Written for this prompt:
John had PTSD and when Sherlock shoots the wall he has an attack. Sherlock blames himself. Guilt!Fic
I was bored and lonely so I wrote a fic (:
The first shot meant nothing, the second was slightly worse, the third grated and dragged him, kicking and screaming back into the warzone.
The sound resonated in his ear, and he bit his lip, trying not to scream as the sandy expanses flashed before his eyes. But at the fourth shot, all his control went and he was there, the bullets zinging past his face, around his body, bringing up plumes of sand everywhere, occasionally there was a dull thud as they impacted something other than sand. The clean white sand was splashed with deep scarlet stains that were sticky, creating clumps.
It was horrible, a travesty, but the sun was still shining brightly far above, the blue sky was cloudless and it would have been idyllic if not for the fighting. John turned, drawing his regiment, now depleted, their wounded lying bleeding on the silvery sand, towards him. His sandy hair was brighter, his face and hands tanned, almost burned, sweat pouring down his face. He turned sharply and then a bullet whizzed past him, thudding home in his shoulder blade. He let out an animal-like scream, dropping to the ground.
They were barely a few miles from the base, and a copter was on the way, but the pain was so intense he could barely breathe. He rolled onto his back, hearing his men yell as they realised that the medic was down, that they had to get him out of there. He could hear the shout as though through a tunnel, the words not penetrating properly. With a supreme effort of will, he dragged himself into consciousness, his breathing loud and ragged in his chest.
"Copter ETA two minutes." Came a voice from beside him as he lay bleeding on the hot ground. "Hold on, Watson." He felt pain now, throbbing and strong, pulsing beneath his shoulder with every beat of his heart. There was blood on his back, over his shoulder, staining the clean ground a dark scarlet. His vision was fuzzy, hazy, swimming as he tried to fight the urge to sleep, to slip away. The soldier beside him must have sensed this, because he placed a hand on John's neck, feeling for a pulse as the copter roved into view.
"Just a little longer." He wondered why no one was doing anything, trying to fix him, and somewhere in the fog of his thoughts he realised that it must be because they couldn't. A chill struck him and he realised that it was likely he would die here, on this sand in the middle of a war zone, right here, so far away from home. Bizarrely, he found he didn't mind. He just let go.
"John?" Sherlock's voice was urgent, strained as he knelt beside John, his dressing gown open and his t-shirt rumpled. "John I didn't think." John scrambled back, his hand reaching at his shoulder that had been burning, bleeding a few moments ago. John just wanted to get away, his leg gave out as he scrambled away.
"No. You didn't." John had given up struggling, but his heart was racing and he was finding it hard to breathe, chest heaving.
"I upset you." Sherlock stated, his eyes wide, innocent. "I didn't mean to."
"Sherlock you know I have PTSD!" Sherlock looked away, mumbling something that sounded a little like 'might have deleted it.' "And you deemed it unnecessary to remember that."
"It was an accident."
"No Sherlock, when you break a plate or drop a glass, that is an accident. Consciously shooting a wall as I come home to get a reaction is not."
"John I didn't mean to."
"I need to get some air." He didn't want to say it, but the blisteringly hot desert air was still swirling around him and he could feel the grittiness of the sand beneath his feet. It was true, what Mycroft had said, when you walk with Sherlock, you see the battlefield.
"I'm. If it. I upset you. I didn't mean to." The sight of Sherlock speechless was enough to make the blinding sunlight fade, but only fractionally.
"I have to get some air. Sherlock just... Stay here." John pushed past him, shaking all over. Sherlock watched him go, his hands, still holding the gun, trembling. He dropped the gun on the floor and ejected the clip of bullets, placing them both separately on the table. He felt remorse wash through him, he didn't mean to trigger John at all, that hadn't been his intention. He didn't want a reaction, he was just bored, and it was a bad place for his head to be at, when he got bored he forgot to think; as proved by this action.
