Disclaimer: I own very little of this. Blame Moffat, not me.

A/N:

This is my first Sherlock fic. I have only known Sherlock existed for two weeks. I am not hugely familiar with the characters. Forgive me?

"Stop it."

Silence was the only response.

"Please...stop it."

Still, there was nothing.

Two men sat alone in a dark, barely lit room. Silence descended upon them, laying thick and heavy in the air. Like a living being, it seemed to grow, twisting and convoluting until the very air seemed thick with it. Denser and denser it grew. When the taller of the two could bare it no longer, he opened his mouth to speak, and-

-A sharp rap at the door shattered the silence. Pulling himself to his feet, the tall, dark haired man shot an angry look at his companion. Smoothing the irritation from his pale face, he strode to the door, pulling it open swiftly. The short, ageing woman on the other side gave a small shriek, and promptly dropped the letters she was clutching.

"Oh, Sherlock, you did frighten me so! I do wish you would pick up the post every now and again you know, I'm not a housekeeper, and really dear, I-" Frowning ever so slightly, Sherlock picked the letters from her hand, and gently steered her away from the door. He then turned on his heel, all gentleness gone, and let the door slam closed behind him. The letters, he threw in disgust to one side. The other man, usually one to keep a tidy home, did not react. His face remained impassive and closed.

"I have had enough of this. I can see what's going on here, and I wont allow it. John. For Christ's sake, John, talk to me!"

John lifted his head, wearily. "What is there to talk about, Sherlock?" He whispered. Sherlock was shocked by the weakness of his voice.

"You. You're tired, you're unresponsive, you're awake all night, you've been crying, and your hands are shaking. Do you really think I haven't seen this kind of thing before, John? Its about time you snap out of it!"

John didn't react, but he felt a harsh stab of pain at each unflinching accusation. Living with Sherlock could be hell sometimes – secrets were a thing of the past. He didn't want to do this. He couldn't do this. Ignoring the taller man, he pulled himself to his feet. Legs shaking he began to walk. After three steps, he felt a sharp, crippling pain through his leg. Ignore it, he told himself fiercely. Next leg forward. And again, the pain was more severe. With a gasp, he tumbled to the floor. Tears of shame and frustration welled up in his eyes, and he turned his head away. Sherlock wouldn't say anything – to him, crying was one of those habits others had; Sherlock did not judge them for it, but he deemed it pointless and would never understand it. With his face twisted in pain, John began to pull himself to his feet. Suddenly, a pair of strong, cold, hands appeared- one on each arm. With utmost care, Sherlock pulled John upright. His hands lingered on Johns arms, and John felt rather than saw sadness coming from the man. Suddenly furious, he pulled himself violently out of Sherlock's grasp. Ignoring the soft gasp he heard, he limped agonising away, to find somewhere just a bit more private.

John sat on his bed, eager to have the weight off his leg. As he leant back, he began to shiver uncontrollably. Closing his eyes, a series of image flashed through his mind, and he let out a soft moan. Guns. Bright lights and noises. Screams and tears and an agonising pain tearing through him, and a weight of despair. Water, shimmering, women, crying for their babies. A man's neck under his arms. A red light trained on his chest. Cold words that hurt when they shouldn't. Icy terror. Guns. Bright lights and explosions...

With a gasp, John drew air sharply back into his lungs. The room before him swam, although whether this was from lack of oxygen or the tears spilling hot onto his cold face, he could not say. His throat was tight, closed, and his heart was thumping. The tears began to flow in earnest now, and he could make out a continuous moaning, ragged sound. It was him, a part of his mind knew, that was making that sound. As it always was. He could feel his entire body trembling as he pulled his legs to his chest, trying to hold himself still, hold himself together. Slowly, the tightening in his throat and chest began to ease, and air flowed more freely into his lungs. This only served to make the sobs louder. He closed his eyes, seeing again and again those same images. A sharp red light, the soft shimmer of light on water, and a keen pair of eyes that shone with unbearable sadness.

When he opened his eyes again, the door was open.

Sherlock was stood there, his arms full with...blankets? For one absurd moment, John felt like laughing. He shook it off, and pulled himself upright. Making no effort to hide his face, he turned to Sherlock

"Don't you understand personal space? Or alone time?"

"I am aware of the concepts. I brought you...blankets" He trailed off, as though realizing he sounded foolish. "I also brought you company." John felt a twist of misery at the concern on Sherlock's face. He opened his mouth – to say what, he wasn't sure- and then closed it again. There was nothing worth saying. After a few moments, the familiar anger began to grow in Sherlock's eyes. It brought the usual freezing cold flood of emotion through John's body.

"I want to talk to you." Sherlock informed him, a determined glint in his eye.

"I don't want to hear it."

"I'm planning on telling you anyway." John turned to face Sherlock, and glared at him. He understood that Sherlock would be angry, that he would want to have his say, but he could not bring himself to hear it. The words, coming from this man, would cut too deep.

"I'm planning on not listening."

"That would defeat the point of me talking."

" Then wont you just shut UP?" John roared, trying his hardest to prevent Sherlock from continuing. A wild, fluttery panic was rising in his chest, and the shaking was increasing again. "I don't want to hear it, OK?" Don't want to hear you blame me. "I don't want to talk to you!"Don't want to lie to you. "I don't even want to look at you!" Don't want to see the hate in your eyes...

Sherlock was gone. A few hours ago, maybe. He had simply dropped the blankets on the floor, turned, and walked away. I guess he didn't want to be near me any more, a small, bitter voice in his head whispered. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the voice. For a while, there had been pain, and fury, and sorrow. Now, the numbness was returning. The blissful lack of feeling. Closing his eyes, John fluttered on the edge of consciousness...

Her face was so clear, so close to him. Wild eyes bore into his, hair matted with blood, and she pushed the lifeless bundle in her arms towards him. "Fix what you did!" she wailed, her voice guttural From her grasp, the lifeless child slipped, thudding to the floor. As he watched in horror, the boy – no more than 6- stood up. "Fix what you did, John" he moaned, his broken limbs dangling grotesquely as he tried to walk. Without warning, pain rippled through him, starting in his leg, as the dead eyes bore into his, full of hate. He was cold, icy cold, and felt the familiar weight of a body, holding him. A knife, against his throat. His own blood, surrounding him. The bombs strapped to his chest weighed him down, pulling him to the floor, but he stood straight and proud. The sound of water lapping gently behind him was horrifyingly peaceful and wrong. A man with no face stalked past him, somehow smiling. And ahead, Sherlock stood, beside the pool. The three men stood alone, at a standstill, and the sharp red light never wavered. Sherlock's eyes bore into Johns, like a shocking memory, and he whispered sadly "Fix what you did, John" in the voice of a long-since dead boy. Dead by his hands. The light on Sherlock's forehead vanished, and a gun was pointed, in the hands of the man he loved, straight to his face. The weights holding him vanished, and he began to float. Away from Sherlock, holding that gun. Away from himself. "Please, John Don't kill me." Sherlock begged, his voice was his own, now, and so sad. John glanced at his hands, seeing for the first time that he was the one with the gun/ Tears swam in his eyes as he pulled the trigger. The room shone with blinding light, and John soared.