A/N: This was the product of two things. One, my need to get out some feelings of hurt and depression. And two, my need to write what Sherlock must have been feeling when he got home. Everyone said he was out of character, but maybe the flippancy was a front for more, darker things.

Thanks to my beta, old ping hai, who continues to be the source of strength to me.

Edit: I'm adding this notice to hopefully answer future inquiries. This is a one shot. A one off. I have no interest in taking this further. I understand that I'm not the only one that really wanted to see more of this kind of story, but it most likely not be by me. I apologize, but this was therapy for me during a rough time and I'm unlikely to return there.

Thank you for your kind words and the desire to see more of this from me. But alas, it is not meant to be.

It had been one job too many, John realized later. The straw that broke the camel's back, as it were.

It was the first case they worked with Donovan since Sherlock's return and it had been too soon. Even Lestrade could see that now.

He came on to the scene of a particularly vicious double murder the same as he always had done, glimmer in his eye and spring in his step.

The sergeant rolled her eyes as he went through his bouncing deduction game. Moving to and fro, pulling out his magnifying glass and whipping it away once he was done.

"God," Sally's voice cracked through the cold air like a gunshot. "Comes back like nothing had happened. Like he didn't put his friends through hell. And not just his friends. Look what happened to Phillip, for Christ's sake!"

Sherlock stood stock still and then those ice blue eyes took in everyone's posture and body language. But still she went on, undeterred.

"Probably went sight-seeing. Let's solve a crime in China or Egypt or Germany. Freak!"

"Is that what you all think? That I spent the last two years on a pleasure cruise?"

"Well…" Greg hedged, and even John wouldn't meet his eyes.

"So telling you that I gave up my reputation, my work, my life, to save Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John isn't enough for you people? That I saved three lives?"

There were those that were starting to look uncomfortable.

"No, of course not. I'm a freak, so I must have done it to make my friends hurt in the worst possible ways."

He pulled off his coat and dropped it to the ground. It was followed by his suit jacket, his scarf already in his coat pocket. He began to unbutton his shirt, starting with the cuffs.

"Oi!" Lestrade called out.

"Oh, don't worry," Sherlock sneered. "I intend to keep my trousers on, though I have scars aplenty down there as well."

He removed the shirt but kept it in his hand as he showed them his chest. It was littered with ugly raised lines of pink.

Sherlock pointed to the one along his bottom rib. "Got that chasing down a human trafficker. He specialized in young girls aged four to eight. Even liked to sample his wares."

He pointed to a bullet hole just above his hip. "Caught that one from Dimitri Anatov. The man hired to kill Lestrade." There was a sharp gasp from both John and Lestrade.

"Ah, but I saved the best for last," Sherlock sneered. He turned around to show them his back. He let them look for moment or two before turning to face them.

John's eyes were glimmering with unshed tears and his hand was pressed firmly to his mouth.

"I got those when I was caught breaking into Moriarty's last stronghold. They beat me for three weeks before Mycroft went undercover to extract me."

He threw his shirt on, not bothering to button it back up. "If that's what a pleasure cruise is, I think I'll pass."

Sherlock bent to pick up his jacket and coat. He turned to leave but looked back briefly.

"Oh, and by the way, your murderer is standing right there," and he pointed to a constable. "Which you would have known if you had not refused to see the evidence that it was one of your own. No, it must be a freak," he spat out the word with such venom, everyone took a step back, "a freak, like me. Well, it's not. I save people, I protect people. What do you do?" He stormed off, his long legs taking him away in no time at all.

A minute passed, then two. Lestrade finally broke the silence. "Wait, did he just imply that he has scars down there?" He looked down at his crotch and that was it for John. He ran to the nearest garbage bin and began to hurl.

"Fuck," Greg swore; he turned to the rest of them. "Arrest Constable Cartwright and clear the goddamn scene." And just like that, the spell was broken and a flurry of activity commenced.

He waited until there weren't many people left before he hunkered down next to John. "So, judging from your reaction, you didn't know about the scars either?"

John shook his head. "As flatmates, you see more of each other than you really want to. Coming out of the shower starkers, thinking the other isn't home and getting quite the eyeful. Things like that. And before…well, before," he couldn't say the words "before Sherlock fell," but Greg understood anyway.

"He was spotless," John continued. "Like cut marble. But this? This was horrific. I was a soldier, Greg, and he has more scars than I do."

"Christ," Greg agreed. He ran a hand over his face. "This is a mess, isn't it?" John nodded. "We all got stuck on a Sherlock Holmes that hadn't existed in a long time."

John nodded again. "The machine," he said, remembering the last words he uttered to Sherlock's face before that dreaded phone call.

