AN: I am so excited that this story is getting so many reads already! I love this fandom more than I could ever express in words. You guys are positively amazing. I already have to send out some thanks- to my sister, for listening to me for over an hour as I tried to come up with a synonym for tea cup; to my grandmother, for allowing me to bring my gadgets 'round (gotta love the grans); and finally, to all of the people that have read and reviewed my story so far. I am very grateful to have such an audience :D

And a very, very, VERY special thanks to my amazing beta, rawrfullion, who made it through 4 drafts of this chapter in just a few days and who I now owe my soul and first born to :)

Also, about my writing style: thoughts are in italics, everything else is regular, except for dreams and flashbacks (bold and italics). If you find any errors, PLEASE report them to me.

I'm not really sure yet about how updates are going to work. I'm going to try to update every two or three days, but if I get taken by writer's block, I'll try to keep the updates weekly at the very least. My men are very fun to write- and this story has been brewing away for a while. So please keep reviewing! It sparks my interest, my creativity, and in the words of Sherlock Holmes, "Genius needs an audience."

Plus, you get to read from Sherlock's perspective for the first time! :D Rejoice!

Warnings: angst, angst, johnlock vibes, angst, a nightmare, slight mentions of murder/gore, mentions of a shower, don't like don't read, Sherlock confusion, etc.

Sorry for the long AN! So, without further adieu, I offer the next chapter!


Chapter 2: The Burning Paralysis

John tilted his tea cup back, lips poised around the raised edge of the delicate china as his mouth was breached by an influx of cold liquid; the heat having long left the tiny confines of the cup. He clutched it harshly in an attempt to still the rapidly swirling thoughts that plagued his mind.

Would Sherlock ever take manage to take care of himself if John wasn't there to pester him?

Who would be there to shoot down Sherlock's more vicious enemies when he was too wrapped up in the game to care for his own safety?

How would he himself survive without Sherlock? Just a few months ago, he would have been overjoyed upon his draft. But now...without Sherlock, adrenaline didn't feel the same. His muscles ached, instead of burning, his mind was blank, instead of racing to catch up. It would be like switching from regular to decaf coffee. The taste was the same, but the buzz was maddeningly absent.

Mrs. Hudson let out one more shaky breath before tossing down the rest of her brandy.

"So that's it, then? We won't tell him." Her tone was pinched, caught between sadness and finality. The familiar sparkle in her hazel eyes was muted, gauzed over with subtly pulsing fear. "I suppose it's for the best. We don't want him to get…well, you know." She reached for John's hand across the table, cradling it in hers for a moment. She brushed the inside of his palm reassuringly. "We'll make it through this, John, just you see. There's more out there to be had, dearie. More sights to see. More tea to brew." She gave him a tight smile as she squeezed his fingers, stood and brought the two dishes to the small sink.

John let his eyelids linger closed a moment longer than they should. His head felt too light, like all of the weight of his brain had evaporated away, leaving nothing but a hollow image of itself.

He let out a heavy sigh before speaking, his index finger beating out a rapid rhythm on the edge of the table. His leg was beginning to ache. Damn nerves.

"I think I'll go back upstairs and write down Sherlock's latest curiosities. I've got readers to appease, you know. I'm actually quite famous." He winked lamely at her as he stood, pushing his chair in. The landlady turned towards him fully, keeping most of her weight on the counter behind her. Her eyes fanned cautiously over his face as he spoke. "Don't want him to find me lazing about, now, do I?" He turned his gaze away from her slightly accusing stare, trudging toward the direction of the door.

"Tell him." He almost didn't hear it. Wouldn't have heard it, if his subconscious hadn't reached out to grasp it, pulling the words from the teeming silence as his mind extracted the seemingly miniscule meaning from the phrase and amplified it tenfold; shattering his careful focus as it rang, tinny and concentrated, in his ears- louder than if she'd shouted it.

His feet stilled, left hand quivering as he tried to drown the less than acceptable thoughts of Sherlock – just as he had tried to do ever since the first of them had arisen. John knew that she meant well, but surely, even someone as batty as her could see the obvious repercussions to that particular piece of conversation.

"I know that it might not be easy. I know how he can be, John. I've lived with him a lot longer than you have, love. But sometimes, in extra special circumstances, there are rewards that may just be worth the risk of a broken heart." Her words flew like bullets across the small room, every utterance hitting him with small pangs of guilt, perforating his skin.

