Summary: When John returns from a holiday with his mates acting strangely, Sherlock tries to figure out what happened, but will he be prepared for what he discovers. WARNING, possibly triggering for trauma and PTSD. Rated for dark theme. Not strictly slash, but feel free to squint (I certainly do). EDITED for minor errors, because they bugged me so much.
Author's note: This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so I would highly appreciate any feedback you are willing to offer. Also, the title of this oneshot is from Hannah Arendt's book, Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil, which is about a trial pertaining to WWII. Although it obviously has little to do with this story, I highly recommend it nonetheless. Thank you for reading!
*Also, for those of you who are visual, or just want a bit more background info about this fic, I have a pinterest account specifically for these stories. Simply go to the pinterest website and type /Adypose/ after the dot com.
John was strong. A soldier. He could handle (had handled) a great deal of quite horrible events. But this...
The worse of it was how very banal it all was. Working with Sherlock, John expected to have some bad experiences on cases, perhaps even to be injured, maimed, tortured, or killed eventually. But this wasn't a case. There were no climactic battles and no maniacal evil genius. Honestly, he could have handled it a bit better if that were the case.
But he wasn't handling it well and Sherlock had noticed.
"John," Sherlock muttered, looking over his newspaper as John entered the living room with two cups of tea. "You're looking tired. Didn't sleep again?"
"Just a rough night," John muttered back, handing him the warm mug.
"Is something wrong John?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing. He wasn't entirely comfortable with this type of conversation, but considering John's recent behavior, it seemed to be becoming more and more necessary.
"No, everything's fine," John didn't look Sherlock in the eye, picking up a book and settling in his chair instead.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed all the more and he stood, placing the newspaper on the table and moving to John. He loomed over his flatmate until he looked up, startled (odd).
"God, Sherlock, you scared me. What are you doing?" John asked, looking annoyed.
"Scared you? Hmmm, interesting," Sherlock mumbled, looking John over closely.
"Interesting why," John replied, sighing and putting down his book. He knew what was coming and had been dreading this conversation since he caught Sherlock looking at him more intensely over the past two weeks.
"You've been acting odd," Sherlock replied, retreating slowly and settling in the chair across from John, though still eyeing him warily. "You startle easily. You haven't slept well in almost a month. You've been having nightmares. The intermittent tremor in your hand is back and you've even begun to limp slightly. What happened?"
"Nothing Sherlock. Just drop it please," John again avoided Sherlock's now intense gaze. He didn't particularly want to become one of Sherlock's little puzzles and he was quickly becoming annoyed. He didn't want to think about it.
Sherlock, ignoring him as usual, continued, looking thoughtful; "it started just after you went on holiday with your old mates to Spain. What happened in Spain?"
"Sherlock, I said drop it!" John was almost shouting now and visibly trembling, which shocked Sherlock into silence. John took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself, before announcing he was going for a walk.
As soon as he was out, Sherlock began investigating. He had been growing more and more concerned with John's behavior over the past month, though he had mostly attempted to ignore it, concentrating instead on his cases. He knew how to handle cases. He wasn't sure how to handle this new development with John. Unfortunately, the cases were few and all boring, which left little to distract from John's obvious warning signs.
John had met with three of his old mates from the military in Spain last month: James Craig, Ben Johnson, and Robert Mallory. John had not come back with any apparent physical injuries, though he had stayed in Spain a week longer than he had anticipated. Sherlock had assumed (rather angrily at the time) that they were having a good time and had simply extended their holiday. Judging by John's behavior upon his return, however, he must have been mistaken.
He began researching each of John's old mates. James and Ben proved quite dull. No criminal record, nothing of any interest whatsoever. However, when he reached Robert, he found something rather intriguing. A few months after John had been shot, Robert had been dishonorably discharged, though the whole affair had been rather hushed up. He remembered John mentioning that he was unclear on why Robert had left the army, as he had seemed to enjoy it more than anyone else he knew (they had been in basic training together, but were not deployed together). Sherlock was having a difficult time finding the reason for his discharge, which was in no public records, nor in any he could hack into.
After several failed attempts to find a record of Robert's discharge, growing quite desperate and rather annoyed, he gave in and called Mycroft.
"Dear brother, how nice to hear from you," Mycroft said as he answered the phone.
