Author's Note: Hello everyone! I'm so sorry for not posting, but I have had no time to write! :( Please forgive me! SO this is Chapter 3 and I'm pretty happy with how this one turned out. Please comment your thoughts in the reviews section and follow my story if you would like to be alerted when a new chapter is published! Thank you and please enjoy!

John had been in the hospital for a total of four days now and he was growing quite weary. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in ages, his muscles were stiff, and the bath was just out of reach. On the upside, he was definitely healing quickly, but fractured ribs took time and he was getting tired of waiting. Sherlock hadn't left his side since the first night. John had urged his flatmate to go back to 221B and get some rest, but the impossibly stubborn man had said he wasn't tired and he didn't want the nurses to mess anything up. John hadn't argued with Sherlock, partly because he knew it was useless and part of him didn't want to be left alone. He came to realize the quiet hospital room allowed for far too much time for his wandering thoughts.

Although he had time to think, John desperately tried to avoid replaying his experience with Moran and Moriarty, but when the lights faded out and he drifted asleep those nights played through his head over and over again. The blood and water rushed back to him and he would jolt awake with a gasp of air. Frantically, he would try to orient himself and always found that he wasn't being tortured, but the memories couldn't be shaken. He would sit in the bed and shake until he was able to calm himself down and fall asleep again, but he could never seem to stay asleep. Another nightmare would plague his head and the vicious cycle would repeat itself.

Now, John sat in the hospital bed, his arm extended towards one of the nurses who was struggling with his IV. She kept missing the puncture site and he was beginning to grow quite irritated with her inability to properly perform this basic task. John, you're starting to sound like Sherlock.

"It helps if you're a little more forceful with the needle. Really punch it in there," John said to the nervous girl, "Trust me, I know."

The nurse's pretty, green eyes grew wide. Her smooth, red hair was pulled back in a long ponytail and her cheeks flushed as she focused her eyes back on John's puncture site, "Have you had problems with an IV before, sir?"

"No. Not normally. Just take your time. I swear it doesn't hurt too badly." John kept his eyes trained on her face. A small piece of her hair fell into the nurse's eyes and he had to resist the urge to push it back behind her ear, "What's your name?"

Her eyes shifted back to John, "Clary." She shoved the IV back into John's arm and readjusted the machines beside his bed, "You live in London, Dr. Watson?"

"I do," John said as he smiled at Clary. She was quite pretty. Her green eyes glistened and her smile lit up the dull room.

She blushed a little and bit her bottom lip. Her awkwardness seemed to only add to her charm, "What brought you here then? You seem like the type to stay out of danger."

"Oh really? I seem like the type to 'stay out of danger'?" John was baffled by the irony of Clary's statement, "I was an army doctor deployed in Afghanistan. Danger is kind of what my life revolves around."

Clary turned to adjust the IV bag and she started to reorganize the seating arrangement, which Sherlock had destroyed to accommodate for his long legs. John chuckled as he imagined his flatmate returning to see his chairs messed up.

Clary cleared her throat and turned back to face John, "If, you know, ever have any free time maybe we could grab a drink or something?"

John was taken aback by her forwardness. It took most woman a little longer to drum up the courage to ask him on a date.

"I assume you already have my contact information, so it's useless to write my number on your hand?"

Clary laughed and rolled her eyes, "I should probably go, you know, take care of some other patients."

"Oh, I'm not your only one?" John responded teasingly.

Clary playfully rolled her eyes, "No, I wish." Their eyes locked together for a few seconds. Her eyes reminded John of Sherlock's and how when the light hit them just right they glimmered or how they lit up when a really good case was brought to him or when he was running through the streets for his life, John right at his side.

Before John could think any more about his flatmate, the door slowly creaked open and a tired Sherlock stood in the doorway. Speak of the devil. His tired eyes turned to stone when he saw Clary and they swept over the two of them. John could see Sherlock working out the situation and he became slightly annoyed. Did he have to look at everything with such precision? God, it was like living with a walking computer. John gave Sherlock the stop-thinking-what-you're-thinking look and Sherlock responded with a devilish smirk, only his eyes weren't playful. It was kind of creepy.

