every way she can

Panic. There was panic everywhere. Screaming, so much screaming. Full throated, unreserved screaming. Men, full grown men and just hardly boys prayed to their gods and cried for their mothers. The rain slicked the packed ground and turned the trenches into sinkholes. His boots squished frantically through the mud as ran, shouting commands at his fellow soldiers. They needed to stay focused, to keep themselves together. But some men- it was as if someone took a string from inside of them and just tugged until the entire ball of yarn was a tangled mess, leaving them beyond all sense and hope. He whipped his head around, looking for an opening. Mud ran down his forehead and into his eyes, and he hastily wiped it away, spotting one and making his way to it. Halfway there, an explosion rocked the ground, throwing gritty dirt everywhere. It stung as it hit his face and eyes.

He fell to his knees, throwing himself down as bullets peppered down around him, finding a target in the men around him. He dropped to his stomach, his gun pressing painfully against his side. His elbows dug into the mud as he made his way to an empty spot and pushed himself up against the wall. He quickly pushed the hair plastered to his forehead out to the side, and pulled his cap down firmly.

He flashed the man next to him a wry smile, cracking a joke "Almost as bad as a thunderstorm, eh?" The man laughed replying, "Aye, but I've not got a woman here to calm down." He smirked, shaking his head. "Damn shame, too."

Sherlock laughed, but just seconds later, a bullet hit the man in the neck and he fell backwards, landing with a thump. Sherlock let out a shout of surprise and threw himself back, slamming painfully against the makeshift wall of packed mud and wood planks. He breathed heavily, his ears ringing and heart pounding frantically. Another explosion rocked the trenches, and he had to readjust his cap. He took a moment to recover his breath, then gathered his courage and turned around. His shoved his rifle firmly into place in the pocket of his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself up to see out of the trench, and faced the oncoming enemy. He leveled the gun at a man, took aim-

The man crumpled to the ground with a cry, crimson blooming on his side.

Sherlock woke with a cry, starting violently. Next to him, his wife stirred from her sleep at his outburst.

"Sherlock?" Her voice was still heavy with sleep. "Are you alright?"

His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to shake the memory from his mind, to no avail. Molly sat up and softly touched his shoulder. He jerked away from her, stumbling out of bed and to the washroom, flicking the light on and shoving the door shut behind him. Molly squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the awful retching from the other side of the door. She brought her hands up to her face and covered her eyes, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. Her small frame, highlighted by the light the glowed softly from under the bathroom door, shook with silent sobs. I can't help him. I can't help him. I can't help him. Why did this have to happen to us?

Why?

Molly turned from the egg she was cooking to set the jam down in front of him, along with a slice of toast. Sherlock made no recognition of either. He just stared at a spot on the wall over her shoulder, lost in his head. But this was nothing like when he was working over a case. Then, he had always had a fire in his eyes, and he would at least blink, occasionally mutter something. But now...now, his cold blue eyes were vacant and empty. His mouth never twitched in a smile, he never said anything, he never made any move. No twitches, no deep breaths, no soft murmuring. He had never even said her name.

When she had gone to the train station to pick him up, she stood waiting anxiously in the crowd of women welcoming home their husbands, lovers, brothers, fathers, sons, uncles, cousins, nephews. As the huge red steam engine pulled into the station, soldiers were eagerly leaning out the windows, ready to tip off onto the pavement. A couple soldiers had even managed to pry the doors open and jump out early. She watched as men swept up their little wives, pressing their mouths together in a long overdue kiss, or scooped their little ones up onto their shoulders for a ride. She tried to imagine what Sherlock would do. Would he kiss her? Would he pull her into a hug? Would he grab her hand and tell her how much he had missed her during that horrible war?

She looked down at the rose she held in her hand. Yes, it was a little bit over-romantic, and he would probably just roll his eyes at her, but she knew he would love the gesture anyway. She forced herself to stop rolling the stem between her fingers, not wanting to damage it, and looked back up.

Molly's breath caught in her throat as she saw him step off the train. He was still the same man she knew- but so different. The smoke from the train had made it hard to spot him at first, on that smoggy atmosphere, but he was still her husband, and she would know him anywhere. He was still tall, he still boasted a messy mop of curls, though it was a bit shorter. But he was much stronger, and his face was much tanner than it had been when she watched him board the train the first time. In his light brown jacket, covering a crisp white shirt, he looked like a different man. He glanced around, looking for somebody, looking for her. She took a step forward, reaching out to him. "Sherlock!" Tears of joy sprung into her eyes- he was home. He was finally, finally home.

But when his eyes made contact with hers, her face splitting smile faded, and she knew just how different he had become.

As he made his way toward her, the pounding of her heart increased to a deafening roar, and she was surprised he couldn't hear it. He reached her, finally, and looked down at her. The pounding in her chest quit, for her heart had simply stopped beating. This wasn't Sherlock. This wasn't her husband. His eyes were no longer just a sharp blue. They were cold, vacant, and angry.

He looked at her for a few moments longer before brushing past her, leaving her standing alone with a rose in hand and tears rolling down her cheeks. And in her chest, a cold, metallic, worried feeling settled in her chest.