John just had to get out, as simple as that, he needed to feel the cold air against his skin, wash away the clinging heat of the desert. He bit down hard on his lower lip and felt a bead of blood well up. His hair still felt gritty from the sand that wasn't there, he was warm, sweat pouring over him even though he wasn't there any more.
He could feel the warm metallic liquid spreading over his tongue and taste buds. He was still shaking all over and he felt clammy, the sweat on his forehead cooling him down, and it made him shake more. Turning his collar up against the cold, not the sun no way there is no sun no sun nope, he trudged along the streets to Sarah's. She answered the door in her white work shirt and some plain black jeans, her hair tied up.
"Oh. I wasn't expecting you." John felt the warmth of the sun on his back and shuddered.
"I know, sorry. I had to get away from Sherlock, we had a little... Domestic." John offered her a smile.
"Oh, no you can stay. Do you want a drink?"
"Tea would be nice." John stepped inside, his hair sticking up from where he'd run his hands through it trying to get rid of the sediment that wasn't there. He waited in her kitchen, shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly.
"Milk?"
"Please. One." He nodded in answer to her unasked question about the sugar. As he waited, his phone buzzed.
I upset you. Come home from Sarah's. I need to speak with you.
SH
He grimaced as he accepted the tea from Sarah.
"Sherlock?"
"Sherlock." He agreed, a slight frown creasing his brow.
"You should go back." She sipped her tea and looked him in the eyes.
"I don't really want to."
"What happened?" John kept quiet, hardly anyone knew about his PTSD, and he preferred it that way.
"As I said, we had a domestic. Of sorts." Everything was of sorts with Sherlock.
"And you left?"
"It's not the first time." Admitted John softly, the hand holding the mug trembling for the first time since he met Sherlock.
"Go back to him, go back and make it up. From what I know of him, he needs you, even if he refuses to show it. He really cares about you." John looked at the rippled surface of his tea, shifting position slightly.
"I just needed some air." He muttered evasively.
"Go home." Sarah placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and he flinched, as he thought he felt the bullet bury it's sleek copper further into his skin.
"Sorry."
"It's fine, just get home, get safe and talk it over. Make it up with him, or you'll be grumpy at work on Monday." John could have kissed her, instead he hugged her, a little awkwardly, but hugged her all the same.
"Thank you."
"Sherlock?" John walked up the stairs, ignoring the patches of blood that screamed at him to be noticed on the silken sand beneath his feet. He could hear the strains of the violin over the distant roar of gunfire that most certainly couldn't exist and he mounted the last step, into the lounge. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his long and impossibly pale arms around the violin from which he was drawing the plaintive sounds. His feet were bare and against the cushion at the other end of the sofa. "Come now, that can't be comfortable or helpful when trying to play the violin." John smiled, injecting warmth into his voice.
"John." Sherlock's eyes snapped open, John hadn't even realised they were closed.
"Yes." It seemed the right thing to say.
"How... Are... Is it bad?" Sherlock swallowed, his eyes roving over John's figure.
"It's not as bad now." Sherlock watched him, eyes narrowed.
"How long do these... Attacks last, normally?" Sherlock said the word almost like an insult.
"It varies depending on the severity." John told him evenly, his voice calm.
"How ah... Severe is this one?"
"It's lasted over half an hour." John watched him, his eyes wide and almost scared of Sherlock's reaction.
"I... I'm sorry." Sherlock looked at his fingertips. "I didn't mean to scare you." John observed him, carefully walking over to him.
"You didn't scare me, that isn't what PTSD is. It just triggered me, to start with, everything did; cars backfiring, someone screaming, it all dragged me back. I should have known that gunshots would have been the worst."
"I should have thought." Sherlock gave him a weak smile, which John retuned just as weakly.
"Yes, you should, but it's in the past, and if you remember this for the future we'll be okay."
"So we're okay then?"
"Yes."John sat on the edge of the sofa and felt Sherlock wrap his arms around his waist, resting his warm head against John's side.
"Good." Came the rumbling reply from by his ribs. John smiled and carded his hands through Sherlock's hair.
"We're all fine."
Thank you for reading (:
Review?