Clary quickly said something that John didn't catch and headed for the door leading to the hallway. Sherlock didn't budge to let her out so she had to squeeze between the consulting detective and the left side of the threshold. As she left, she shot John a puzzled look and quickly walked down the hallway.

Once John was sure she was gone, he started talking, "That was a bit rude. You could have at least moved."

Sherlock shot John a very unpleasant glare and paced over to John's side, "I assume you two had a nice chat." Sherlock towered over John in the hospital bed and he felt like he was a maggot compared to Sherlock's tall, lanky figure. He couldn't help but gaze at Sherlock's face as he stood beside John's bedside. The low light in the room barely grazed his sharp features and he looked smooth and soft. Sherlock wasn't wearing his navy blue, knit scarf and his pale collarbones were slightly exposed.

John bit his lip and quickly shifted his eyes away from his flatmate, "Where did you run off to?"

Sherlock squinted at John and turned to throw his body back into the chair, but of course, he noticed the chairs had been moved.

"Oh how thoughtful," Sherlock said sarcastically as he moved the chairs back to where they "belonged". John rolled his eyes and the two sat in silence.

The quiet hospital room allowed for John's thoughts to resonate in his head and he tried to think of anything else, but his head brought him back to the last house. The dark rooms and the nasty remnants laying across the floor. There was something about that house that John couldn't shake. The other houses were insignificant, but John had some sort of connection to the last one. It was really starting to bug him.

"Sherlock," John paused, this was going to sound ridiculous, "Did you, did you get a…I don't know. I've had this weird feeling about the last house I was held in by Moriarty. Ever since I've been out, there's just something nagging at my brain. I, did you feel like you were connected to that house? I feel like I had been there, but I know I haven't."

John turned to look at his flatmate. Sherlock's eyes were focused on a speck on the floor. He was leaning forward in his chair and he was rapidly tapping his foot on the tile. Nervous habit? John hadn't ever seen Sherlock do that, but he'd never seen Sherlock nervous so what did he know.

"Sherlock you there? Earth to Sherlock?" John waved his hand in front of the dark haired man's face.

Sherlock shook his head and placed his hands under his chin, "Thinking John."

"Did you even hear what I said?" John was starting to grow irritated with his flatmate and his ridiculous "mind palace". What the hell even was a mind palace?

"It's a method of memory enhancement which uses locations to quickly and efficiently recall information. Quite simple, John." Sherlock smirked, but he kept his eyes focused on the floor.

John scrunched his eyebrows together as he registered his friend's comment, "How the hell did you know I was thinking that?!"

He shifted his playful eyes back over to John and clasped his hands just below his chin, "You asked that question out loud."

"No, I did not!" John sat there baffled, "Did I?"

Sherlock smirked at him and immediately John knew he wasn't going crazy, "God Sherlock, you really are a pain in the arse."

That comment made Sherlock's grin grow even wider. Pretentious child. His eyes locked on John's and the light in his eyes slowly retreated.

The tension rose in the room as Sherlock's eyes assessed John's injuries. He wanted to look at him, but all he would see was pity in Sherlock's eyes. Stare at your IV. John nudged the needle and his elbow moved abruptly. John kept his eyes focused on his extraordinarily interesting elbow. After a while, he could feel himself growing sleepy, but he felt a need to stay awake and alert. Sherlock was now clicking on his mobile and the constant rate was lulling John to sleep.

He finally let his eyes shut and the cool darkness swept him away.


John woke up screaming. His eyes felt like they were bleeding and he could feel needles puncturing his skin. He quickly removed the sheets and clutched his head. He tried to control his breathing, but his tears kept rolling down his face. John tightly closed his eyes. He shuddered with every breath he took and his knees had moved closer to his head. After a few minutes, two cautious hands grabbed his own and pulled them away from his face.

Sherlock stared at him with his sliver-blue eyes but didn't say a word. His eyes conveyed everything he couldn't say with words. All of his worry and fear was displayed over his face. Sherlock was normally so closed off; it was odd to see him so raw and pure.

They both stared at each other and John could feel a slight flutter in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't hold back the silent tears as they ran down his face. First Afghanistan, now this. John couldn't seem to get away from the bad memories. He just cried. All the pent up tears flooded out and his body bobbed with each soft sob. John could feel Sherlock pull back slowly, unsure of what to do. Before Sherlock was out of his reach, John grabbed his hands and pulled his flatmate forward gently and buried his face into his shoulder. Sherlock moved his hands slowly around John, unsure of the appropriate action to take.