It was a chilling sensation, to say the least, when your happiness becomes buried under an avalanche of doubt.

"Some thoughts are better left unsaid." John replied flatly. He resumed his journey, with some difficulty. He knew that she meant well, but there was a point when even John's composure wavered toward instability. "I'll take the time I have left with him." He heard her intake of breath as she tried to mute it- to no avail. "And, Mrs. Hudson,…" he stopped mid-step as he cleared his throat to try and avoid further embarrassment. It felt like his throat was closing up- every breath becoming slightly harder to take. "Thank you. For everything."

The door swung opened and closed with a gentle click. She stood there, listening to the thump of his footsteps going up the stairs and swallowed hard.

Mrs. Hudson turned the water on as hot as she could stand it while she stood at the sink in front of the window, washing the cups for far too long, leaving fresh fears to percolate in her head. The scalding water sloshed across the slick surface of the mugs, scourging away any and all remnants of their afternoon tea.

She always saw what Sherlock meant to John; never missing the intensity in John's gaze as he attempted to keep up with Sherlock's brilliant and constant babble, the reverence in his words as he spoke of their latest adventure, the way he would naturally gravitate toward Sherlock in any and all situations. She recognized the absolute trust and loyalty in John's actions. She knew his feelings like she knew her own address. John wore his heart on his sleeve (at least unconsciously).

She also knew that Sherlock had changed. Ever since John showed up, Sherlock's life had been blown into a brilliant flurry of activity. John was calming where Sherlock was abrasive, he was smooth where Sherlock was rough. Easy, where Sherlock was complicated. He was good for the genius; healthy. They first 'healthy' thing she'd ever seen Sherlock do for himself was invite John to stay with him.

Briefly, she entertained the idea that Sherlock still didn't know about John's affections.

A genuine laugh burst joyously from her throat, shocking the stagnant air of the dining room into sudden unrest as it left a promise of hope in its wake.

The idea was truly ridiculous. Sherlock knew, like always. He had probably known from the start. The only question haunting her now was less of sadness, but more of pure curiosity: what was he waiting for?

She let the thought bounce around in her head for a few more minutes as she dried the dishes and put them in their respective cupboards. Boys will be boys. She smiled, feeling considerably lighter than she had before. They would work this out.

All they needed was some time.


John crossed through the entrance of the upstairs flat, looking around as he quickly confirmed Sherlock's absence. He grabbed his coat and turned to leave the flat.

He padded back down the stairs, emotions kept in perspective at the soft crunch of paper in his pocket. He steeled himself for the brazen cold as he opened the door.

He stepped out into the frigid air and shut the door behind him. He set off to the enlistment site, walking mechanically as his mind crawled behind in anguish.

John knew that he would eventually be forced to tell Sherlock about the draft, but how would he take it?

'With a grain of salt.' His mind provided bitterly, setting a fresh wave of misery to swirl lazily through his thoughts.

'I wonder how long it would take him to notice that I was gone. I come and go all the time without consequence to him, so what would a few more months matter?' The ideas affected his mind like the sting of a wasp; sharp, but made of liquid fire. It felt like he was burning from the inside out, little flames blooming with every sentence as they licked at his mind. It was torture, pure torture as his mind lit up like a furnace. He could not escape the pain here; not in his own mind.

John glanced around at the people passing him as he walked the streets.

'Cattle.' he judged, as nausea began to prod his stomach. 'All cattle.'

He wondered if they could see it. The fire behind his eyes. The shroud of darkness that clouded his vision, his thoughts, plagued him in his own mind.

'Sherlock would tire of waiting for me.' The notion sprung to the forefront of his mind with frightening clarity. 'He would find a new companion. Or just stay by himself. He had preferred solitude before I stomped into his life. He'd be much better off without a blundering idiot acting like a lost puppy around him.'

As terrible as they seemed, each thought was rooted in a truth that was far too familiar to him. Sherlock had been alone before John; he had managed to keep himself alive for the 28 years prior to the army doctor, so what would keep him from prospering again in isolation? It was a useless battle that John had been trying to fight with himself.