"Yeah. Damn, John. What else did he go through for us?"

John sat up and leaned against the bin. "He lost all his muscle mass. I could count his ribs. Hell, I could even tell he'd broken a couple of them." John let the information settle in the pit of Lestrade's stomach.

"Christ, John. He was right. We kept going on about how his death put us through hell, never once thinking that he had gone through worse. At least we had friends, family, loved ones to help us through it."

"While he was alone," John finished.

"Yeah. Hey, you feeling well enough to move?"

"Yeah."

John stood up. "I have to go repair a friendship."

"I'll stop by tomorrow, get the full statement from him, and do my own groveling."

John nodded and made his way to the main thoroughfare to catch a cab to Baker Street.

Sherlock slammed open the door to 221, startling a dusting Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, my!" She saw his dark expression and exclaimed, "What's happened now?"

"Apparently everyone has been laboring under the delusion that I spent the last two years sipping martinis in the Caribbean or meditating in a Tibetan monastery!" He ran his fingers through his hair. "Is that what you think, too?"

"No, love, you would never go off like that without a reason. Though you did give me quite a fright when you turned up here."

Sherlock let out a strangled cry and sank to his knees, fighting back sobs.

"It must have really torn you up inside, not knowing we were safe."

With a strangled hiccup the dam broke, and tears ran down his face as he clutched her skirt. She ran her fingers through his hair until the sobs quieted.

"Why don't you go wash up and I'll be there in a bit with tea and those biscuits you like."

Sherlock nodded and went to do as he was bid.

John burst through the door, stumbling past the threshold and into 221.

Mrs. Hudson came out with the tea things and took in the sight of her former lodger red-faced, panting, and out of breath.

"He's upstairs, love," she told him. "Here, take up the tea and you two have a nice little chat, hmm?" John took the tray from her and made his way up the seventeen stairs up to his old flat.

He gently kicked the door open with his foot and revealed a sleeping Sherlock sprawled out on the couch in his dressing gown.

John smiled and took the tray into the kitchen. As he was lowering the tray on to the table, he knocked over the milk pitcher, causing a loud clang.

John swore and went to go find a flannel to wipe up the mess, but he only got as far as the sitting room.

There on the floor, his head tipped back, was Sherlock. His mouth was open in a silent scream. He tore at his hair, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Sherlock!" John cried. He rushed over to his friend, but the second John reached out to touch him, Sherlock's scream became vocal and high-pitched. He tried to scoot further back, but the couch impeded his retreat. Sherlock flailed and lashed out.

"Don't!" he screamed. "Stop! Noooo!" he howled.

John scrambled back, digging for his phone. He ran out to the hallway and yelled for Mrs. Hudson. She came up the stairs, looking worried.

John held up a finger.

"Mary, it's John. I need you to come to Baker Street now. Bring my med-kit!" He hung up.

"Have you heard Sherlock screaming at night?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"I've been taking sleeping pills for about a year now. I still have trouble, even with him being back."

John nodded. He looked in on his friend who was now rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. He bit his nail. There was no turning back. He needed to help Sherlock even if it meant dealing with the devil.

He dialed a number he hadn't in years. "Mycroft. It's John."

"How can I be of service, Dr. Watson?"

John sighed.

"It's Sherlock. Did you know he had PTSD?"

There was a silence on the line for a minute or two before the hoarse reply came. "I was afraid he might."

"Might?!" John asked incredulously.

"He wouldn't submit to seeing someone to be tested."

John swore. "Of course not. Did you know—" he choked off the word. "Were you aware he had hallucinations involving me?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

John could almost hear the frown. "I tried talking to him and he flipped out worse."

"Oh. No. I wasn't aware. He probably used you as his pseudo-skull while taking out Moriarty's web."

There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson went to go get it.

"Look, Mycroft, Mary's here. I'll call you back when I know more."

"Very well, Dr. Watson. Good day."

"Well, it was," John snarked, after he hung up.

"John!" Mary called as she hurried up the stairs, lugging John's old army kit up with her. "I came as soon as I could. What's wrong?"

"Panic attack, hallucinations and hyperventilation. Unknown blood pressure and heart rate." She looked in to see Sherlock still mid-episode.

She nodded and went to work. She knelt in front of the detective. "Oh, sweetheart. Can you come back to me?"

Sherlock's eyes focused for the first time since the attack began.

"Hey, there's a start. Look at me, love. Focus solely on me." Sherlock stopped rocking. "Oh, hey now. You're doing fantastic. Now, I'm going to take your hands. Don't fret now. I'm not going to hurt you." Sherlock stopped muttering and only flinched the once when she took his hands.