After a few minutes, John's tears subsided and he slowly backed into the "comfort" of the bed.

"Sorry," John said as he wiped his tears. He could feel Sherlock's eyes staring at him, deducing everything about John, reading him like an open book. He hated it, despised the man for his cold demeanor and his uncanny ability to see through everything.

"Stop looking at me like that," he said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows together, "Like what?"

John rolled his eyes, "Like you pity me. Like you wish you could change everything because Sherlock you can't. You can't do a damn thing so stop looking at me like you can." John ran his hands forcefully through his hair.

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, neither of them saying anything.

"What was it like?" Sherlock said as he broke the silence, his eyes locked on John.

He gulped, tightly closed his eyes, and suppressed the urge to scream, "Not know Sherlock. I don't even know where to start."

Sherlock shifted himself closer to John, "Just start from the beginning."

John took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock with his own menacing eyes. He really didn't want to go into the whole ordeal, but he assumed he at least owed his flatmate an explanation. He really didn't want Sherlock to find it out by "deducing" it off him either. He told Sherlock everything. Everything he'd seen in Afghanistan. He told him about his friends who had died and those who had survived. He told him how they had lost contact because interacting brought back too many bad memories. He told him about the soldiers being carried in screaming and he told him about watching them die on his table. He told him how Moriarty had played him so well. He told him how Moriarty knew just how to push his buttons. He played with his head, played with his heart. He told him how it all felt the same. Moriarty mimicked an environment and John fell for it.

After John finished, Sherlock didn't say anything, he just kept twirling the sheets through his fingers.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. He stopped twiddling with the sheets and slowly slide his hand towards John's but paused just before their fingers touched.

John slid his hand in between Sherlock's and their fingers latched together perfectly. In that moment all of the stress seemed to vanish from John's head. Friends hold each other's hands, right?


Two days from John's screaming incident, Sherlock was wheeling his friend out of the hospital. Lestrade stood casually by his car, ready to receive the two exhausted looking men. The wheelchair was carefully placed in the trunk along with all the other things Sherlock had made Lestrade bring to the hospital, while John slowly climbed into the back seat.

Sherlock hopped into the back with John and Lestrade drove back to Baker Street.

Lestrade filled the car ride with small talk and chatter about what had happened outside the hospital. Normally, he was relatively chatty, but something was bothering Lestrade. He was talking through his nerves and Sherlock could see right through it.

They arrived at Baker Street and helped John up the stairs. Everything was an obscene blur and Sherlock could feel the need to be inside his flat now. He could only imagine how John felt.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them when they walked in the landing. She asked an outrageous amount of questions and Sherlock could tell John was ready to be up the stairs in their flat. Lestrade made a comment directed to Mrs. Hudson about the importance of rest for John and she quickly left them alone.

John was able to make his way up the stairs, slowly and cautiously. His breathing was shaky, but he did fine. Sherlock held his breath as he followed his flatmate up the creaky old stairs. He could fall and break all of his ribs again. Sherlock definitely didn't want to go back to the small room or the beeping machines or the nurse. No, definitely not the nurse.

Finally, they reached the flat and John sat in his chair. His eyes were already closing for a nap as Sherlock grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over his friend.

John mumbled, "Thanks, Sherlock."

A small smile spread over his face. They were finally home and now that Sherlock thought about it, he could use a nap too.

Lestrade cleared his throat and motioned him towards the door. He was nervous, but Sherlock couldn't gather what exactly was making him seem on edge.

Sherlock retreated into the hallway and Lestrade followed. He closed the door behind him. So this was something he didn't want John to hear. He tilted his head and tried to convey his thoughts without speaking, what was so important that you had to close the door?

After a few moments of silent staring, Lestrade finally spoke, "Are you going to go after Moriarty?"

Sherlock was taken aback by Lestrade's random question, "Of course. Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock could feel the anger rising in his chest because he knew, he knew this was some kind of "intervention" about going after consulting criminals.

