The room seemed to swirl, the odor overwhelming.

"Please...," John moaned, "I'm going to be sick..."

He heard a muttered curse, and a basin was thrust into his hands. He bent over it, wracked with a violent episode as comforting hands supported him,

Weak, his heart still pounding so fast, John slid to the floor. The odor was still there, still there, and his stomach was rolling again.

Pushing himself up, John tore at the buttons of his shirt. "Need this off...it smells too much..."

The hands were there again, pulling his clothes away, until he was bare chested. It felt better, his chest less constricted too...

The hands were back, stroking over his hair, but the odor was there too. John shifted away, but his body was already reacting, retching dryly.

John faded out, and had the sensation of being moved. It took too much to stay alert.


"Can you try sitting up for me, John?" A familiar voice said, cajolingly.

Still groggy, John opened his eyes slowly. Mike, a friendly, encouraging smile on his face, but worry in his eyes.

"Um...yeah..." John managed, and pushed himself to sit up. He was on a plush sofa, mounds of pillows and blankets surrounding him.

His friend examined him, seeing the marks his previous life had left on him, but not commenting. His hands brushed over the shoulder scar, but it didn't ache anymore.

Finishing, Mike pulled up a chair to face John. "What happened, John?"

Running a hand through his hair, John shook his head. "Something, something...I don't know. I was fine, and then my leg stopped working. It just got worse from there. I couldn't breathe, got sick, passed out, I guess."

"Medically, you are fine. A little dehydrated. You need some good food and rest." Mike clapped a hand gently on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Has this happened before? Things like this?"

Feeling ashamed, John dipped his head and nodded. "When I was recovering from the shoulder. I started having terrible nightmares, heart pounding until I felt dizzy. Then my leg acted up. No medical reason for it." John frowned. "I thought I had beat this."

His friend rested a comforting hand on the back of John's neck. "You aren't the first soldier who has come back home with these symptoms. There is no doubt you saw horrific things, were in terrible conditions. Sometimes, it's your mind shutting down your body, forcing you to take a break. It is in danger of being overwhelmed."

John scoffed, rubbing a weary hand over his face. "So, limping around to somehow save my sanity?" It seemed ridiculous, but it made some sense. After so many years on the battlefield, John had thought he had seen it all. Been hardened to it all. But maybe he had finally just reached the limit of what he could handle.

"Why would it all come back now?" John felt weak, broken. Useless.

Mike gave him an understanding look. "The mind is a powerful thing. It is trying to protect you from danger. Maybe something yesterday seemed similar to something in the past."

Closing his eyes, John tried to remember everything from the previous afternoon. It had all happened so fast, was such a jumble in his head. Joking around with Sherlock, working on his project...that was all normal. The fire and dealing with it all without even thinking. Just taking care of it, taking care of Sherlock. But then the rush of his body's delayed reaction. Heart pounding, feeling faint, the strong smell of the burnt silk everywhere, making him feel sick, his leg giving out...crashing.

"I think it was the fire, and the smell of the burnt silk. It doesn't smell like wood burning...more like hair burning." John knew now what had triggered it all, and took some deep breaths to calm down.

Mike looked brighter at that comment. "Oh, that makes sense. Sherlock said you kept complaining about the smell, and vomiting. You only settled down after Mrs. Hudson got you into a bath, and into clean clothes."

Now that Mike mentioned it, John had some fleeting memories of that. "I'd like to go back to work, keep busy."

Mike shook his head. "Not today. I'll be covering your client examinations tonight and the afternoon appointments are all rescheduled. Today, you are going to rest in front of a big fire and eat some good food. Get your strength back."

John knew it was pointless arguing, and did feel weak. Tomorrow was soon enough to work again. "Can you have someone fetch my cane from my bedroom? It's in the wardrobe, tucked in the back." He hadn't used it for months, but he didn't trust his leg right now.