"Oh, see? I'm holding your hands. Can you take them back?" Sherlock moved his hands away and then immediately put them back.

"Safe," he muttered.

"Yes, Sherlock. Safe. You're at Baker Street. Close your eyes and lay your head back."

All through Sherlock getting talked down by Mary, John worked to prepare the tranquilizer. Once Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back, John quickly, quietly, and above all, gently, pushed the needle into his friend's neck. The detective let out a sigh and within moments had succumbed to the drug.

Mary let go of his hands and moved to help John lay him on the couch.

"PTSD?" she asked in a hushed tone.

"Apparently. Mycroft suspected it might pop up, but the daft git refused to be tested."

"Poor thing. What caused it? No, wait, let me guess. Anderson? No. He turned out to be a decent bloke. Donovan?"

John nodded.

"Of course it was. She never could leave well enough alone, judging from the things you've both told me."

"She can be a right tit, no doubt about it. Although this time, she only said what everyone else had been thinking since he got back."

"What's that?" Mary asked.

"That he didn't think about us at all while he was gone. That it was all the thrill of the chase and the rush of a good puzzle."

"You can't really mean that, John?"

"I'll have admit I've thought it once or twice. He's never once said what he did, other than the super vague taking out Moriarty's web. What was I supposed to think?" Mary groaned. "And then he drops his coat and jacket to the ground and begins to unbutton his shirt."

Mary chuckled. "That must have caused waves."

"Yeah, of shock, when he said he wouldn't take off his trousers though he's got scars down there, too."

Mary glanced sharply at the man on the couch.

"That was the implication, yes."

"Shit, John."

"I wish that was the end of it, but no, he took off his shirt, showed scars all over his torso. As a doctor, even knowing it to be medically impossible, I would have sworn my heart sank to my stomach."

"What was the trigger?"

"I dropped the damn milk pitcher and the sound triggered something. My voice only drove him further into the flashback." John ran his hands over his face. "I feel so helpless, Mary. I can't help him."

Mary drew him into a hug. "You're better able to help him than anyone," Mary said.

"I'm the wrong kind of doctor. I can only heal the outer hurts, I'm balls with the inner ones."

"Empathize. You'll do fine." Mary got up and packed his kit. She gave him a thumbs up before she made her way out of 221B.

John sighed. All he could do was wait. To pass the time, he cleaned away Mrs. Hudson's tea things and started the kettle. It clicked off, and John made two mugs and placed one on the coffee table next to Sherlock just as the man stirred.

"Do you remember anything after you fell asleep?" John asked from his chair.

"I know when I've been drugged, John," the detective said, as he struggled to sit up. John handed him his tea.

"I didn't lie to you. You did fall asleep. So you don't even remember falling asleep?"

Sherlock winced and took a sip of tea. "No," came the curt reply.

"Right. Well, before we get into all that, I have to apologize. I didn't ask the right questions when you returned. I focused on why you would do something like that to me. I spent months going over things I said, wondering if I could have changed anything to prevent you from jumping. And then you come back and you're flippant about it—"

"John—" Sherlock said.

The doctor held up a hand. "I know now that you weren't. That it was you trying to appear like nothing had changed. When everything had. The people you expected to move on, didn't; and the one you thought never would, did. Only I didn't, Sherlock, not really. You're still the best man I've ever known."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "I wish I could say I was sorry, but I'm really not. How can I be sorry, when you're alive to be pissed off at me."

John sighed. He knew that bit. "I guess I wonder why you didn't trust me. I was a soldier, Sherlock. I could have helped."

Sherlock grabbed his hair in frustration, a low whine stuck in his throat. "You were supposed to stay here at Baker Street. To protect Mrs. Hudson."

One heartbeat, two, three.

"Oh."

"Yes. 'Oh.' I thought I was leaving my best man on the home front to protect the non-combatants. That's how you say it, right? That's how you soldiers say it?"

"Yes, Sherlock. You said it right." John's voice was barely above a whisper. Apparently Sherlock thought that he would want to stay at Baker Street. Sentiment, he'd call it. But instead, John had taken the opposite view, to get the hell out of Dodge and run as far away from here as he could.

He supposed he could bring up the fact that had Sherlock put him in the loop, it wouldn't have happened. But he wasn't here to start a fight; he was here to end one. Besides, it still made tactical sense. The fewer people who knew, the better. Molly and Mycroft would never be suspected and no one would believe the ramblings of a homeless person. He sighed.

"Are we going to talk about why you drugged me? Because as I recall, friends don't drug friends."

John giggled. "We can if you like, but you're not going to like it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not. You drugged me; what's there to like?"

"Uh…flashbacks, hallucinations, and muttering like a mad man?"

"Oh."