"I just…don't think it would be the best idea to go after him right after you just survived two of his murder attempts." Lestrade looked at Sherlock as if he was directly speaking to a viper, cautious and scared of the bite to follow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You can't be serious? Why wouldn't I try and find him? He won't be expecting me to come after him so soon. We're ahead of the game Lestrade, don't you see?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and then shook his head, "Sherlock, I'm begging you. Don't pursue Moriarty on your own now. When John is completely healed then we'll tackle this situation together, but right now John needs you. Please, just promise me you won't go looking for him."

"Lestrade, the longer we wait, the more our chances of finding him decrease. Have you learned anything in your years of detective work?" Fury ran over Sherlock. How could Lestrade try and stop him from delivering justice where justice should be served? He was having a hard time not punching Lestrade in the face. You know because that's what true friends to do.

"Boys keep it down. All your bickering is going to disturb poor John. He needs his beautiful sleep with all those cuts and bruises on his face," Mrs. Hudson said with a surprising sense of aggression.

Sherlock reluctantly lowered his voice, but kept the fury in his tone with gritted teeth, "I will not allow Moriarty to get away with this. Lestrade, let me do this. It's the only thing I can do."

Sherlock softened his demeanor, trying to improve his chances of getting Lestrade to agree with him. He could see the conflicting emotions running over Lestrade's face. Weighing the pros and cons in his head, determining the risk, worrying about John.

"We'll talk about this later."

Sherlock watched as Lestrade dropped down the steps towards the landing. He pauses at the door, "Sherlock, look after him. John's strong, but what he's gone through…it does things to people." Lestrade shakes his head, "I don't know if he'll ever be the same." And then he's gone.

Sherlock stands at the top of the stairs. "Look after him." Sherlock had never, in his whole life, had such a giant responsibility looming over him. He wasn't a doctor (although he did know the basics, medicine was more complicated than that), he wasn't a care giver either, and he sure as hell wasn't someone to look after a mental and physically unstable person. For a split second, he considered someone else coming to watch over John, but he refused to allow anyone else have access to their flat. It was too dangerous. Moriarty could use one of his loyal followers to act as a trusted "nurse" and trick both of them into believing they were safe.

It was a mess and he wasn't even thinking of John's mental stability. That was a whole other ordeal. Sherlock knew he had nightmares, but those were from Afghanistan. What exactly had happened to John overseas?

Sherlock opened the door that lead into their flat. It creaked as he stepped inside and he cringed at the possible fact of waking up John. God, why was he being so considerate? He was starting to wonder if his "don't care" demeanor had worn off, but his friend had just been in the hospital and operated on so he assumed there was some room for acts of kindness. Sherlock rolled his eyes at himself.

He walked into his room, changed into his pajamas, and threw his blue night gown on. He slowly crept back into the living room where John was fast asleep and plopped down in his chair with a book about the human brain and how to dissect it properly (at least that's what Sherlock would have titled it). Quickly, he found himself closing his eyes as he read. Odd. He didn't need sleep. Maybe it was the combination of the low lighting and the fact that for the past week his bed had been an uncomfortable hospital chair. Sherlock desperately tried to stay awake, but the words started to blur on the page so he decided to head to his own bed and rest for the morning. He left his door wide open, just in case John needed something.

Sherlock wrapped himself in the warm sheets of his queen sized bed. He closed his eyes and let his exhaustion take him far away from his current problems.


Sherlock couldn't seem to stay asleep. He was exhausted when his head hit the pillow, but now he couldn't turn off his brain. Maybe it was the act of sleeping, or maybe he really wasn't tried, or maybe, just maybe he couldn't stop thinking about Moriarty. He couldn't help but hear his slithering voice feeding John the truth. He couldn't help but imagine what happened in that house. He could hear his friend's piercing screams as Moriarty cut through his skin. Sherlock couldn't stand the thought. He threw back the sheets, stood up, and took two long strides to open the door of his bathroom.