The feeling never left.

"Honey, you need to eat. Do you want me to fix you something else?" She asked firmly but kindly, her hand gripping a spatula and the other resting on her hip. He made no response, not even an acknowledgement that she had addressed him. She tried again. "Sherlock, do you want something else to eat?" Nothing. Frustration caused tears to spring to her eyes and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't push them down. Her throat ached with the effort of not bursting into hysterics, and there was a slight tremble to her hands and she sat down across from Sherlock. Setting the spatula down next to the salt and pepper shakers, she reached across the table and placed her hand within his reach. "Sherlock, please. Please, at least look at me." She choked back a sob. "Please."

Her head dropped into her arms, softly crying for a few moments. Pull yourself together, Molly. He needs you now. He needs you to be strong. She sucked in a sharp breath and lifted her head, letting go of the tablecloth that she had crushed in her hands. Giving him a watery smile, she cleared her throat and spoke softly, pulling her arms back to her body. "It will be okay, everything will be okay." And, despite his blank expression, despite having not responded in the slightest to anything she said, she had to hope. She had to hope that he would someday respond to her.

"It will be okay," she said, and stood up. She ran the back of her hand over her eyes, and returned to the stovetop. She scraped the burnt crisp of what was once an egg off the frying pan and dumped it in the bucket for the compost pile. As she cracked open a new egg, and dropped it into the pan, she whispered to herself over the sizzling, "It will be okay."

It will be okay.

Molly looked around the fancy room, feeling incredibly small, and shrunk even farther into the plush seat. She watched children play with matchbox cars or huddle close to their parents, afraid. She understood the fear. The room around her that was obviously decorated in an attempt to be warm and friendly was simply intimidating. Crystals hung from lampshades, the burgundy curtains matched the deep red carpet, the wallpaper was tasteful but elegant, and the end-tables were crafted from expensive wood and polished to almost a mirror-like state. One couldn't help but feel inferior in that room.

"Mrs. Holmes?" a rough voice called, and she snapped her head up, the hastily stood. A large man with a professional air took up a large expanse of the doorway.

"I- that's me," she smiled nervously.

"Follow me to the back, if you'll please."Molly grabbed her purse and adjusted her skirt before following the man to the back. He held the door open as she squeezed through, and she nodded and murmured her thanks.

The doctor shut the door behind him, and the heavy-set man hobbled over to his desk and fell into his chair, wheezing. "Now, what can I help you with today?" He asked from behind his walrus-like mustache, leaning back.

"Well, sir, it's my husband. He, uh- he isn't the same," she stuttered, and then took a deep breath. "My husband recently returned from the war. And, um, he has been really…not himself. He looks off into the distance, he won't eat, he has awful nightmares, but he won't tell me about them- he won't tell me anything at all. He hasn't said one word to me since he got back, about a week ago." She twisted her fingers nervously together in her lap. "Please, can you tell me what it might be?"

The doctor- whose impressive gold nameplate pronounced him Doctor Jeremy Phillips- had been listening intently, with one arm propping him against the armrest of his chair, and the other hand slowly stroking his mustache. After a beat, he took a deep breath and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk.

"Mrs. Holmes, may I ask you a personal question?" He asked, his voice taking on the soft tone of an adult speaking to a child. Molly, confused, nodded, and he continued. "Does your husband know you're here?"

Taken aback, she stuttered, "Excuse me?"

"I have an idea of what may be wrong with your husband. But it may be a little over your head."

"Over my head?" Molly's temper flared up. "Dr. Phillips, I can assure you, whatever his problems are, they are certainly not 'over my head'."

There was a tense silence before the man took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright." He leaned back in his chair again. When he spoke again, his voice was more professional than it had been before. "It seems that your husband may be suffering from shell-shock. It is a condition that often appears in soldiers returning from war."

Molly sat still for a few moments, processing the information. "So you're saying the war did this to him?" Molly had a hunch that that was it, that the war was to blame, and she wasn't wrong.

"Yes."

"Is- is there anything that can be done for him?"

Sherlock sat in the darkened living room, perched on the sofa vacantly. His back remained straight, his posture impeccable, and he almost smile as he thought of how his mother would be proud of him for having such grace. Almost. His faces' contours were highlighted sharply as the dark shadows played across his cheekbones and brow. He was pale, drawn, almost like a living corpse, a ghost. His eyes remained stationary under his eyelids while his mind ran at top speed, the sound of a freight train filling his mind. He vaguely heard somebody- Molly- come through the front door, shutting it behind her. He opened his eyes slightly to peer at her while her back was turned and detachedly noticed she had been to a doctor- a psychologist, judging by her left hand- but he soon shut his sticky eyelids again and returned to the world in his mind.

John.

Pain shot through his chest, crushing and burning him like a heated iron mold, slowly being adjusted tighter and tighter, until he couldn't breathe. His head spun, but amidst the fog of pain, he heard his wife speak. He didn't know what she had said- likely a protestation about his not having eaten in, what, three days? Four? It didn't matter- but he couldn't make out anything beyond the words that spun in his head.

John.

You killed him.

You killed John.

You killed John.