He wasn't useful to Sherlock. In fact, he usually got himself stuck in the way of Sherlock's genius; tying him down with physical inabilities, or constantly nagging him about food.

But that was the problem- John couldn't help but get in the way. He needed to protect Sherlock in a way that he could not explain, even if he had wanted to.

When John Watson first met Sherlock Holmes, the first word that came to mind was, 'brilliant'. And he was.

A bit too brilliant for his own good, in fact. He had managed to captivate John; showing him a new way to live his life and a new way to view the world. After being stuck in an ignominiously boring routine of living, John was shell-shocked. And Sherlock was the light that broke through all of that drab darkness; something that he clutched onto immediately.

John had found himself growing closer and closer to the genius until it got to a point where he began to have dreams about Sherlock. They started innocently enough, but escalated quickly to dreams that would leave him waking in the middle of the night with panting breaths, sweaty sheets, and immense sexual frustration.

Now, he had an extremely difficult time functioning properly around the man. Sometimes, John would become suddenly clumsy as Sherlock brushed by in the cramped kitchen. John was always treading on eggshells around him, and for some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to admit the cause to the whole mess.

Finally, one night, John had a dream where Sherlock simply stated, 'I love you.' Nothing more and nothing less. Just those three words.

The next night, it happened again.

The night after that, almost as soon as his eyelids had closed, Sherlock was there with those three words.

So there it was. John was in love with Sherlock bloody Holmes. He was in love with a sociopathic genius who stored human body parts in the butter tins, conducted toxic experiments in the kitchen, and introduced himself with sneer, a sarcastic comment, and a long-awaited answer.

John knew that all of his affections were for naught, however, the day after they'd met for the first time. He would never be able to wipe the conversation from that night away; it was ingrained into his very existence. John had asked if he was in a relationship with anyone, in order to make conversation. After a few quick retorts, Sherlock had silenced him with one phrase.

'I'm married to my work.'

That had been all it took to crumble the world of one John Watson.

John turned onto the street that led to the military facility; allowing his mind to wander a bit more.

Ever since then, he had kept his emotions close, trying to refrain from the more intimate instincts he was having. The worst were the small things. Like when he would see a particularly uncooperative piece of hair separate itself from the rest of Sherlock's curls. John would be overtaken by the unexplainable urge to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The temptation was sometimes dizzying in its toxicity.

Then there was the time that Sherlock had begun to fall ill. John, being a doctor, stayed faithfully by Sherlock as he fought the cold- bringing him all the things that Sherlock requested- water, toast (John would NEVER refuse to bring Sherlock food, if he asked for it), electrolytes. Finally, Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch after an entire day of snapping at John to stop trying to take his temperature.

John was stuck, transfixed by the sight of Sherlock unconscious. His eyes closely followed the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, the intake of breath emitting a sound akin to whistling.

'Blimey.' John thought in awe. 'Sherlock, genius consulting detective, snores like a whistle.' He came back to himself over an hour later, horrified at the sheer amount of time he had just sat there, watching the other man sleep.

John pushed open the door to the recruitment office, walking briskly to the front desk.

"Where do the drafted check in?" The man sitting behind the desk looked young. 20, at the oldest. Dark hair, light eyes, heavy stature. The man glanced at him in appraisal before gesturing to the hallway on his left.

"Return recruit, correct?" John nodded. "Name?"

"John Hamish Watson."

The man muttered something under his breath, writing on the notepad in front of him. "They'll take your letter and give you instructions down the hall, seventh door to the left."

John followed his directions without another word, winding his way down the long hallway until he reached the seventh entrance. The door had been left open, and older soldiers were distributed around the room, talking to each other in excitement. John caught fragments of war stories and granted himself some privacy. He walked to the back of the small room, taking a seat on one of the hard plastic chairs as he waited for a lieutenant to arrive.

After a few minutes had passed, John had gathered quite a bit of information on his comrades. He smirked, listening as one of the men retold his story to a fourth man, with a different ending than any of the other three. The blonde man opposite him was nervously secluded, glancing around hurriedly before turning to wring his hands.

Finally, a man entered the room, causing everyone to go silent.

"Gentlemen, your service has been activated in the cause of a draft. You have been called upon to serve Queen and country. In the name of your prior service, do you accept?" The reply chorused in the small room. "Yes, Sir."