"Yeah. I guess the incident at the crime scene affected you more than you thought."

Sherlock groaned. He flopped back on the couch. "Did anyone else see?" he moaned from beneath the cushion he had thrown over his face.

"Uh—"

Sherlock groaned again.

"Well, apparently my voice was driving you further into the flashback, so I had to get help."

"So who all knows?" the detective asked, resigned.

"Mrs. Hudson…"

"Acceptable," he interrupted.

"Mary…"

"Why?"

"Where else would I have got the tranquilizer? She brought me my kit."

"Fine."

"And Mycroft."

"What?" Sherlock squawked. He threw off the cushion and sat up, ignoring the pounding that was starting in his head, a nasty remnant of the tranquilizer.

"He was the only one who had seen you during the two years you were gone. Only he could have told me about your emotional state."

Sherlock huffed.

"You need to talk about it to someone. Me. Mycroft. A professional."

"Fat lot of good that last one did for you," Sherlock sniped.

"The first time round, sure. Apparently she's a better grief counselor than PTSD therapist. So I'd go to someone else."

Sherlock winced.

"Just someone," John pleaded.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Grief counselor, John?" His voice was rough with barely-checked tears.

"Oh, yeah. I went back after you…well, can't say 'died' anymore. Left, I guess."

Sherlock let out a whimper. John moved up to sit next to his friend.

"I shouldn't have said anything. I was only trying to point out that it does work. I still go once in a while. It really does help to talk to someone whose job it is not to judge you."

Sherlock gripped his hair. "I can't," his voice hitting a near whine. The panic rising like bile in his throat.

"Why not?"

"It'll make it real."

John closed his eyes, then opened them slowly. "Were you raped?" he asked softly.

"I guess that depends on the definition. Did I have someone's cock where it shouldn't be, then no. If you mean having that area breached over and over again with an object, then yes."

"Shit, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "Torture isn't meant to be pleasant."

John sighed. "Promise me you'll talk to a therapist."

Sherlock sighed. He didn't have a choice now. Both John and Mycroft would hound him. So he nodded.

Sherlock sat in an office nervously taking in everything from the diploma on the wall, the books on the shelves and the man in front of him. He was only a little older than Sherlock, almost a peer. He had kind brown eyes and blond hair. He was neatly dressed in a three-piece suit.

Sherlock opened his mouth to spout his deductions when the man stopped him. "I'm aware of your ability to know everything about me at a glance. But we aren't here about me."

Sherlock sighed. Curse Mycroft for warning him.

This was not going according to plan. He was supposed to deduce the therapist, get himself kicked out, and then he could tell John he tried and they would never speak of it again, but Mycroft went and ruined all that.

Sherlock groaned.

"I'm Dr. Lawrence Talbot. And I can out-wait the best of them."

"And do you howl at the moon?" the detective snarked.

"And I was told you weren't familiar with pop-fiction."

Sherlock shrugged. "John made me watch it the one Halloween we spent together."

"Ah, yes. The esteemed Dr. John Watson. He's the one that vetted me, by the way, not your brother."

Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair.

"Made sure I understood that nothing gets back to anyone you don't want to know. DI Lestrade, for example." Sherlock winced. "Your presence on cases is not dependent upon finishing therapy."

"That's—" Sherlock stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again. "That's good."

"No one knows you're here except you, me and Dr. Watson."

Sherlock scoffed. "My brother knows everything. He'll probably have your notes by the end of the day."

Dr. Talbot chuckled. "I don't take notes."

Oh god, thank you, John.

"I deploy the method of loci."

"A mind palace."

"Of sorts. Is that what you call yours?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Good. Then the only people who know what you say in here is us." He steepled his fingers. "Why are you here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"John thinks I need to talk to someone. Someone without pre-conceived notions of who I used to be."

"And who is that?" Dr. Talbot asked.

"A consulting detective that had everything going for him. A fulfilling job, a good friend, and people who cared for him."

"And you don't have that now?"

"They don't trust me anymore."

Dr. Talbot sat back. "Explain why you think that."

And Sherlock launched into Moriarty, the Fall, and a vague reason for why he was gone for two years. "They all look at me like I'm going to run off on them again. Like I wanted to leave them behind."

"And did you?"

Sherlock let out a whine of frustration. "Of course not!"

"And when you returned?"

"I tried to make light of it."

"Why?"

"So they wouldn't see the cracks."

They talked about what it meant to be broken for a while. And then Dr. Talbot asked the question. "And why does John's opinion matter above everyone else's?"

"Because with a crack of a bullet, a line of praise and a ready smile, he has stolen something I wasn't aware I had."

"And what is that?" Dr. Talbot pressed.

"A heart."