"If shame had a face I think it would kind of look like mine.

If it had a home it would be in my eyes.

Would you believe me if I said I'm tired of this?

….

I try to tame this mind.

You'd better believe that I have tried to beat this"

(Lifehouse, "Sick Cycle Carousel").

John sat in his chair, his mind numb, eyes swollen and red, and throat hoarse from sobbing, but he had come to a decision. Sherlock was the only constant left in his life after his last remaining beliefs in the world were shattered by…him (saying the name, even in his head, was too painful). He couldn't lose him…he wouldn't survive it. So, he had decided that if he weren't capable of getting well, he would pretend, for Sherlock's sake and his own.

He began attending his therapy sessions and talking (though not about that, as much as he tried). He also returned to work after a month's absence. He forced himself to eat as much as possible, though it still wasn't enough to replace the weight he had lost. He still didn't sleep, but he placed a towel in the crack under his door, which effectively drowned out the noise of his nightmares. He tried sleeping pills, but they simply trapped him in his nightmares, forcing him to face the darkness overcoming his soul with no protection, no barrier—so, that didn't last long at all.

Sherlock seemed thankful for John's apparent turnaround and even asked John if he felt up for a case, which Lestrade had been trying to get him to take for a week.

"It's really quite a boring one," he said, looking carefully at John, who was sitting across from him holding tea, having just returned home from work, "but it is something. Might be nice to do a case together again."

"That sounds great!" John was legitimately please, particularly when Sherlock grinned at him. Things might go back to normal after all, on the surface, at least.

He should have known that this happy charade could only last so long, particularly when it was directed at Sherlock Holmes. If it seems to good to be true…

The scene of the crime was familiar: an inconspicuous room, blood spattered across the floor, a dead body in the center. John moved to the body and began his examination, Sherlock watching him from a corner, looking bored. John could tell he had solved the case long before they had even arrived at the scene. Coming here was simply a release from the confines of the flat that had been suffocating them both for the past two months. It suited John just fine.

After a careful, but quick, examination of the body, John rose and spoke with Sherlock about his findings, Lestrade listening quietly to the side. He watched as Sherlock turned to Lestrade and began explaining the case, but soon decided he needed some fresh air and stepped outside. The case was, in fact, quite boring after all.

Once outside, John stood by the building, trying not to think too much about the blood inside, which was triggering uncomfortable memories. He was so focused on not thinking that he didn't notice the yarder come up behind him, trying to get his attention, until he placed a hand on John's shoulder.

John jumped, his blood seeming to freeze in his veins as his heart suddenly stopped beating. He turned quickly, eyes widening as they settled on the man who had placed a hand on him—Robert. He began shaking and his legs gave out beneath him. Robert was saying something, leaning toward him. John flinched and scooted away, covering his face with his arms the sound of the crime scene drowned out by the buzzing in his head, which had become unbearable. Suddenly a hand grabbed his arm, forcing it away from his face. He knew what was about to happen and sobs began to wrack his body as he murmured, "No, please no."

Sherlock—who had run to John when the yarder, confused and worried, had run into the building saying something was wrong—was shouting at Lestrade.

"Get me a car! We need to go home. NOW!" he yelled, holding John's face as he thrashed and sobbed, eyes wide but unseeing.

"What the hell is going on?" Lestrade asked as he jogged over to the two men crouching by the side of the building.

"Flashback," Sherlock mumbled, trying to get John to stop struggling.

Lestrade was confused. He thought John had gotten over the worst of his PTSD from Afghanistan, but he was obviously wrong. He had seen flashbacks before and this was certainly a bad one.

"Car's over there," he said as one of the yarders pulled up on the street close to the boys.

Sherlock didn't say a word as he carefully lifted his friend, avoiding flailing limbs, and placed him in the car, barking orders at the driver. Looking down at his friend, his heart sank. John was still trembling, sweat pouring from his forehead, eyes closed, but pupils moving rapidly, obviously fighting off demons Sherlock couldn't see. He hadn't gotten better at all. Sherlock knew, of course, but had wanted to believe so badly that he had ignored all of the clues that John was faking his recovery. Couldn't ignore this though.

John was sitting in his chair holding a frozen orange, which Sherlock had handed him, looking tired, ashamed, and defeated. Sherlock explained later that the cold and the smell of the orange helped bring him out of the flashback and ground him in the present. It worked surprisingly well.

Sherlock sat across from him, his fingers pressed together in front of his chin, looking worried and utterly lost. The silence between them had grown tense and thick, weighing them both down and making the distance between them seem insurmountable.

"John," Sherlock finally broke the silence, "what do I do? How do I help you?"

"I honestly don't know, Sherlock," John sounded as utterly defeated as he felt. "Maybe there's nothing you can do. If I had the answers, believe me, I would tell you. I'm just as lost as you."

Sherlock and John stared at one another for a moment before they both looked down, as though the gesture were rehearsed. Neither could face the other at that moment.

Finally, John mumbled that he was going to try to get some sleep, stood, and moved toward the stairs. Sherlock watched him go, desperately trying to hold onto the last dregs of hope, which he felt were slipping quickly away.