"You will each be receiving your particular guidelines and briefings in the mail soon. You have 30 days until departure." He made eye contact with each of the soldiers in the room. "Spend it well."

The other men turned to give each other knowing looks, worried side-glances. John sat stock-still. The man droned on about responsibilities and their duties as contributing members of Britain, etc. etc. He waited for the one phrase that would mean something to him.

"You are dismissed, soldiers."

John stood quickly, avoiding contact with the other men as he wound his way out of the large building. He opened the doors to the street and mustered up the willingness to dump himself into the moving crowd once again.

The sidewalks were much more crowded now than they had been this morning. John allowed himself to be swept away by the movement of the people around him. He didn't really care when he got back, anyway.

30 days. 30 days of anguish and hidden amusement and Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

He sighed deeply, conceding to the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. He let it crash over him in waves- to toss around him like the crowd of the city; ruthless. John was defenseless to its fury. He tried to ride it like a storm, but ended up swirling his mind even deeper into the murk of sadness.

He felt like he was in mourning- for what could have been, perhaps. More like mourning for something that was never there to begin with. His mind tore holes in the corpse of his happiness, laughing at its foolishness as it lay bleeding in his mind's eye.

Suddenly John was in front of the door of his flat. He wondered how he would pass the time.

'Well, Sherlock still isn't home yet.' he contemplated. 'Sarah did send me home on vacation. Maybe I will take that nap.' He ambled up the second set of stairs. He looked around at his drab room. Beige was everywhere. He took a shuddering breath before changing into pyjamas.

He was suddenly exhausted, mind finally taking a rest as he clambered into bed. The sheets were pulled up to his chin, body warming under the soft fabric. Within minutes, his breathing evened out and he was asleep.


John reeled back, feeling as if he had been physically slapped. He felt dizzy as he dared to look at the tall man shouting at him.

'John, how could you be so daft? I've lived with you for over a year! For Christ's sake, can't you bloody tell that I. Am. Not. Interested! I told you when we met that I am married to my work. Obviously, that means nothing to you. Get out, John. Don't come back; you'll just distract me.' Sherlock glided over to his microscope as he turned his back on John, leaving him cold. What was left, without Sherlock?

John's face was wet; tears streaming soundlessly down his face. He clutched at the hope that he could fix his mistake.

'Sherlock, I'm sorry. I promise...we can just go back to the way it was before.' John attempted, only to stop coldly when the man turned slowly in his chair. 'I don't want to lose you.' he pleaded.

'Too late.'

John blanched in horror as the long face and chocolate curls started to move- to morph into someone else. Moriarty's chilling features blossomed over the ghost of familiar cheekbones. Bow lips were replaced by a thin sneer. Dread filled John's body, vanquishing the last worn threads of his hope. It felt as if ice water were filling his veins, spidering through his body like a virus as it filled every capillary, splintering into icicles to puncture his heart, his lungs, his stomach.

'You're nothing to lose, from my perspective. Go. I don't need you here.' The man crossed the room in two strides, bringing his face suddenly too close to John's. 'He's mine now, Johnny Boy.' The man reached inside of Sherlock's wool coat to produce a small caliber gun, twirling it once before rounding it on himself.

The trigger went off with a BANG!

Red.

Too much red.

'SHERLOCK!'

Lungs on fire. Shuddering breath.

John's chest heaved as he attempted to reap as much oxygen as he could from the surrounding air. His fingers clutched violently at the sheets which had trapped him during his unconscious fits of thrashing. The dread that pooled in his gut threatened to make him sick. He sprang out of bed, bounding to the bathroom.

Once through the threshold of the door, John dragged open the plastic shower curtain and stripped off his pajamas. He climbed into the water's icy spray, his pulse racing hard. He clutched at his shoulder as it throbbed painfully (it always did when his heart rate went up). He instantly regretted taking the afternoon kip. His nightmares always seemed to afflict him more often when he tried to sleep during the day.

He let his knees go out from under him, carelessly sliding to the floor of the shower. The incessant drops pricked his skin like needles, splashing relentlessly over his body. The sting of the water cleared his head and allowed him to focus on the solid pings of reality rather than the murky oblivion of his dreams.

What to make of it, though?

