Sherlock walked for a long time; he eventually made his way to the park. Since it was so cold there weren't many people out and Sherlock was glad about this. He needed to be alone to think and he didn't want to go back to the flat because he knew that John would be there and probably make it difficult to think. He'd hover and talk and it would be too much. As it was he still bothering him; he had tried to call him twice and left him a text.

Are you okay? Molly said you weren't feeling well-JW

Great, Sherlock thought. He hadn't been able to persuade Molly that he had been okay and even worse, she had gone and said something to John about it. John was no doubt going to nag him about it when he got home.

Sherlock sat down on a bench in a deserted part of the park and tried to get himself together before making his way home. He hadn't thought about that man and what had happened in that alley for three years; he actively tried to not think about the things that he had done while he'd been gone. They were not pleasant memories and they were best left alone. So why were they forcing their self upon him now? He had no idea. But it was affecting his mind and body and he had to do something about it.

When Sherlock was feeling steady on his feet and not so sick at his stomach, he got up and made his way back to 221B. John was sitting in his armchair reading a book when he entered; or rather he had been reading until he heard the door open, at which point he'd stopped reading and began to listen for him like a hawk. Sherlock groaned inwardly; that meant that he was waiting for him, that he was definitely going to say something.

Sherlock came into the living room, tossing his coat onto the couch before quickly making a beeline for his bedroom. He averted his eyes, looking anywhere but at John. Maybe if I don't look at him, he'll forget…..

"Hey, Sherlock" John called out. "Wait"

Sherlock groaned inside. No, of course he couldn't be that lucky. He turned slowly around face John, putting a blank look on his face. " What?" he asked casually.

"Are you alright?" John asked. "Molly said that you seemed like something was wrong at the hospital."

Sherlock produced another of his fake laughs. " Ah, you know how Molly; chronic worrier. I told her I was just going to get some air and she acted like I was going to pass out or something."

John looked at Sherlock, studying him, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth. He hated when John did that. With other people it was easier to fool them; with John it was a lot harder. " So nothing happened?" he asked skeptically.

"No, of course not" Sherlock said.

"Well, then why didn't you go back? You were right in the middle of something" John said "You never leave in the middle of your work."

Sherlock's stomach fell like a stone; he had forgotten. He had actually forgotten about the body and helping Molly with it. His vision was so disturbing that he had actually forgotten about what he was doing. It was….irresponsible. And that was something that he certainly was not.

"I'll get to it in my own time" Sherlock spat at John. "God, you're not my mother, just leave me alone" he stalked loudly out of the room and slammed his bedroom door behind him, locking it. He knew his response was not enough to throw John off the sent that something had happened but at least if he didn't have to be around him, he didn't have to talk to him.

Sherlock flopped heavily back on his bed and pulled a package of cigarettes out of his pocket. When he had smoked this morning he really hadn't been planning to make some habit out of it again. But on the way home the idea of a cigarette sounded so good. Something to calm his…nerves.

Sherlock breathed in the smoke with a sigh. He let it slowly out of his mouth and watched it fill the room. No doubt John would be yelling at him about this any minuet but he didn't care. He needed something to calm himself down. These visions and their effect on his work performance were very troubling.

…

John tried to not worry about Sherlock; after all, he wasn't going to talk to him, so it really was just a waste of time. But, of course that wasn't possible. Sherlock stayed locked in his room the rest of the day and didn't say a word to him. John offered him dinner which he ignored; John wasn't surprised but it made two solid days that he had eaten anything and that bothered John. Sherlock wouldn't even take tea when John offered it to him which was even more troubling. Not to mention the fact that he could smell the cloud of smoke that was filling Sherlock's room; he was smoking again.

John knew that something was wrong but it wouldn't do any good talking to Sherlock unless he wanted to talk. John went to bed that night resigned to leaving Sherlock alone. But as he lay in the dark in bed he found that sleep eluded him. He kept thinking about how he had had flashbacks and nightmares after he had returned from Afghanistan. It was not a pleasant experience and the only thing that made it any better was talking about it. When he bottled up his feelings, that's when the nightmares had gotten worse. He still had nightmares occasionally, but it wasn't often and they weren't as bad as they had been.

John tried to sleep for a long time, but after a while he gave up. He got out of bed and made his way to Sherlock's room, even though he knew that he would probably yell at him. John knocked on Sherlock's door and, as he expected, there was no response. Not really caring what he would say or do, John tried to open the door and was surprised when it opened easily. John popped his head in and was surprised to see Sherlock actually asleep. Passed out was more accurate; he was sitting up in bed entirely clothed, a smoking cigarette still sitting on the nightstand. It was obvious that he had not been intending to sleep but had just drifted off. John honestly didn't know how he could breathe with so much smoke in the room, and he opened a window in an effort to get rid of some of the smoke. Since it was cold he didn't leave it open long; he closed the window and then left Sherlock's room. It was odd for Sherlock to sleep two days in a row; no doubt he was drained mentally. John only hoped that Sherlock was spared from nightmares tonight and could get a good night's sleep.

…

Sherlock could hardly breathe and his hands shook as he tried to get the key card in the hotel door. It took several tries before his shaky hands could get it in and open the door. As he held his side, he could feel wetness soaking through his coat as he began to get dizzy. He closed the door behind him, glad that now he could collapse and not have to hide the blood that was pouring out of him.

He fell to the ground, allowing himself a second to give in to the room spinning. He wanted to give into the darkness that was coming at the fringes of his vision but he knew that could mean bleeding out and he couldn't take that chance. He used the bed to pull himself up off the floor and crawled to the bathroom. He took off his shirt to examine the damage. The sight of it was almost too much when combined with the blood loss; he didn't feel that much pain and he knew that could mean that shock was setting in.

Sherlock had never wished that he could go to a hospital but right now he did; the one time that he couldn't. He couldn't risk being seen or recognized especially this close to London. With hesitation and nausea beginning to roll in his stomach, he pulled out his pocket knife to pry out the three bullets that were lodged in him. Thankfully they were in non-critical spots.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he worked the bullets out. It took all the strength that he could muster to keep himself conscious but somehow he managed by pure will. The pain and shock of it was enough that after the first bullet came out he vomited, but he stayed awake and that was the important part. With shaking hands he managed to get the other two bullets out. The metal clanged into the sink that was stained with red; Sherlock fell onto the bathroom floor, holding a towel tightly to his side to stop the blood. He pressed down on the towel with all the strength that he could manage until the blood stopped flowing from him.

Sherlock sighed in relief when he saw the blood had stopped. Finally, he allowed himself to drop off into unconsciousness….

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