Please note that I don't pretend to understand the things a person who has these disorders goes through. I tried my hardest to approach the subject in a delicate manner that would still convey well in the story. It's not my intention to offend anyone who suffers from PTSD, or agoraphobia.

I personally have panic attacks and can only write about my first hand knowledge and experiences with it. Everyone is different and it's not my intention to belittle the significance of such a disorder.

I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters there in, if I did, I wouldn't have a load of student loan debt.

I will try to announce triggers before each chapter, though you should know the entire work as a whole deals with PTSD and agoraphobia with panic attacks

Writing was supposed to help. John's therapist insisted that a creative outlet would aid him in coping with the civilian life he had been thrust back into. 'Write about what happen to you' she urged. The problem was, nothing ever happened to John Watson. He lived inside his own head now, and the only adventures he went on anymore happened in his mind.

Agoraphobia brought on by PTSD, that's what his therapist has said. The onset of the panic attacks triggered by going out in public now forced John to become a recluse. He perceived there to be danger everywhere and now only had the solitude of the four walls of his flat along with his thoughts to keep him company.

The internet was his only connection to the outside world, save for his weekly therapy sessions with Ella Thompson, John's doctor. She started coming to his flat after he had missed three appointments. Each time he tried to leave the building resulted in him bent over the toilet, nauseous and gagging. That was how Doctor Thompson found him one afternoon and ever since they had taken to having their sessions in the safety of John's home, where he felt more secure.

They say to write well, you should write what you know. The problem with that is who wants to read about death and destruction with no happy ending? That was all John knew now, and that is why his computer screen remained blank anytime he tried to recall anything from his days overseas. The blinking cursor taunting him, reminding him that he couldn't bring himself to type out those experiences.

Instead, John found himself spinning fantastic tales of fiction. Mythical creatures in search of treasure, daring sword fights on the deck of a ship, tales of self-discovery through the hero's journey. It was because of these stories John was able to live a life of solitude. He had sold the rights to several of his stories after Doctor Thompson convinced him to show them to a publicist,. He was now safe from the mundane drabbles of a normal nine to five job where he would be forced to interact with people.

To be honest, the stories he concocted had turned quite a bit of profit, and John was able to afford a nice flat in the heart of London, something he wasn't able to do on his army pension alone. Before the writing, he had seriously considered moving. Someplace quieter, somewhere away from it all, but in his heart, he still loved the city. When he was on tour in Afghanistan, it was the comforting thoughts of home that kept him going. It seemed to be a cruel twist of fate that once he was back he couldn't make it a step beyond his front door.

John walked into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. Writers often had a routine they did to clear their head, John's included sitting down with a nice cuppa before starting a new story. Some days he had a plan; an outline of character development, a list of things he wanted to take place within the story, personality traits of the people he was bringing to life on his screen. Other days, like today, he had no clue what he wanted to write about. He just knew that he had an itch to go on a vicarious adventure and would sit down and lose himself for a few hours as the words came pouring out of him, spilling from his fingertips and onto the screen of the computer.

Pouring the boiling water into his favourite mug, John dropped a tea bag inside to start steeping. Tea in hand, he made his way to the sitting room where he collected his laptop and sank down into his chair. "Shite," he murmured to himself, staring at the battery icon in the lower right hand corner of the screen. It was red and flashing angrily at him and he got up and limped to the bedroom to retrieve the power cord.

Content that the machine wasn't going to give out at any moment, John opened a new blank document and stared at the empty page before him. It was so full of possibilities, it had the potential to be anything that John wanted it to and that thought alone drew a small smile from the man's lips. He brought his fingers to the keys and started to write.

John was standing at Bart's, he recognised the lab room, even if it had been revamped and looked slightly more modern than it was in his days there. He glanced around the room, taking everything in. He imagined a man hunched over one of the microscopes, researching something that was clearly very important to him, though John didn't want to have to take the time to come up with what it was exactly. He would simply call it an experiment for now. With an idea starting to form in his mind, a man started to materialize on the stool. He was blurred at first, as if John's imagination couldn't quite decide how it wanted the protagonist to look just yet. Slowly, the lines became sharper and the details more clear as the man started to take shape in front of him.

He was tall; John could tell by the way he was leaning forward to look into the microscope. He had a mess of ebony curls that were toppled across his forehead making it difficult to clearly see his features. However, John already knew what he would find before the stranger looked up. He could see it as clear as day now, and when the stranger lifted his head to lock eyes with John, the author was pleasantly surprised that he had come up with a man who looked so, well, beautiful. He blamed his libido for this one, his recent lack of sex was the only reasoning he had for the cupid's bow lips, sharp cheekbones, and blue/green eyes looking back into his own.

"Hello, John."

"You know my name?"

"Obviously."

"How?"

"You created me, John. I know everything about you. You subconsciously made me that way. At least…" the man paused, looking John over, "I think so anyway. It's all a bit muddled up here." He tapped a long finger against his temple. "I can look at you and observe things that most people take for granted, however, I can't quite make everything out. I'll figure it out though." At that, the man went back to peering into the microscope and scribbling something down on the pad of paper that had formed in front of him.

John laughed at that.

"Something funny?"

"Yeah, only I would create a proper genius without even realising it!" John chuckled and looked over at the man who was now frowning at him, clearly not seeing the joke. "One with no sense of humour no less. You should be loads of fun to work with."

"Work with?"

"Well, yeah…"

"Oh I see. It's your intention to 'work with me' in the sense that you'll be placing me in ridiculous scenarios, giving me some redeemable quality, which by the way if I have one you have yet to think of it, and generally have me get into situations that will require my newly acquired skills of deduction to get out of. Am I right?"

Again, John smiled "sounds about right, yeah." He paused "hang on, skills of deduction?" he asked the stranger, and the second the question was out of his mouth, the man suddenly became very eager to show off, this character was practically creating himself.

"Yes, John, obviously. Deduction, do try to keep up. I clearly see everything and make logical deductions based on the information I gather. For example, I know you're ex-military, doctor most likely given the fact that we're currently standing in Bart's. I know you have a psychosomatic limp from the way you keep absentmindedly gripping your hand as if it were used to holding something, probably a cane. You have a debilitating case of agoraphobia most likely brought on by post-traumatic stress disorder, and I also know that this entire conversation is happening inside your head."

"You know this isn't real?"

The stranger gave the oddest little half smirk before speaking again. "I didn't say that, John. I said it was happening inside your head."

John smiled widely, "That was brilliant."

The stranger wasn't sure why, but he was surprised by that. "You think so?"

"Absolutely, quite extraordinary." John watched as the taller man stood up and made his way toward the door, looking very pleased with himself.

"Shall we be off?"

"Off? Wait, hang on a second." At that, the stranger stopped in his tracks.

"Problem?"

"I don't know where to find you, I don't even know your name."

Yes, well" the man started, "I was hoping you could tell me that."

John paused for a second, momentarily forgetting he had yet to give this character a name. He took a moment to think it over. A man like this needed something elegant, something distinctive, and the second he had made a decision, the stranger seemed to know.

"Ah." the taller man said. "That's lovely." He smiled down at John. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 2-2-1 B Baker Street."

John saved the document, feeling pleased with the amount of progress he had made today.

Sipping what was left of the tea that had long since gone cold, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. 'Sherlock Holmes,' John thought. 'I can't wait to see what kind of adventures you take me on.'