John inhaled, and a cloud of the offending vapor raced down his windpipe, sending him into a violent coughing spell. He doubled over, coughing so hard that he was very nearly retching. He coughed until his abdomen began to ache from the effort, until his vision once again became blurred around the edges.

After a few minutes, his breathing returned to normal and the strange nightmare rushed back full-force, choking him with its brutal terror.

Why did Sherlock's face turn into Moriarty? he groaned, tilting his head back while he let the cold water splash over his face, washing the sweat from his body like a torrent of crisp awareness. I'm about to go back onto the front lines of a World War as nothing but a fucking paramedic, and my nightmares are about Sherlock's reaction to my FEELINGS? What the bloody hell is wrong with my mind?

He slumped heavily against the wall of the cubicle, taking a moment before realizing that he might as well actually clean up. He soaped up a washcloth and set to work, mechanical efficiency taking over his movements as he tried to empty his mind. I'll have to get used to taking quick showers again, he thought bitterly as the water cascaded around him.

As he washed away the vestiges of his most recent illusion, John began to formulate a plan.

He would become numb. That's what it would take, after all. No one could survive the rugged anguish of war without compartmentalizing the deep-rooted bits of themselves; the kind-hearted, the soft-willed, the (Dare he think it?) love-riddled.

Sherlock was not the only member of society that was able to erase pieces of himself. As alien of a concept as it seemed to most people, to John, it was just another hidden piece of his composition. How else was he expected to function, after experiencing the horrors of Afghanistan?

John clenched his fists, skin tingling under the too-cold water, as he centered himself.

'There will not be time for me to traipse around the nearest city, following a sociopath blindly through the streets.
There will not be time for shared glances in the hallway, hearts beating fast, as the atmosphere shifts to something a little more meaningful.
There will not be time for Sherlock.'

John closed his eyes carefully, beginning to surface old memories of their adventures. He would take one final look at them before shoving them behind a brick wall in his mind; painstakingly fabricated and guarded by his every defense. Every smile, every laugh, and every trace of something that resembled more-than-friends was locked away.

'It's better this way.' he told himself. 'I should have done this from the very first inkling of joy.' John's muscles were beginning to feel numb, the cold overriding his tactile senses- furthering the processes of his mind.

John decided that he would tell Sherlock when he had a week left. It would be enough time for him to adjust to the transition, providing that John would be able to set up an alternative part time caretaker for the consulting detective.

Sherlock would survive- no, thrive without his presence. John just had to keep himself together long enough to get away.


How in the world, after being in my presence for over a year, can John still be this daft? Sherlock mused, long fingers tapping over the keys of John's laptop like a storm of tiny birds over a school of fish; diving, pecking, and surfacing to repeat. Sherlock often borrowed John's laptop, if only to enjoy the range of reactions he received from the army doctor. Depending on John's mood, he could respond with anything from thunderous anger to the most virulent amusement.

John always managed to produce some type of reaction worth watching. At least, in Sherlock's opinion. John was an ever-changing entity in his life; someone who surprised him, if only by doing exactly what Sherlock had predicted. That hadn't happened before John.

Everything about that man was fascinating to him. John's innate ability to deal with people was simply fantastic.

Sherlock would always watch with careful eyes as John talked to the victims that they had rescued at the end of a case- sincerely amazed at his ability to calm even the most toxic of personalities with nothing more than a few minutes of dialogue. Sherlock would find himself transfixed by him- mentally cataloging, with perfect detail of course, the slight changes in John's face. The way his eyes would crinkle just at the edges, when he would smile in support or comfort; the way that the color of his irises would shift when John had been taken by a particularly hard piece of evidence, as he tried with so much difficulty to match Sherlock's prowess.

More recently, Sherlock had found something new and infinitely more interesting about John Watson.

John had this enchanting way of attempting to be deceptive- he had done it to Sherlock the moment they'd met. Due to his military training, John was usually able to hide his more brash emotions during a case. At least until something he cared about was threatened. Then, Sherlock truly got a show.

Because when John was uncontrollable, he was certainly an eyeful.

Sherlock shuffled on the couch, closing his eyes as he properly allowed his mind to pull up the scene from a few months earlier- when they had been trapped at the pool.

'John.' Sherlock thought dumbly as he stared at his doctor, loaded down with enough explosives to flatten the entire city block.

