I'm the first surprized when I figure out Sherlock's password. I don't usually borrow his laptop, but when mine's battery is dead because he used it all up, I think it gives me the right to take it. Besides, I just wanted to upload my blog.
Or at least I did, before my own initials caught my attention. At first I thought I'd misread but no, there it is, a word document entitled "JHW", and it takes about ten seconds for me to decide that it's only fair to go through the files of the guy who stole my birth certificate just to know my middle name. Two seconds later, I read the title and feel myself go very still.
John's PTSD: the manifestations
The bastard.
Sherlock bloody Holmes, the sodding world's only damn consulting detective has been compiling the manifestations of my PTSD? What am I, his lab rat? For a moment all I can feel is anger and incomprehension. The healthy reaction would probably to shut it all off and maybe have another talk about boundaries with him later, but who cares about healthy when you can have a chance to feed your own curiosity?
Stage 1: absence
Symptoms: can occur in two different ways: sitting there unmoving for hours on end (as if daydreaming), or moving automatically (as if sleepwalking). Either way, he won't recall any of it.
Oh God, how many times has that happened? I was aware of what he calls the sleepwalker state (well, it's hard not to be when you've repeatedly woken yourself up because you've bumped into a wall or broken a glass), but the daydreaming one? I can only remember one or two occurrences, but if he felt the need to write it down, maybe it's happened more than that.
Level of consciousness: none
Yeah, well, that's why they're called absences.
Trigger: random occurrences
No kidding, last time it happened when I was blogging.
Risk: if he's in the daydreaming state, time-wasting is the only consequence. But in the sleepwalker state, he might end up hurting himself (has once dipped his hand in boiling water to get the eggs out of the pot)
Reflexively I glance at my right hand, and for a moment I can almost see the blisters that were there and lasted for days. Not a pleasant feeling, that.
Course of action: in both occurrences, he won't respond to sound at all, but a touch to his arm or shoulder is enough to snap him out of it.
Huh. So he made himself a handbook of how to handle John Watson's deficiencies. How big of him.
Stage 2: panic attacks
Symptoms: hyperventilation, shaking, hypersensitivity, dizziness
Ah, yes. The panic attacks. The ones that managed to frighten Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Donovan and even Anderson. Those who earn me the recurring question of: "Are you sure it's not asthma?" I smirk at the word hypersensitivity, because panic attacks do always kind of make me want to tell everyone who asks if I'm alright to just sod off (actually I did say that to Anderson once), even though I know they just want to help.
Level of consciousness: total
Yep, enough to want to die of shame.
Trigger: random occurrence
I have to stop my medical side from adding "probably a result of accumulated stress". I'll be damned if I helped him analyse me.
Risk: minimal, may pass out from lack of air though
I did once, though I was alone so he doesn't know that and I'm not going to tell him.
Course of action: make him focus on anything else (case, tv and violin are the most efficient distraction). In the worst degrees, make him count his breathing.
I will say this though : he deals with panic attacks like no one else. When he's around, they're over in less than five minutes because let's face it, he's a huge source of distraction. Take that as you like.
Stage 3: tetany attack
Symptoms: shaking, sometimes to the point of seizing, glazed over eyes, muscle contraction
Oh, how I hate those. I always end up exhausted and sore for days.
Level of consciousness: partial to none
Thank God for small mercies.
Trigger: explosions, firecrackers, vivid images of the war (some movies are to be avoided)
Which easily translates as no fireworks, Chinese New Year or Stanley Kubrick movies for me.
Risk: concussion if the seizures get too violent, he also might end up in a coma
I frown at that. I never told him about the coma thing. It's true, but I never told him. Has he been researching this? For a moment I almost feel special, before I remember this is all basically just a study is post-traumatic stress disorder.
Course of action: the violin is sometimes helpful, but not always sufficient. Must talk him through it: remind him of his surroundings. DO NOT try to grab or shake him.
Well of course he'll remember that. The last time he tried to grab me, my arm seized up so violently I gave him a black eye. But again, he does always manage to talk me out of my state of stupor.
The next stage makes my breath catch in my throat.
Stage 4: flashbacks
Oh God, no.
I almost close the laptop at that. I'm not sure I want to know what my flashbacks look like. It's bad enough to know what they feel like. Sherlock's right, they're by far the worst part of PTSD, and reading about them in his detached, scientific descriptions might actually make things ten times worse.
I know I really should stop reading, but I'm only human, specifically designed for self-destruction, and my morbid curiosity gets the better of me again.
Symptoms: reliving past war experiences
Yes, well, again, that's why they're called flashbacks.
Level of consciousness: none, may occur as a nightmare or when he's fully awake
Either way, they're deeply shameful.
Trigger: nightmares
And that's saying something, considering the fact that I have nightmares almost every night.
Risk: may hurt himself (clawed at his shoulder wound to the point of needing stitches once) or others (almost shot me another time).
Even though the first example was painful as hell, the second one is the one that has me wincing. I have yet to come to terms with almost shooting my best friend in the head in the middle of the night. I tried sleeping without my Sig under my pillow after that, but it only made things worse when I started dreaming that I was helpless to save the people that mattered to me. An unloaded gun produced the same effect, so I settled for double-checking the safety before going to sleep.
Course of action: violin sometimes helps, so does talking to him. But most of the time he's too out of it. When he is, DO NOT try to reason him (he'll only retreat further into his own mind), shake him or hold him down (that's how I almost got shot), in fact, DO NOT TOUCH HIM! Just play along and make sure he doesn't hurt himself.
"Just play along"? God, how many times has he pretended to be a fellow soldier just to get me to calm down?
Seeing as I reached the final stage I'm about to shut the window, feeling miserable as ever, before I notice there's still a few lines after that.
General notes
A general rule, even without any of these symptoms: DO NOT startle John. His nerves have been wrecked enough for a lifetime.
In any of these occurrences, he's liable to hurt himself. He might also mutter, talk to himself, scream or even cry. In any case, DO NOT bring up what happened if he doesn't, he'll be embarrassed enough as it is, for whatever reason.
I find myself gaping at that. Not only does he keep a record of my PTSD's manifestations, but he also makes a note not to… hurt my feelings? To spare me further "unjustified" embarrassment? What if I was wrong? What if this thing isn't a study, but a reminder of how to help?
"Of course it's a non-exhaustive list." a deep voice says behind me, making me freeze. I'm torn between feeling sheepish for getting caught and ashamed because what I just read makes me feel like such a liability. As it is I just give him a curt nod and shut the laptop. "How did you crack my password?" he asks.
He may be trying to sound casual, but I know him well enough to be able to detect the uneasiness that usually accompanies his random acts of caring. He knows what I've just read, and he doesn't know how to deal with whatever feeling it might bring up in me. I want to apologize for all the worry I cause him and thank him for trying to help all at once, but I know it will only make him even more uncomfortable, so instead I settled for a shrug.
"Not exactly Fort Knox."
He stares at me for a second before we both end up giggling like we did the night I shot a cabbie for him. Visibly relieved that we won't have to talk, he waves in the general direction of the kitchen. "Tea ?"
My smile widens. "Sure."
Thanks for reading, thanks even more if you review.
nerwende