A.N. So this is the third part in my series. Thanks for sticking with it. It's unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Constructive feedback of any kind is greatly appreciated! This part is also complete and will consist of 20 chapters. I will try to post daily, depending on how busy I am.

warning: there are a few rather gruesome things going on in this third part, just so you know. Disturbing images, violence, minor character death, claustrophibic situations etc)

Chapter One

The air smelled metallic, like the sharp tang of blood. The wind was dragging at his hair, sand biting in his eyes. The pain was not instant, but certain to rip through him as soon as he would let himself realise that he had been hit. The explosion behind his eyes made him blind for a minute. I'm dead, he thought. I'm going to die. Please, God, let me live!

"John!" He opened his eyes, clutching his shoulder, blood was seeping through his fingers and he could feel the bones give way. Panic was rising, pure, naked and self centred panic. This was impossible. He could not die, not now, and not here. He refused to die a hero. Brooke's poem suddenly resurfaced, printed in the air above him, long since forgotten but once learned for school. If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field that is forever England.Madness, this was madness, no soldier in his right mind would hope to make the piece of earth on which he lay and died special because he was English. This was Afghanistan and it would always be Afghanistan, never mind the numbers of dead soldiers…and soon he would become just another number; a number with a medal to prove he died for his country.

"John!" Again the voice that was dragging him away from the abyss that he was threatening to fall into. John knew that he would not live if he let himself go there. He felt his hand being ripped away from his shoulder. A curse and the noise of retching close by. The pain exploded and he tasted tears and dirt and blood as he pressed his right hand against his mouth to keep from screaming. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that stars exploded behind his lids.

"John! Let go!" Someone was tugging at his hand, probably to give him a drink of water, but he couldn't move. Every single muscle in his body hurt and he knew that if he moved, the blood would keep on seeping into the sand below him, drinking the life out of him.

"John, open your eyes! Look at me! John!" Well, he could open his eyes, but he did not want to see the blood, he did not want to take in his surroundings, he did not want to know who else had been shot. Blinking sand and tears out of his eyes, he opened them, suppressing a groan as his vision blanked out just to give way to a face leaning in closer, scaring him.

Ignoring the pain that was ripping through his body, he pushed himself up on both arms and scrambled back, away for the face that was too close, too familiar, too painful to look at. He only stopped when he reached the wall, and with a gasp, pulled his legs close and buried his face in his arms, shutting out the world. Breathe, he thought, just breathe. Breathe through the pain.

And he did, inhaling shakily, exhaling in a sob. He could still taste tears, but no blood. There was no blood. In shock, he pressed his right hand against his left shoulder, sobbing again when he did not feel broken skin and blood and the pain slowly faded to a memory.

He was alive, and the wound had healed so long ago. The moments came back to him, slowly, but painful as ever. Slipping in and out of consciousness, knowing that he was broken, that he was not the man he had been just hours ago. A shot to his shoulder, through his shoulder, could mean the end of everything. If he did not die, he would not be able to work anymore. He wouldn't be able to hold a rifle anymore. He wouldn't be able to write anymore. John tried to recall the moment when he had let himself hope again, because that was the only thing that helped him wake up and shake off the dark shadow that threatened to drive him to insanity.

That moment when John knew he would be okay, that moment had redefined who he was and what he was to do with his life. His right hand had been as steady as he had needed it to be. The training had been worth it and he was just about as good at shooting with his right as he had once been with his left hand. The glass didn't pose a problem, neither did the distance. His focus was complete; he was calm and full of purpose. The shot had had a healing effect. He hit the Cabbie an inch below the point where he had been hit, closer to the heart, making sure he'd not survive. He had passed on his pain and saved two lives, Sherlock's and his own in the process.