He stood there, paralyzed, for what he recognized as far too long, assessing John's physical state: unharmed, as of yet. Still stable on his feet. Accelerated heart rate, body running on a severe adrenaline rush. His perceptions roved John's body, checking for any apparent signs of physical stress or harm. His stance was defensive- and Sherlock was suddenly overtaken with an acrid sense of humor. None of John's military training would be of use here. John was left to stand there- bare- vulnerable- as Moriarty laughed in his face. The perfect trap. After thoroughly appraising the rest of John's body, he finally reached John's eyes.

Sherlock was afraid. For the first, novel, incomprehensible time, Sherlock felt genuine fear. It was similar to pain.

However, he had no knowledge of how to describe the way that John's gaze held his with such strength.

Sherlock knew little of the solar system, or the rules that governed it. However, he was familiar with the concept of gravity. The term itself is defined as 'the force that attracts a body toward the center of the Earth, or any other physical body having mass'.

John is obviously a physical body, made of mass.

John is also, unequivocally a force of attraction.

John was drawing him in.

John's gravity was inescapably, irrevocably, and emphatically immense.

Fear. Anger. Repulsion. Revenge. Humiliation. Fascination. Confusion. Desperation. Recognition. Blinding terror.

All of them fought for recognition, surfacing and suffocating, as they made their way across John's features. So many emotions seemed to be teeming under the barely contained prison of John's body. His eyes were screaming for help, for an answer, for a solution. But none came. No satisfaction of being able to have a plan- no balm to soothe his mind whatsoever. He was stranded, desolate, in the large room. It suddenly felt like an aquarium. John shuddered- unable to contain the momentary weakness as he hysterically attempted to make sense of their predicament.

Sherlock felt like John's emotions had been shot into his body like an intravenous drug, filling him to the brim with foreign concepts and offering him nowhere to hide from it all. Trapped in his own skin- the way he imagined the general populous. John looked as if he was about to do something rash, but Sherlock locked their gazes and told him firmly to stop, beseeching his more logical side.

John obeyed.

Sherlock was jolted out of his reverie by a loud thump. The sound bounded down the stairs from John's room, sending a slight shake through the ceiling. Sherlock's electric mind took only a mere fraction of a second to determine what exact course of action caused the noise, frowning slightly as he remembered John's unfortunate subconscious knack for summoning the worst nightmares during the middle of the day.

He momentarily considered checking on John, to ensure that he wasn't in too much emotional distress, but thought better of it. Sherlock had absolutely zero perception of social norms and comforting techniques. What if John wasn't okay, or he was in need of emotional consolation? What if John asked Sherlock for the one thing that he could not provide; understanding?

Sherlock brushed the thought away.

Anyway, being in John's presence, when charged with emotions, had definitely crossed the boundary from 'a bit not good' to 'dangerous ground'. John somehow managed to override Sherlock's inherent neutrality, puncturing his composure in the worst of circumstances.

Sherlock had found himself in the middle of a case, when he should be working incessantly, in the net of John's perturbations, unable to focus. Efficiency was at an all time low. It was becoming ridiculous.

John's emotions had evolved into something unpredictable and infectious; something that had Sherlock greatly alarmed. He had found that whenever John began to exhibit great emotional euphoria, Sherlock had no ability to refrain from mirroring John's wide smile; or even the opposite.

During their last case together, they had been in the pursuit of a serial murderer for over a week, traveling day and night across the country as the man left bloody deaths everywhere he dared to traipse. He was sloppy and used medieval weapons, meant only for cruelty. John was physically and emotionally exhausted, and even Sherlock was beginning to feel the strain on his transport

They were finally able to track the man down in Cardiff, John holding the small building as Sherlock endeavored to talk the man down from his suicide attempt.

It had been nearly 30 minutes of confrontation later when the man acquiesced to Sherlock's cajoling. He lowered his gun, dropped it at his side, and slid the weapon across the floor with a terrible squeal of metal on cement.

In a flash, the man pulled a serrated dagger from his hip and ripped through his jugular as a wail clawed its way out of John's throat; obscene in its desperation.

Sherlock was suddenly wracked with the feelings that John shouted to the open room: anger, frustration, and sadness. He actually felt angry tears burgeoning in his eyes, obstructing his vision. He shook his head, in a failed attempt to toss the thoughts out of his head.