Mike nodded, his gaze fond. "Great, now I'm going to go flirt with every woman in the house, and see if I can find your Molly somewhere."

Groaning, John waved his teasing friend away, and sunk back into his blankets.


A mouth-watering smell roused John from his deep nap, and he stretched as he pushed the blankets away.

"Oh good, you are awake." Sherlock peered down at John, his face showing relief, but looking a little tired. "Mrs. Hudson just brought in a tray of your favorite foods to tempt you. Scotch broth, fresh bread, cheese, some dessert full of apples."

John gave a pleased smile at the huge amount of food. "Mmmm... There is so much, though. Please eat with me."

Sherlock nodded, pulling a chair close. He was dressed in a turquoise robe over his clothes, and it made his eyes look more aqua.

It felt odd to have Sherlock serving him, passing him a plate of food and tea. They ate in companionable silence. John was relieved that he felt hungry, no signs of the earlier nausea.

Sherlock cleared away the dishes, setting them back on a cart near the main door. He returned, flopping down onto a large armchair.

Feeling pleasantly full, another need became pressing. "Um...Sherlock," John still felt a bit uncomfortable addressing him that way, "did anyone bring my cane? Mike was going to ask someone."

Shaking his head, Sherlock's keen gaze soon deduced John's need. "Come, I will help you."

It was embarrassing, having Sherlock hoist him onto his good leg, arms around his waist. His bad leg wouldn't bear any weight, so John had to resort to a bit of a hopping motion.

"John, I could carry you." Sherlock said softly as he took in John's struggle.

Biting his lip, John shook his head. "I can manage. Plus I probably outweigh you."

Sherlock scoffed quietly. "I carried you from the lab to the sofa last night."

Flushing at that, John was glad they had reached the washroom door. "I can handle it in here."

After taking care of his need, John washed his hands and splashed his face. The mirror showed he looked quite tired, his eyes duller than normal. He was wearing men's pajamas with the pant hem rolled up a few times. Were they Sherlock's?

They shuffled back to the sofa, and John sunk gratefully back into his cozy nest. The elegant sofa had beautifully engraved walnut legs and trim, and the upholstery was a light blue silk. It was larger than normal, both in length and width, making it very comfortable as a makeshift bed. The fireplace nearby helped keep it warm.

He felt tired, but doubted he could nap again so soon. Maybe he could ask Sherlock for a book to read, something light.

Sherlock had been hovering nearby, watching as John settled back on the sofa and arranged the blankets around himself.

Disappearing for a few minutes, he returned carrying a violin. "How about I play for you? Just lie back and maybe you will drift off again."

John smiled, and reclined against the sloped arm of the sofa. Good food, warm fire, calming music...he was being treated like a king and was determined to relax and enjoy it.

Standing tall, Sherlock lifted the violin into place, and drew his bow across the strings. It was not peaceful or serene. Minor chords poked out at strange angles, feeling almost wrong, out of place. Strident, almost too much. But then the music softened to sweep you along with only occasional minor chords to keep you from getting too comfortable.

It was sweet yet sorrowful, the minor chords when he played two strings at once softened by his vibrato. The Bach partita was full and rich, needing no other instruments for accompaniment.

The piece was mercurial. Ranging from sweet and soft, shifting to fast and complex, almost overwhelming. Yearning and sorrowful, then playful. Difficult and showy, then slow, gentle runs of notes. Unrelenting. Intense.

It was over fifteen minutes long, and Sherlock played with unwavering focus. Never hesitating. Unabashed in the expressiveness of the music. He played it true, played it right. A complete range of emotions flowed from that violin, brought out by his skillful hands.

John was transfixed, the music washing over him. It was beautiful and complex, fast. He wanted to slow it down to savor the flutter of notes.

Sherlock was lost in the music, swaying from foot to foot, sometimes dipping to the left as he arched over his instrument to play the lower strings. Then straightening, almost leaning back and to the right with a slow, higher section. He was in the music, the music was him. No separation.