"I need to know why Robert Mallory was discharged from the military," he said by way of greeting.
He could hear Mycroft sigh, then a slight pause, followed by typing. It took only five minutes for his reply and, when he answered, his words caused Sherlock's breath to catch in his chest.
"Why did you want to know," Mycroft asked after a tense pause.
"I need to know if John was checked into any hospitals in Spain last month," Sherlock answered, a bit breathlessly.
"Sherlock, what's going on?" Mycroft was genuinely worried now.
"Just get me the information!"
When Mycroft answered again, Sherlock's lost his breath completely and all the blood seemed to have drained from his face. He hung up without another word and waited.
When John arrived back at 221B, he found Sherlock sitting in his chair, fingers pressed together in his usual gesture, looking quite strange. Upon seeing the obvious signs of Sherlock's investigation on the open computer across the room, John nearly turned again and left. Before he had the chance, however, Sherlock spoke.
"John," his voice was hesitant, almost shaky. "I...er...I think we should talk."
John looked at his friend suspiciously. He was more than certain this was a conversation he didn't want to have. Nonetheless, he had never heard Sherlock's voice sound so...concerned (and uncomfortable), so he made way for the kitchen, determined not to face this without some tea.
When he arrived back in the living room Sherlock was exactly as he had left him. He handed him a cup and sat down across from him.
"John, why didn't you tell me what happened?" Sherlock asked, looking up, suddenly intense.
"How did you find out?" John asked, looking away and sounding resigned.
"The way you've been acting. PTSD, obviously, but not the same as when you first moved in, so a different trigger. That means a new trauma," Sherlock dived into his explanation, his voice monotone and steady. It was somewhat of a comfort. This he knew how to handle. This was data. What would inevitably follow, however, he had no idea how to deal with.
"It obviously happened when you were in Spain, so naturally I researched your mates. Did you know that Robert was dishonorably discharged?" Sherlock glanced at John, who visibly flinched at the mention of the name and began to look a bit ill. Noted—don't mention the name then.
"I phoned Mycroft to get details," Sherlock continued. John looked up in surprise at this point. Sherlock avoided Mycroft as if he were some kind of disgusting, contagious disease. It was somewhat touching that he had gone to Mycroft for help, just to figure out what had been bothering John.
"When he told me why he was discharged, I was immediately concerned," Sherlock paused, looking over at John.
"Why was he discharged then?" John asked, finally, dreading the answer.
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Sexual harassment charges. Possibly worse, the details were a bit unclear. I take it the military prefers not to publicize this sort of thing." Sherlock paused, waiting to see if John would respond. When he didn't, but instead looked away uncomfortably, Sherlock continued.
"I then, of course, asked Mycroft to find any record of you going to hospital in Spain. I suspected that may have been why you were a week late returning. He sent me the records. They revealed that..."
"Sherlock please stop," John interrupted in a low voice, looking more ill than ever. He took a few deep breaths and, finally, looked over at his friend. He was shocked to see the look on Sherlock's face. It was one of concern and…something else. Something deeper. He couldn't interpret it.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock asked after a long pause. "I can help."
"No, Sherlock, you can't," John muttered. "There's nothing you can do."
"I can find him. I can make him pay," Sherlock looked suddenly furious, as though he were imagining scenes John didn't care to think about.
"No, Sherlock. Just leave it alone, please. This is my problem to deal with. I have to deal with it on my own," John made to stand, intending to go upstairs, but Sherlock caught his arm, noting the way John tensed when touched. He relaxed though and Sherlock stood and moved so close that John could feel his breath against his skin.
"You do NOT have to face this alone," he said in a low, though fierce, voice. "John, you know I am no good with emotions...I don't know how to deal with them. But, you are my friend...still my only friend. I won't watch you fall apart and do nothing. I can't!"
John's breath caught in his chest. He felt as though his heart stopped, then sped to incredible speeds, beating so loudly he was certain Sherlock could hear it.
"John please," Sherlock looked directly into his eyes, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the arm he had not yet released. "Tell me how to help. Let me help!"
"Okay," John said, still staring into his friend's eyes. "Okay, but this isn't going to be easy Sherlock, for either of us."
"I know John," Sherlock answered, "But you are more than worth it."