Sherlock! John looked up, startled, taking in his friend's form for the first time. He was on his knees, the coffee table pushed to the side so he had had room to crouch down next to John when he did not wake up from his nightmare. Sherlock was very pale, his hands shaking lightly where they lay on his thighs, afraid to do anything that might scare John. Tears blurred his vision again as John carefully sat up straight, straightening his legs. Then, suddenly realising what he must have looked like, he started to wipe his face, furiously trying to make the tears and the dream disappear. With a shuddering breath he dropped his hands again and looked back at Sherlock, who had not moved a millimetre, looking at him with an expression that John could only define as shock. Sherlock had never been with him when he had had a real nightmare, John realised. He certainly had heard him yell in his sleep, and the dream in the hospital must have been bad enough for Sherlock to witness, but this went much deeper. This dream never let him go back to sleep after he woke up, drenched in sweat and tears, the bed usually almost stripped off its sheets. More than once he had hurt himself critically in his sleep and more than once had he woken up and barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up and crying until there was nothing left but pain.

This nightmare, though, had been different again. Too real, almost, too much a memory to be a dream. He had felt the pain in his shoulder, physically, undoubtedly.

"John." Sherlock didn't sound like himself and John's focus shifted back to his friend. "John, it's me."

And that had him crawling on his hands and knees, back to the couch and into Sherlock's arms. "I know," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." The tears were back, but he didn't care. It had taken a while, but he knew by now that Sherlock would not use his weaknesses against him.

Sherlock held on tighter and John was so incredibly grateful to have him. In all of those months of nightmares, no one had ever held him. It worked miracles, and with every breath that Sherlock drew he felt himself calm down, melting into the heat of the body that surrounded him.

And then Sherlock started talking, instinctively telling him that everything would be fine, that he was here and that he was alive and unhurt and that it was all in the past and that he wouldn't have to be afraid anymore. John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder, listening to his voice and letting himself relax, slowly. "What happened?" he asked after a few moments, his words muffled, but still understood by Sherlock.

"I tried to wake you up, but you just wouldn't and then you pushed me away, but I couldn't move, leaning against the back of the couch and so instead you fell down, but even then you didn't wake up." John could hear the desperation in his voice, yet another new thing about Sherlock. "I thought you had hurt yourself, but you didn't wake up." The last sentence almost made John cry again. Sherlock being so incredibly emotional was something he had never expected him to be and it broke his heart.

"I'm sorry," he said again, "I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

"I don't understand." Sherlock clearly sounded distressed and John understood that Sherlock's own reactions and emotions were at best confusing and at worst scaring him, and that John was the one who triggered these feelings. Somehow this thought sobered him up. He untangled himself from Sherlock's arms and moved up to sit on the couch, extending his arms to pull Sherlock up. Wiping his face again, he tried to think of the best way to explain to Sherlock that this was part of who he was.

"It is my fault." Sherlock's voice was close to breaking and John's head shot around, searching for his eyes. "No, Sherlock. It's not your fault. Why would you think such a thing? I've been having these dreams ever since I was shot."

"But it didn't happen before, not when we were together. You had a nightmare in the hospital, but that was only to be expected, and it was about the library." He started to sound like himself again as he started to rationalise his thoughts. "But then this, it does not make sense that you would have such a vivid nightmare if it didn't have to do with recent events that triggered them. And since I upset you and did not even give you the chance to talk about it…" he let out a shaky breath. "I will try not to do that again."

"Sherlock, you can't promise me that. There will be cases where you will need to do exactly what you did and I should be the one who should try not to be upset about it. I'd be in your way if I expect you to compromise your work for my sake."

Sherlock looked at him, expressionless, but John could see his thoughts racing. "But you are important to me. I do not want to upset you if it does thatto you."

"Sherlock. Don't think that it's your fault. It's the bloody war's fault and my own for being stupid enough to get hit."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

A surge of panic rose in him. All he wanted was to forget it, and talking about it would only bring back memories. "No," he said quietly and Sherlock nodded.

"I am sorry, though. Do you feel better now?"

John smiled and leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Yes, thank you. Tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"Sherlock," John was amused. "You're becoming polite, what happened to you in Canada?"

Sherlock only gave him a look that was supposed to make him see how little he thought of the comment, but he couldn't quite keep the smile out of his eyes. Clearly, he was relieved to have John back in good spirits.