Where had such skill come from? Surely this was the result of years of intense study. Had Sherlock studied as a boy, in India?

The music transitioned to a slower sonata, and John drifted off not much later.


Around tea time, he had another visitor, Molly.

"I know it's hard for you to get to the library now, so I thought I'd bring it to you." She said shyly.

John waved her to a nearby chair, giving her a grateful smile. "You know me well."

His smile grew even broader when she passed him his cane. "Ta. Please, help yourself to tea and cake."

She did so, sitting near the fire and looking around. "I've never been in this wing before. Sherlock only allows certain staff in here."

John nodded. He had used his time on the sofa to look around, getting a feel for how Sherlock lived. It was elegant, everything made with fine materials and skilled craftsmanship, but comfortable. Like the sofa, surely designed so Sherlock could lie on it lengthwise, accommodating his six-foot height. The arms were padded, sloping outwards in a perfect reclining angle. Bookshelves were stacked full. It all looked lived in, with a blanket casually draped over a wingback chair near the fire and a book on the table nearby, ready for Sherlock to resume his reading at any minute.

Also interesting was the wide variety of art. Framed antique maps of far off places hung on the walls, with paintings of exotic vistas. Wood and bronze figures were tucked into shelves or on side tables, and John was fairly certain they were Hindu deities. Some supported multiple arms or an elephant head.

It was also very colorful, the walls a peach-orange shade that complimented the dark-stained woodwork. Silk area rugs had elaborate colorful designs, and John recognized them as Persian, and of the highest quality. Overall, it felt like a colonial home in a tropical country. Exotic, with touches of British culture mixed in.

"What do you think of it?" John smiled at his friend, eager to see what she would say. She was well read, but had never travelled outside of London.

She looked around, her eyes falling on the strange and wonderful jumble. "It is very Sherlock. I like it."

John nodded in agreement of her assessment. Like with everything, Sherlock did as he pleased. Never one to conform to societal dictates.

Molly opened up her book. "I brought some Edgar Allan Poe. Some good creepy stories to keep you amused."

Chuckling, John reclined back with his tea as she read 'The Masque of the Red Death'. She was quite expressive, and he enjoyed getting into the tale.

"John, we will be having a few guests at supper..." Sherlock strode into the room, stopping quickly when he saw that he had interrupted them. "Oh, you have company."

"Ah...It's quite alright, Mr. Holmes." Molly blinked fast, her cheeks flushing slightly as she gazed up at Sherlock.

Smirking to himself, John looked between the maid and Sherlock. He must have been working in the lab again, as his hair was sticking up like he had been running his hands through it. There was a smudge of something dark on his chin. He had no robe on now, just wearing his shirt with the top buttons undone and his fitted trousers. Perhaps he had learned from the fire yesterday, and had taken off the robe while working in the lab.

Molly seemed to have no objections to his mad scientist appearance, her eyes admiring as they drank him in.

Sherlock looked a little uncomfortable. "Oh, Miss Hooper. You can join us for dinner too, if you like."

"Oh no. I'll be going as soon as we finish this story. But thanks for the offer." She dipped her face down shyly, reminding John how she had been when he had first met her.

He tried to think of something he could ask her, to show her knowledge, but nothing was popping into his mind. Sherlock had swirled away, leaving them with a nod of his head.

"Mr. Holmes seems to be quite friendly with you." Molly said, her gaze still on the hall where Sherlock had disappeared.

John shrugged. "Yes, I guess I consider us friends now. He's a good bloke."

Her smile was sweet, and John chuckled to himself. The virgin maid and the bisexual consort. But the heart wants what it wants. Who was he to interfere with her crush?


"No!" John laughed, as he scrambled to cover his wine glass with his hand. "I can hardly even walk with a cane right now. I don't need to be more unstable, thanks."