Instead, he had been stuck with a furious John, an aching body, and a long trip home to ponder just what exactly this army doctor had managed to do to him in a little over a year.

The rumble of water pipes swarmed the room; signaling the beginning of John's shower. Perhaps that will help to calm him. Sherlock mused, hopeful for the return of his friend's generally sunny disposition. Sherlock saved his report, recording the final details of his newest experiment onto to fuzzy computer screen, and rose gracefully from the couch.

His blue silk robe swished as he made his way into the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's health habits were becoming somewhat swayed by John's presence, as well. He ate much more often- even occasionally sitting down to share a meal with John, much to the man's delight. Sherlock loved to please John. His eyes would simply glow when he triumphed (or at least, Sherlock allowed him the illusion of a success) in a fight over food.

'How sentimental.' he thought in distaste as he debated whether he should go ahead and eat something, or wait for John. It was around two in the afternoon, and he had no cases on, so food would not be too much of a deterrent of The Work.

He decided to put some toast on for now, pushing the button down on the small machine as the bread disappeared behind its metal sides. The contraption began ticking, counting down to completion. Sherlock hesitated- berating himself for his weakness- before he filled the kettle with water and set it to boil.

Even in simple things, like making tea, Sherlock was changing. Curse John Watson. He'd made a domestic out of him.


The water shut off, sending a resounding thud through the old plumbing. John pulled the shower curtain back, stepping carefully out of the slick porcelain shower as he grabbed a towel from the shelf in the bathroom.

He wrapped himself in the fluffy linen, succumbing to his more basic indulgences. Even someone as coarse as John could enjoy a soft towel.

The steam swirled around him- wrapping John in a warm comfort, and victoriously extinguishing the rest of his drowsy fears. With his mind more conscious, he was able to begin to control his trepidation. After all, it was just a dream.

John reached out a hand to smear the fog from the oval mirror, gazing softly at his reflection. He approached it with a clinical mindset- fingers fanning over the mottled flesh that webbed over the slight indentation on his left shoulder. The skin there was still sensitive to the touch- even the slightest brush of his fingers lit his senses with a profanely augmented version of the touch.

His mind was flooded with the frighteningly vivid phantom pain, which sometimes accompanied his scar. He failed to contain his cringe as his mind summoned the one sticking image from that incident.

'John!' Andrew shouted madly, applying a dizzying amount of pressure on John's fresh wound.

He didn't even feel it yet. His mind was caught in a time warp, processing the course of events at the pace of a snail.

John saw bullets flying, heard screams, tasted the salty anguish of war on his tongue.

He reeled, the edges of his vision beginning to darken and shrink away, shrouding his thoughts in a deep crimson tincture.

His mouth hung open lethargically, gaping in the scorching heat, opening and closing like a fish out of water. John's eyes began to water, the sand scratching his pupils, and furthering the distortion in his sight.

Too quickly, his mind and body caught up and flung him head-first into sync.

A white-hot shock of blistering pain rushed from the wound, along with the damned fountain of blood, as a slow torture licked at his brain.

He was drowning. That was the only way to describe it. Drowning in blood and dust and solitude, despite the entire faction of soldiers that had surrounded him.

'Why not die?' his mind posed, 'It would be easier than this constant push and pull, this infinite cycle of death and destruction. Die here and now, or somewhere else and later.' he managed a few deep, hysterical breaths before closing his eyes, allowing his mind to fog over with the liquid silence that tempted him with numbness, the promise of unconsciousness proving itself to be far too alluring for the circumstances.

'John, don't you DARE do this to me!" the cadet cried, head whipping wildly, looking for the aid vehicle. It was nowhere to be seen. 'John!'

John sighed, coming back to himself. Perhaps the PTSD wasn't entirely a result of boredom, as per Sherlock's deductions. He often wondered if the war had driven him a bit mad.

He exited the bathroom, dressing in a beige jumper and comfortable pants for movement. He never knew when Sherlock was going to drag him around London, chasing criminals on foot.

He looked in the mirror before heading downstairs again.

He couldn't see it. Not just by looking.

There was no black cloud over his head. No steam billowing from his ears. No fire behind his eyes. He tried to smile, but it seemed plastic.

It would do for now.