For the first time in weeks, he saw his reflection and it wasn't pretty. His hair was more unruly than usual and he looked awful. His eyes were droopy and his dressing gown couldn't seem to stay on his shoulder. Good thing he hadn't really been out in public; he couldn't imagine anyone seeing him looking like a bum.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. His head sorted back through everything that had happened in the past two weeks. Why was this happening? He had been able to hide his secrets so well and with a flick of the wrist Moriarty was able to tear Sherlock's walls down. It wasn't even the whole "drug" ordeal that made him dizzy, but it was what John didn't know. He didn't know that Sherlock hadn't just spent nights in drug houses, but with more sinister roommates. He didn't know what happened to anyone who crossed Sherlock's path. He didn't know the truth. And that's what scared him the most. If John ever found out, his view of Sherlock would be completely altered. What mattered the most in Sherlock's life would be gone. Shattered by his own doing.

The water ran through Sherlock's hands and he splashed several handfuls on his face, trying to calm his anxiety. Sherlock had been so caught up in his own thoughts, he didn't even notice that John had snuck into the dark room and plopped himself on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock looked up as he heard a soft mumble from his flatmate. He could see John curled up on his side, facing the bathroom door through the reflection of the mirror.

"John?" Sherlock turned around and paused in the doorway, "What are you doing?"

He was laying on his back, eyes closed and he almost looked peaceful. "I couldn't sleep and I thought it was because of the uncomfortable chair."

Sherlock could almost feel the smirk in John's voice, "Oh please, I can only imagine how uncomfortable your plush-"

He was interrupted by his flatmate's quiet laugh, "Shut up, Sherlock." John sighed and rolled over leaving enough room for Sherlock to sleep on the other side of the bed.

The detective just stood there, frozen in place, trying to figure out where he was supposed to sleep. John had obviously shifted himself over to provide room for Sherlock. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity before he finally grabbed his clothes, changed into his suit, grabbed his coat from the back of his door, and disappeared out of 221 B into the streets of London.


John woke to the light sound of rain drops dripping on the roof of his flat. The quiet sound was peaceful and he could feel himself slowly falling back asleep. Unfortunately, his brain was already awake and no matter how peaceful his surroundings were, there was no going back.

He slowly opened his eyes again and realized he was actually in…Sherlock's room? How in the world did he get in here? He tried to remember what happened last night, but he couldn't recall anything that would have caused him to retreat into Sherlock's bed. This was weird and John was uncomfortable with the idea of sharing a bed with his flatmate.

John slowly pulled himself out of bed. He sat on the edge, collecting his thoughts before he braved the new day. John slowly expanded his lungs and winced at the slight pain in his ribs. He was getting better, but it was a slow process. He wanted to move on from this point of his life, but with Moriarty still alive, neither one of them would be safe. Sherlock liked to think he was indestructible, but they wouldn't stand a chance.

He quickly tried to think of something else. He slowly stood from the bed and walked over to the bedroom door. He paused and curled his hand around the doorknob. What was he going to say? John had never been nervous around Sherlock. He wanted to ask Sherlock why he had ended up in his bed, but did he really want to talk about it? Would he be mad? John couldn't imagine Sherlock becoming angry over a lack of sleep, but he never knew. Why was everything so weird lately?

Finally, John opened the door and glanced into the lounge. A fire was crackling and John could smell something…burning? Ah hell, what had Sherlock done? John walked into the kitchen. A slight pain rose through John's abdomen, but luckily he was able to stop himself from clutching his own ribs and the pain disappeared almost as soon as it had arrived.

He peered around the wall and saw Sherlock standing in front of the cooker. His hair was a mess and he had safety goggles strapped over his eyes. John couldn't tell what the hell Sherlock was doing, but he knew it could be a dangerous experiment. He didn't want flesh-eating acids spilled down his front, so he approached his dark-haired friend carefully.

He made his way around the kitchen table and clutched Sherlock's arm, "What are you doing, Sherlock?" Instead of looking at whatever was on the cooker, John's eyes gravitated towards Sherlock's. His silver-blue eyes were dark and heavy like he hadn't slept in days. After seeing his friend, John wondered how he looked.

Sherlock smiled nervously at John and the whole situation seemed to fall away as John turned his head toward the cooker…

"Did you…make breakfast?"

Author's Note: Thank so much for reading Chapter 3 of Are You Feeling Okay? Reviews would be greatly appreciated and if you would like to be notified when I post a new chapter please follow my story and me as an author! THANK YOU! :)