Epiphany's Wind~

Author's Note: This is the very last of what I personally call the Epiphany Triune. It might help to have read "Epiphany's Child" and "Epiphany's Scourge" (and in that order) first to understand this better. However, this story is pretty straight forward on it's own,and could almost stand alone.

For the One Who brings life to a full circle,and gives meaning to every thing, even that which causes pain~ With love~

Prolouge~

"I've found him."John says into the receiver.

His breath billows back on him, like fog from the sea. Night in the winter London gathers about him, like the sewing up of a bride's white skirts. He feels hollow, and the wind howls,and the call box behind them sings with the voices of the murdered, that linger in Sherlock's mind.

"Very good," Mycroft's voice can be heard saying on speaker phone. "Now if you would be so kind as to tend to him."

"Shouldn't I take him to a hospital?Or some of your people, maybe?"

"I trust your abilities as his physician, Doctor Watson, above those the primitives named gods of ancient medicine..."

John was floored by this remark, because Mycroft did not give compliments. It was a fact, as cold as the winter gathering about them.

"Alright."

They hang up.

Sherlock mutters from the floor:

"I don't really know why he's meddling...it's only in my mind. I am perfectly capable of organizing my own thoughts; I'm not a child!"

But curled up in a ball on the floor of a call box, a hoodie pulled low over his brow, dirty jeans,and half gloves,and an over-sized shirt, he really did look like one. Clothes chosen to look the exact opposite of those Sherlock Holmes, (who was still dead as far as England was concerned), would wear.

John kneels beside Sherlock, "PTSD is more than just jumbled thoughts, Sherlock. A LOT more. And if anybody would know that, it would be me..."

Sherlock is looking at John now with those intense silver-green eyes that are blazing pain, colors turning in his face, like comets made to halt their falling.

"Yes...I'm sorry..."

"I had PTSD before you came along; it's not your fault. Really, none of this was. Stop apologizing!"

Sherlock swallows,and John lays a hand on one of his hunched shoulders.

"Are you going to let me have a look at the wound that's broken open again?"

"Are we going to do it here?"

His voice sounded almost scared.

"No ,you git, it's too cold for you to take your shirt off out here. We're going home..."

John sighs.

It had been something as minute as a trolley horn,and Sherlock had bolted, and thus reopened a wound.

PTSD to the nth degree. Even John's case wasn't this bad,and he'd been in Afghanistan!

If one good thing came out of this, he thought, atleast he knew exactly what to do to help him.
He scooped him up, eased him to his feet, pressed a palm into the laceration across his chest, to staunch the blood.

"Close your eyes."

"What?!"

"I'll lead you, just, close 'em."

Sherlock swallowed.

"Trust me,...it helped me. If I could just tune it all out for a minute,just not see all the moving cars,and the perfectly normal,ok people, for just one BLOODY minute, I would be ok..."

Sherlock nods,and closes his eyes,and lets John lead him ,like a blind beggar through the winding streets...