The tea helped, and as they sat at the kitchen table in silence, John felt the bitter after-taste of the dream fade away. However, he still couldn't quite push away what Sherlock had said about triggering the nightmare. It sounded logical, but he refused to believe that Sherlock was the one causing those memories to resurface. He didn't want it to be Sherlock's fault.

"Lestrade has a new case." Sherlock's voice cut through John's thoughts, making him look up from his tea. "He grounded me, though. Said I needed to sleep it offbefore I went back to work." He imitated Lestrade's voice to a degree that it was almost scary and John had to laugh. "I swear I didn't tell Greg that you didn't sleep."

"Greg, huh?" Sherlock smirked, and John couldn't tell whether he was amused that John found it necessary to be friends with the Detective Inspector who was clearly intellectually inferior to Sherlock, or whether he was pleased about it, because deep down Sherlock liked him.

"How much sleep did you get, anyway?" John knew it wasn't the right question to ask, but he would rather deal with an irritable Sherlock than with no Sherlock at all.

"I didn't sleep. It was hard to stay awake after eating with Carl, which only proves my point." John snorted, earning a milder version of Sherlock's stare, but he continued. "And then we kept on talking," he talked fast, obviously hoping that John wouldn't ask what they had talked about and John renewed his plan to visit the man in jail, "because we had to wait for the driver to come back and he flew back with me so I had to keep an eye on him, obviously. And then there was you. You were angry with me and I knew it was my fault and even when I tried to sleep on the plane I couldn't. I did manage to eat a bit, though, at the airport."

He leaned back in his chair, playing with his cup. "I tried to think of a way that I could have solved the case without involving you, John, but I couldn't."

John got up and filled the kettle again, letting Sherlock's words sink in. He was right, of course he was. John would just have to accept that.

"Sherlock, don't worry about it. I know that it was the best, and probably the only way to arrest the guy, I just felt out of control, you know?"

"I hate that. I hate feeling out of control. I'm sorry about that, John." Sherlock looked at his hands.

Watching Sherlock sit there, an empty tea cup in his hand, which in itself made him a little proud, John had to think of earlier and how he might just one day be able to make Sherlock love being out of control. He felt himself blush, scarlet, and just in that moment Sherlock chose to look up at him. And Sherlock watched him, calmly, careful not to let John see his thoughts. It was almost painfully obvious that he knew exactly what John had just been thinking.

"So," John said after a seemingly endless minute, "you should probably go to bed while I prepare dinner?"

"Or I could go down to New Scotland Yard, make Lestrade see that I am ready for whatever he has for me and you can make dinner, John, which I promise I will eat when I come home."

"He's not going to let you. He'll send you home and probably tell you off for leaving me alone again so soon after your return."

"John," he said gravely, "Lestrade will not say what you feel."

"He might." John raised his chin a little. "Please stay."

"John, I can't sleep anymore than I already have, especially not after what happened."

He was doing it again, saying his name in every sentence he addressed to him. Instead of an answer, John took Sherlock's cup from him and made another tea. He walked around the table to put the tea in front of Sherlock, and after he had put the cup down he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's slender shoulders, pressing a kiss to his neck. A small sound of appreciation escaped Sherlock's lips. "You could try?" John smiled against Sherlock's hair, pulling back his hands to rest them on his shoulders for a second before he started to massage the muscles there. Sherlock's head dropped forward and when John dug his thumbs deeper into his muscles, feeling how tense he was, Sherlock groaned. "Don't stop!"

John was delighted. He might just have found his own way to manipulate Sherlock. But kneading Sherlock's shoulders also let John feel just how tense he was. He wondered whether it was a constant condition or whether he managed to relax sometimes. The noises that Sherlock made were almost obscene and it didn't take long before John had to bite his tongue to not join in. Damnit, Sherlock should not be allowed to be so sexy, and yet he promised himself to figure out what other noises Sherlock might make once he let down his guard. He was usually very quiet. The only noises he made on a case were a small humming noise when his mind was working fast and he considered the evidence. And then there were the exclamations of surprise and delight when the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. But if he didn't talk, he was completely silent.

"John?"

"Yes?" He sounded hoarse and knew that there was no use in trying to hide his state from Sherlock.

