John Watson's return from Afghanistan is- difficult.
The night-terrors are of course to be expected, along with the jittery twitch of his hand at his belt when a door is slammed just a little too loudly- these things are expected. What isn't is the uncomfortable feeling of stillness. He can't stand it. Sitting at his desk for more than fifteen minutes makes him feel positively sick, and he sleeps with his mattress on the floor now, curled in the corner of the room.
A war zone is riddled with fear and John is all too familiar with it. It has taught him fear can be your ally as well as your enemy is you play your cards right which is something his therapist definitely doesn't- couldn't understand. She hasn't seen what he has, hasn't lost what he has, she can't help him, not really. Particularly when he's not telling her the truth. Because it isn't fear that keeps him up at night. It's the overwhelming sensation of nothingness.
.
Sherlock isn't especially happy about his release from that hell-hole dubbed 'rehab' seeing as he stays steadfast with the opinion that he shouldn't have been in there in the first place, however he certainly isn't complaining, and moves straight back into 221B, back into the open arms of Mrs Hudson who makes him tea and ruffles his hair, and back into the mahogany nest that has grown to be his home.
And for a while, it is enough. After all London is a circus when it comes to crime. For a while he honestly believes that the months before had been unjustified boredom which could easily have been remedied with more riddles. But slowly, things started changing.
He comes home to an empty house most days- Mrs Hudson works evening hours, and the criminals grow petty, dull and unimaginative. He tosses Lestrade clues rather than answers in a sort of sick experiment to see how long it takes the average mind to work out what he had in seconds. The results are disappointing. There are experiments in the fridge, ruining the food, and nobody's around to tell him to take them out so he has something to actually eat. Of course this doesn't bother Sherlock Holmes. He likes the quiet. People like him are used to being alone anyway.
.
Getting a job is easy, particularly when the requrements are so simple: someplace quiet and pays the bills and doesn't require holding a gun to your waist 24/7. He applies for an open position in the local doctor's surgery, and has no problem getting through. With his level of experience, there's very little he hasn't seen, and the women asking the questions knows it. She's pretty, in an ordinary kind of way, and before he knows it, they're dating. The conversation is drab, the dates unimaginative and painfully formal- but it's a welcome distraction.
He breaks it off eventually. They were at a standstill anyway, and John preferred wandering the streets of London alone than returning to his flat which smelt of woodchip and cold.
One night he sees a head of black curls and a man dressed in a long coat standing on a roof like something out of a superhero movie, and he nearly laughs. He's about to move out of the glare of the streetlight to see the man, but then he's gone. John blinks and feels an odd ache spread through his chest.
He isn't much of a drinker, but that night there's more whisky in his system than blood, and he struggles between consciousness and sleep all night, strange visions of yellow crime scene tape and deep laughter.
.
He hasn't slept in days. His body looks like twigs with cloth draped unceremoniously on them, and his eyes are sunken into his skull, black bruises lining the rims. He'd forgotten how difficult this had been, and now he didn't even have the needle for solace. Instead he solves case after case, facts and numbers the only things swirling in his frazzled mind.
Sometimes there are no cases, and he lays on the sofa wishing for rest- which never comes. One time, he throws a vase at the wall to see how it smashes, and finds it's nothing like the movies. He measures the angle and the spread of shards all over the carpet, one of them slicing the skin of his foot, which he didn't notice until he saw the red marks following his footsteps. Mrs Hudson was not amused.
Eventually there's something new. Moriarty. The word tastes sweet on his tongue, and he won't deny it- he's relieved.
.
"Are you still having nightmares?"
"Yes."
"The same I assume."
"Well, not exactly, no. Not the same at all."
"Oh?"
"Yes. They're different now."
"How so?"
"I don't dream about the battlefield anymore."
"That's good. What do these new dreams entail? Anything in particular?"
"There's a man- or I think it's a man- he's dressed all in black. There's a lot of shouting, a lot of laughter. A lot of yellow too."
"Yellow?"
"Yes. Everything's a bit of a blur to be honest."
"Hm. This is good."
"It is?"
"Yes John. You've moved on from primary flashbacks and onto the roots of the feelings. What would you say is your primary emotion during these dreams? Fear?"
"Um, I'm not sure. Probably- sadness?"
"Hmm. Regret maybe?"
No. That isn't it. Not at all. John offers a tight smile.
"Maybe."
.
Sherlock holds off sleep for as long as possible now, in the hopes that when he does, it won't be plagued with the same dreams which have been haunting him for weeks now. Unfortunately, his mind isn't so kind, and that night, from the moment his head hits the pillow, he's tossing and turning, and trapped the same place he has been for weeks.
There's nothing particularly frightening about it. To begin with he'd presumed Moriarty to be the cause of them, but when wakes up there's a uncomfortable feeling of- disappointment? Or at least something that isn't nothing which is something he's not used to anymore. He doesn't remember much of the dreams but laughter, kind and childish, and mugs of steaming tea. Not the cold stale cups he forgets about and abandons of the side.
The days have never felt so long, and soon enough he's back into old habits. Crawling the streets with his eyes peeled for the familiar faces he grew to hate so much. The ones who'd sell anything no strings attached. Then he remembers, in his desperate stupor, that Mycroft is nothing but efficient, and the five of them are nowhere to be seen He punches a wall and cracks his knuckles open.
Nobody tells him to clean the wound, so he doesn't.
.
He's losing weight, but he wears thicker jumpers and begins acting a little more upbeat, and soon his therapist thinks her job is done, and eventually she bids him the very best life has to offer, and leaves through the front door. He nearly screams at her to stay. That the house is haunted when he's alone. But instead he smiles and thanks her profusely for her work, which honestly has serves no other purpose other than keeping him sane. John Watson didn't lose his head, but he did.
He stopped leaving the house, except to drag his bones to work and back, and misses phonecalls from old friends. He drinks too much these days. Black coffee- two sugars, washed down with whisky and the bitter taste of dust.
One day, he loses it, and grabs his gun with quivering hands. It's unloaded- of course. He doesn't trust himself these days, but he sits with its empty chamber, feeling its cold metal against his skin like an old friend. He knows now.
He isn't depressed, he's bored.
This realisation is far more frightening than anything else he's had to deal with.
.
Sherlock didn't come home one night and not the night after either. Mrs Hudson notices, and just like Mycroft- always the responsible one that boy- told her to, she called him and reports this fact. Mycroft sends out minions just like he always does, and they find the man half dead under a grotty bridge in the mud. They pulled him out, and drove him to Mycroft's.
He's cleaned up, and laid in bed atop the covers, Mycroft standing over watching with a frown. For a ridiculous moment, he was tempted to tuck him in like Mother used to do when they were young, and the thought almost made him laugh- almost. Instead he pushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and sat beside him pretending to read a book.
Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe some people just can't change, no matter how hard they may try.
.
John quits his job as a doctor. It doesn't seem right anymore. He lives off the dirt on his shoes and the empty bottle by his bedside. When the phone rings, it goes to voicemail. John just stares at the ceiling running his fingers over the shiny metal weapon- he keeps it under his pillow now.
.
Sherlock doesn't return to 221B anymore. The place smells of tea, paper and something that is never quite there. He spends time in the backstreets of London getting into fights because he can, solving crimes that haven't reached police's ears, and ignoring his ever persistent brother- the one connection he has to himself.
He sleeps with a mattress of stone and a blanket of stars.
.
John Watson isn't sure what he expected upon his return from Afghanistan.
.
But it wasn't this.
A/N: Is it crap? It's crap isn't it.
(Also I don't own Sherlock.)