Lessons in friendship 5 - Practising to give
This takes place shortly after the Baskerville case.
Sherlock had realised before how important John's friendship is to him and the need to practise arises. Then John has a flashback Sherlock is thrown into the cold water and needs to learn how to swim fast. No First Person POV but almost entirely from Sherlock's side, except the last chapter, which features what John thinks.
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Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or BBC. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
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I was diagnosed with PTSD five years ago after quite an odyssey and eight years of trying to cope with it alone without knowing what I was dealing with. The last two years of that being treated by unskilled (in the field of PTSD) therapists for depression, which was more than counterproductive.
I am grateful that a lot has changed about treatment and awareness of PTSD and depression in society over the past years though it's still far from enough. I am glad and grateful this thing is part of the BBC-series because this might help change society's way to look at depression and this kind of disorder, which would help the people suffering from it.
Everybody experiences the symptoms different and there are quite a lot.
I don't have any medical knowledge, just the stuff you learn by having to cope with it.
The approach how to treat PTSD seems to be different in countries all over the world and even in clinics within one country.
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Thanks to my beta reader Graveofthefireflies!
This originally posted and finished in October 2013.
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Chapter 1
They had just finished visiting a crime scene with Lestrade and were about to leave. The scene and the warehouse had been inspected carefully because Sherlock feared there might be more explosives.
They left the building, following Lestrade back to the parked Scotland Yard's cars while
discussing the evidence that they had found - or better Sherlock was deeply in an unending monologue and Lestrade listened.
They hadn't reached the cars when an earth-shattering blow knocked them to the ground.
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Dazed, Sherlock pushed himself up from his ungraceful prone position.
The blast had knocked him flat forward to the ground. His ears were ringing and he was disoriented for a few seconds at first, but unharmed.
Next to him, Lestrade was struggling to his feet, too.
Sherlock looked for John and saw him getting up in a hurry a few steps behind them. Stumbling, he ducked and then - almost crawling - he moved towards the cars, obviously searching for cover.
For a long moment, the detective was irritated.
This wasn't like the doctor, especially when there was the chance that wounded people or even friends were nearby. John hadn't even checked on anyone slowly recovering all around him.
After a questioning glance at Lestrade, who nodded back he was ok, Sherlock hurried after his friend. John had taken cover behind one of the cars and was sitting with his back leaned against the wheel, his head hidden between his knees and his arms.
"John?"
No reaction.
"John? Are you hurt?" Sherlock tried.
No response.
Only now he registered the other man was trembling.
Hearing damage?
"John, look at me!"
Lestrade came closer. "Is he hurt?"
"I don't know…. John?" Sherlock knelt down next to him.
"He's in shock?"
"John…?" Sherlock scanned the shivering figure.
Then he carefully worked his long fingers under the doctor's sleeve and wrapped them around his wrist. Pulse fast, skin clammy and cold. Definitely signs of shock, but maybe something else, too.
"Can you, sit up?" Sherlock gently tried to shake his flatmate to make him lift his head.
But John was tensed and quite stiff.
"Hey mate! I want you to look at me!" Lestrade gently grabbed John's shoulders from above and tried to make him sit up.
This finally caused John to start struggling. His hands tried to get rid of the attacker, knocking Sherlock down to his bottom in the process.
"John!… It's me!… Don't fight," Sherlock urged, his voice calm, but an alarm tag started vibrating in his mind.
"Easy, it's alright," Lestrade tried to soothe.
Sherlock held onto John who was trying to get away now, desperate and not really seeing his surroundings, a haunted look in his eyes. They were moving constantly like the eyes of a cornered animal. Obviously, John was not seeing the same things they were.
"It's okay, mate, calm down!" Lestrade tried but didn't attempt to touch him again.
Finally, John gave up resisting being held in place, even stopped moving at all. He just stared blindly ahead, eyes wide in horror.
"John? Speak to me!"
"No …. Sir, he's dead, Sir. Couldn't help him," John whispered. "Oh god…"
Lestrade frowned, "I'm gonna get a blanket, find out if he's bleeding." Then he vanished.
"John? Talk to me!" Sherlock ordered.
Possible Flashback? He needed to collect some more information.
"Yes, Sir. Centre of explosion in quadrant N-4, near the camp's back entrance. Three dead, four severely injured, situation unclear," the former soldier mumbled.
Clearly a flashback, Sherlock decided. Not to worsen the situation he very slowly moved his hand over John's back, searching for any wetness or injuries. When the other man seemed okay with the touch, he checked his legs, arms, and chest.
No resisting, no visible injuries.
"Are you hurt?" Sherlock asked, hoping he would be mistaken for a superior or whoever John had addressed with 'Sir'.
"Don't think so, Sir. Just bruises," John's tone clearly indicated giving a report. He seemed to hear fine. However, there was the possibility he answered what he had in the situation he was reliving, and it might not be true for the current one, so it was no use.
Sherlock rested his hand against the side of John's head and gripped his hand with the other. A try to give comfort, though he felt clumsy in this unknown area. Practising to give comfort in public was even worse. John would be embarrassed later.
"Everything is okay now. You are not in Afghanistan. You are in London," Sherlock tried to connect him to his real sensory input and disconnect the input of the memory. Since he doubted someone had touched the doctor that way in Afghanistan, he hoped it might bring him out of this. He also hoped that no one was watching, especially not Anderson.
"What's happening here, Sherlock?" Lestrade was back.
"Why don't you just observe and think?… He's having a flashback! Quite obvious I'd say," his tone was fierce.
"Flashback?… What…?"
"His mind is in a war zone somewhere… Give me that blanket!"
He reached for it and started wrapping it around John inexpertly. Lestrade helped.
"No!... I'm fine. Take care of the Corporal, he's hi'n the back," the doctor tried to get rid of their hands.
"We need to get him to the hospital, he might go into shock," Lestrade suggested.
"He already is, kind of... and a hospital is the last thing he needs right now. He needs calm and safe and comfort," Sherlock explained.
"And you think you are able to give that?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Come on, Sherlock you are not even able to treat him like a friend…. Have you ever even looked up comfort in a dictionary? Not your type of thing, I guess," his voice was not insulting, just stating the facts.
"He's bleeding out fast, I need a gurney," John struggled to get the words out and then tried to get up.
"Stay put, John… Everything is under control. Just sit down."
As gentle as he could, Sherlock held him down by the shoulders.
"Bloody hell, he's dying!" John yelled and grew more agitated. Some people looked their way.
Sherlock suddenly understood that his strategy wasn't working, so he changed it.
"No, the bleeding has clearly slowed down. See? He is not going to die, he'll be fine… He is getting care already. Help is here. Let them work!" Sherlock tried in a low and calming voice.
"You're adding to his hallucination, I am not sure this is a good idea," Lestrade started. "Where is the damn ambulance?"
"He is not going to the hospital!" Sherlock repeated slightly angry now.
John fought him weakly, still mumbling.
"What do you want to do? You can't help him. He's delirious."
"No, he's not. He's reliving a moment from the war, this happens with PTSD. I need some water. You have candy… anything sweet? He needs positive stimuli."
"What?… He has PTSD?… Bloody hell! Why didn't you tell me?"