"Would you please keep doing this forever?"

John laughed a little breathless. "No, because my hands are starting to hurt. How come you are so tense?"

Sherlock straightened and gently put his hands on John's, squeezing lightly. "Thank you."

"You're more than welcome." John smiled and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hair and then moved away again. He knew he would need to do something about his erection, but he couldn't really imagine talking about it with Sherlock, asking him for help in the matter. Somehow he was not sure how far he could go with him, even if he obviously knew how to enjoy physical contact, as he had just proven to John. But maybe it wasn't physical contact in general; maybe it was physical contact with John that he enjoyed. He pondered on that, wondering if Sherlock would just let him do whatever he wanted with him. Okay, wrong thought, definitely the wrong thought. "I'll be upstairs" he murmured and before Sherlock could argue with him, he was out of the kitchen and in his room.

He locked the door behind him. He had never locked that door, but he needed to get away, he needed to be kept away from the unsuspecting man at the kitchen table who had barely slept, eaten almost nothing and flown in just that morning from the other end of the world.

John tried to calm himself, thinking of something else than spinning Sherlock around, pushing him up on the kitchen table and ripping the rest of his clothes off. Both of them shirtless in the same room was not such a great idea after all, he guessed. But what if Sherlock wanted it, too? He had clearly enjoyed being touched, so why did he imagine that Sherlock was somehow beyond sex? Sherlock might not have had much experience with sex, hell, he knew nothing about Sherlock's past, but John had just as little experience with other men, so in any case it might, in fact, be new for both of them.

For a second he wished that Sherlock would just pick the lock and barge in, push him against the wall, and kiss him like he had before he had left, leaving him boneless and desperate.

John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Good lord, where was his mind taking him? Since when did he feel doubtlessly sexually attracted to Sherlock Holmes. He had loved kissing him and he had enjoyed it immensely to touch his skin when he had pretended to take care of the wound and the bruise after the library incident, but this was different. This was a raw need to touch the other man, and to be touched by him, to be possessed by him.

"John?"

He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.

"John, are you okay? Do you need anything?"

He laughed at that and he was almost sure that Sherlock heard it. "Give me a minute." He started blinking rapidly, trying to find anything to distract him.

Silence from the other side of the door. Well, if he wasn't going to have sex with Sherlock, he might at least relieve himself while he was close to him. Closing his eyes he pressed his palm against his erection, trying to keep his mind from picturing long white fingers in place of his own. His head fell back against the door and he knew that it must have been loud. "Fuck."

John knew that if he would keep this up, it would only be a matter of seconds before he came in his pants, and he just couldn't. So he pushed them open and down, imagining Sherlock being the one doing it. He almost didn't have to do anything else than squeeze a few times to come, his head colliding again with the door, mouth open in a silent cry. Some part of his mind wondered whether the collision might cause brain damage or at least nausea, but to laugh again would have needed energy, energy that was used to keep him somehow upright.

Not good. This was definitely not good. Sherlock would know what he had done, and he would most likely inquire for more information.

A knock. "John, when you're done in there, could you please come out again?"

He swallowed, letting himself sink down to the ground, his back against the door. He could hear Sherlock pace up and down the little space that was there to be walked on in front of his room. John shook his head to clear it. How was he supposed to face Sherlock now?

"John?" He had stopped pacing. "John, Lestrade just texted me, they need me. I want you to come," he stopped, and John started laughing. Too late for that, his mind yelled hysterically. "John, please come out?"

He thought about getting up, but he couldn't quite find the strength. "Give me a minute. Text me where I should go. I just…need some time."

"Right." Sherlock rushed down the stairs. It took John another five minutes until he could convince his body to rise from the floor. This was ridiculous, he wasn't a teenager anymore. Clean pants were needed, and he took a quick shower if only to get rid of the giddy feeling in his stomach. When he was dressed and ready to go, he checked his phone.

White City, Wood Lane Tube Station, are you okay?

John decided against answering, grabbed his gloves and went out to follow Sherlock to a case that must have been important enough for Lestrade to loosen Sherlock's house arrest.