Chapter Four: Flashbacks

"Let's go."

"Sherlock, we still have half an hour."

"Excitement. Energy. C'mon John! Keeping up appearances!"

John groaned. "Five more minutes."

"No. Get out of bed. Now."

John covered his head with a pillow. He didn't want to see some stupid movie with an erratic cocaine addict. He wanted sleep. And maybe a beer or two.

"There will be pizza," Sherlock prompted.

John sat up. He was missing the taste of pizza. "Alright," he caved. He followed Sherlock down a maze of hallways to find a room set up with plastic chairs and a projector.

Sherlock sat in the front and pulled John down next to him. John grumbled his protest but obliged. He sniffed the air, wanting pizza and sleep. And alcohol. His hands shook slightly from withdrawal. He looked over to see Sherlock sitting perfectly still.

"How do you manage the withdrawal symptoms?" he asked.

Sherlock cast him a sideways glance. "I just deal with them."

"But the cravings..."

"Everyone has cravings. Just ignore them. There aren't any drugs in here anyway."

"And the headaches and nausea and shaking?"

"Will pass eventually."

John willed his hands to calm, but to no avail. "It's difficult," he whispered, mostly to himself.

Sherlock turned to face him completely. "John Watson, you were in Afghanistan. You were a medical doctor who saw things no man should ever have to see and you survived. You were shot. You survived. You are here and you will survive. You underestimate your own strength."

John bit his lip. "Thanks, Sherlock."

"For what?"

"For the support."

"I was just stating facts. Now shut up, the movie's about to start. Remember to pretend to look interested."

Sherlock was right. It was another Harry Potter film. John sat through most of it, mildly bored. He had seen it before. Then suddenly a wand flashed with bright color and his mind was transported back in time.

There was a flash of light. A grenade went off. John collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud. He scrambled around, searching for his gun. The sound of bullets and shouts was deafening. He turned to his side and saw a charred body beside him. John gasped as he struggled onto unsteady legs, desperate to run away.

"John!" a voice called out to him. He had to reach the voice. "John!" He trudged on wobbly legs towards the sound of the voice. He had to get there. It was his job. He was needed. The voice grew louder.

"John!" Sherlock's face loomed in front of him as he snapped out of his flashback.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he stuttered, snapping his head about. He was no longer in the desert, but a room of patients casting curious glances at him as doctors surrounded his side.

"John, calm down. You have to calm down."

John's hands were shaking and his throat ached. He had probably been screaming. That was how his sister Harry found him, screaming in a flashback with empty bottles around him. That was how he ended up here, in rehab.

"I... the war," he began.

"I know, John. I know. Look at me though, okay? Just look at me."

He looked up into the urgent grey eyes.

"Okay, now concentrate on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out."

John focused on the rise and fall of his chest, timing it with Sherlock's. An arm tugged at him. It was his psychiatrist.

"C'mon John," she said softly, pulling him away with her and out of the room. John followed, his head pounding too hard to concentrate. He glanced backwards over his shoulder and saw Sherlock standing, watching, as he passed through the doorway.