A/N: I don't know how I feel about this one, kiddos. I definitely don't feel as confident in it as I did the last chapter. I may come back at a later date and edit it a little more. I just sort of wanted it out there and in cyberspace so that I was required to legitimately focus on chapter three rather than perfecting this one to the point of insanity.
And there's another style of A/N I never thought I'd write: the apologetic "I don't like this chapter, it sort of sucks" type. Well, never say never.
Share your thoughts on the merits and problems of this chapter?

John doesn't just have nightmares of Afghanistan, now. Sometimes, they are of Sherlock. In those, he's often (but not always) face down, prone, like the night John wishes he had shot Sherlock's two assailants [bastards] when he had the chance, and Sherlock is whimpering John's name like a prayer he doesn't know he's saying, same as that night. Maybe it was a prayer. One John answered like an avenging, wrathful god. In those nightmares, John always shoots (like he wishes he had) and he always, always misses (like he'd never, ever do) - not by much, but by enough. His hands are shaking, like saving Sherlock (again) isn't enough adrenaline, and he can't hold the gun steady for anything, so he's paralyzed just shooting and shooting and missing while the entire time he can hear Sherlock so well it's like he's inside his head: "John, John." And there's blood. More than there ever was in reality, but this is a dreamscape, so they're all drowning in it, the man holding Sherlock down red up to the elbows and from the waist down, the second man [rapist] literally covered in his blood, and John, somehow John has Sherlock's blood on his hands, and he always wakes up thinking if that's not a metaphorical message from your subconscious, John Hamish Watson, then I don't know what is.

The worst thing, John thinks on the mornings after these nightmares, rubbing imaginary blood from his hands as he steeps two cups of tea, is that he can't even be absolved of the guilt he knows, logically, he shouldn't feel. (Tell that to his heart, the one that broke that night. Sherlock was a creature never meant to be laid low. He should have been protected. John should have been doing the protecting.) The one person other than himself that might grant that dispensation, even if he thought it pedestrian and unnecessary, has no memory of any of it. Wiped it from his hard drive, as he'd say, if anyone had asked. (No one had. You don't just go up to a rape victim and start asking questions about an event so traumatic they involuntarily repressed it.) Even Sherlock knew that it was a bit not good without needing to be told. That is, he would've known had the situation presented itself. So everyone walks on eggshells, no, on bubble wrap, but at least everyone is spared the trauma of a trial and having to remind Sherlock of what happened, because Lestrade came by the hospital the next morning to apologize. The two men they arrested just hours earlier seem to never have existed. Vanished from their cells, any trace of their lives eliminated. Odd, that. So now there's no chance of facing a trial, and it's just a matter of waiting for the physical wounds to heal. A few weeks and everything's back to normal.

Except John knows invisible scars when he sees them (he shares them) and he knows that Sherlock's bodily healing is the least of anyone's worries.

These are the thoughts that consume him as he finishes making two cups of tea and two slices of toast. Spreading a thin layer of jam onto both ("Dammit, Sherlock Holmes, you need the fucking calories, alright?"), he carries it all, cups in his hands and plate in the crook of his elbow, to Sherlock, who just this morning was upgraded from bed-rest to couch-rest. This happened more or less because he was well enough that John physically could not force him to remain in bed any longer, broken ankle and cracked ribs be damned. (Sometimes when Sherlock walks, he winces, and John wonders if the pain is coming from somewhere other than his ankle, but he never asks.) Of course, getting out of bed does not in any way, shape, form, or fashion indicate that the lazy git is well enough to make his own bloody breakfast, so his oh-so-kind-and-wonderful flatmate and live-in doctor does it for him. John sets one cup of tea down on the table beside his chair and takes the toast and other mug to Sherlock, who has a table set up by the sofa so that he has to move as little as possible. John thanks an entire pantheon of gods, any that will listen, that Sherlock, recently taken off the pain meds that clouded his thinking abilities, can shower by himself now. He's not sure how convincing his poker face would be when faced with Sherlock's advanced knowledge of his psychology (see: Sherlock's ability to guess John's computer password within a minute) and his extraordinary deductive abilities, especially when used on someone he knows well. The last thing he wants to do is trigger some soul-searching or further deducing of Sherlock's injuries and have him remember what he repressed. Not that it's necessarily a healthy way of coping, but hell, John will absolutely take what he can get at this point. Who wouldn't?

When Sherlock doesn't react to his tea after a few minutes, John calls his name: "Sherlock."

No response. A little louder. "Sherlock."

He jerks awake violently, responding to a perceived threat and nearly falling off the couch, correcting at the last second. After he recovers, he tries to feign nonchalance and John can't help but laugh. He buries the niggling little voice that says "rape trauma syndrome". His inner devil's advocate justifies it with "Can you even have rape trauma syndrome if you don't remember it?"

"I brought tea."

"I had, in fact, noticed. I have retained full use of my sense of vision, if you'll notice. I'm told you attended medical school, so it shouldn't be too difficult for you to draw the correct conclusions regarding my sensory abilities."

"Yes Sherlock, I'm aware, you want more pain pills. You will not be getting them, no matter how much snark you send my way."

Taking a piece of toast, Sherlock 'hmph!'s and flops to face the back of the couch. He only barely suppresses a groan of pain from putting too much pressure on healing ribs, and John would chuckle if it weren't so pathetic. It's good to hear him munching on the toast; it's a good sign. If he can force him to eat semi-normally, he might actually heal within a normal timeframe. Until then, however, they're stuck inside 221B. Navigating a flight of stairs with Sherlock is no picnic, and John's not eager to try again. Any cases that are to be solved in the next 6 to 8 weeks will be done with Sherlock decidedly within the flat. (John's location, however, is up for debate, not that he's aware of it yet. Sherlock decided almost immediately to handle any new cases the way they handled the car backfire computer porn addict oh hullo, we're in Buckingham Palace and Sherlock isn't wearing pants case: namely, via webcam.) John has taken a leave of absence and is more hoping than knowing that his job will still be there when he gets back. Mycroft, that morning in the hospital, offered to hire someone. A live-in nurse or something. John turned him down. He wasn't there for Sherlock when he had been needed most; that would never happen again.

He's torn from the dual contemplation of Sherlock's pain and his own guilt (and subsequent feeding-up of Sherlock) by the sound of a knock on the doorframe of the flat.

"'Lo. Figured I'd bring by some cold cases, see if Sherlock can help us out and save your sanity, John, at the same time." Lestrade always did try to help, but at the moment the look of intense pity and worry on his face is more unhelpful than any cases offered up in concern for John's wellbeing. At a disapproving look from John, he schools his expression a bit better, and walks into the center of the room, throwing the case files down onto Sherlock's stomach in a bad approximation of casual, everyday interaction. Sherlock jerks, overreaction apparent, and winces. He broadcasts a general aura of "I hate everything", not deigning to speak to Lestrade. Flopping onto his side and ignoring the spasm of pain it causes, he turns his back to the rest of the room and, with it, Lestrade and the fallen case files, contents now fluttering down over the floor of the flat. The overworked DI just sighs and walks back out, throwing John a parting look of exasperation tinged with concern. John just shrugs it off and begins to collect the fallen papers. Honestly, Sherlock is like a toddler sometimes.

A/N, redux:Ta-da! You have now reached the end of what I had pre-written. And I move to college in less than a week. But I'll do my best to update regularly ish, and I promise, whatever happens, this isn't abandoned.
Gah, that sounds more like a line from a B-rated romance flick than an author's note.