'Just Call Me' Greg tossed a smirk at him, and continued topping up the other glasses. John shook his head as he looked around the table at the various states of inebriation the other diners showed. Mrs. Hudson was giggling like a ten-year-old with Sally over some joke, and Sherlock tried to eat a forkful of rice, and ended up spilling it down the open V of his shirt. Greg seemed to be handling his wine the best.

Turning his wine glass upside-down, John finished the last few bites of his meal. "Are your dinner meetings always like this?"

Greg shook his head. "No, no…usually we talk about the house business during the salad and soup courses. Get it over with before we open the second bottle of wine."

"Well, I'm sorry my presence here threw off your routine." John had offered to go and eat in the dining hall with the rest of the staff, but the senior staff had insisted he stay. It had been a good meal, and he had enjoyed seeing the easy camaraderie between them. It was obvious they had worked together a long time, growing the business to where it was now.

Sherlock held up a finger, tilting his head up. "Well, this is a meeting for the senior staff only. Top secret business, you know." He swiveled his head to look at Greg, Sally and Mrs. Hudson in turn. "How about we hold a vote? All in favor of having John a part of the senior staff say 'Aye'."

All four of them grabbed their wine glasses, and held them in the air, with a firm 'Aye!' Then they drained their glasses.

John couldn't help but laugh. "You are all managers though. What am I manager of?"

"Germs?" Sherlock suggested.

Sally leaned against him, chuckling. "You have a staff of one. You."

Mrs. Hudson leaned against his other side. "And you have years of experience managing that staff."

"Mrs. Hudson!" John laughed as he gave her a shocked look. She was surprisingly saucy when she had a few drinks.

"I just meant that you've been on your own a lot." She shook her head, straightening up.

"Perfecting his staff management techniques." Greg joined in.

"Sometimes several times a day…." Sally quipped, looking quite pleased with herself.

Sherlock was joining in on the laughter of his friends. "Well, the poor boy was far, far away from home. No English roses to shower his attentions on. What choice did he have but a little staff management?"

"I've heard in situations where large groups of men are stuck together for long periods of times, sometimes they make arrangements to share staff management duties." Greg added, sliding a glance John's way.

Shaking his head slowly, Sherlock tried to look serious. "Alas, that is not John's way. Although he is not against others partaking in such activities."

"Enough! Enough!" John held up his hands in surrender. "Does being part of the senior staff mean that I have to be teased relentlessly every meeting? If so, I don't think I'm interested."

Mrs. Hudson reached over and patted his forearm. "Oh no, dear, it's not like that at all."

Sally shook her head. "No, it kind of rotates. Next meeting, it's Greg's turn."

This started a ten-minute debate over whose turn it was next. John simply sat back and enjoyed his chocolate cake.

"There is some urgent senior staff business we need to discuss before next week." Sally finally broke through the playful bickering. "Sidra will probably be leaving us soon. Should we fill her position with a woman or a man? There are good candidates either way."

"Why is she leaving?" This was news to John. She was one of the most exotic-looking consorts, with huge dark eyes, long black hair and darker skin.

Sherlock gave John a puzzled look. "You didn't notice how she acts at the balls?"

John thought back to the last one, a few weeks ago. "She danced with quite a few men, never seeming to favor one more than any of the others." She had looked lovely, in a purple dress that made the most of her hourglass figure, and hadn't lacked for male admirers.

"Exactly!" Sherlock nodded in approval, taking another sip of wine.

Sighing, John looked at the other three for an explanation. Was it so obvious to them as well?

Sally took pity on him. "Sidra has been chased by many men over the years, but lately she's showing signs she wouldn't mind getting caught. By Sir Edmund Fitzgerald."

Edmund was a fairly frequent visitor to the house, at least twice a month. John found him to be personable and genuine, during his quick medical checks. Picturing the tall, sporty man with the exotic beauty just seemed to fit. But she hadn't even danced with him once at the last ball. He had left fairly early.

"He doesn't get it." Mrs. Hudson shared a laughing glance with Sally, before turning to John. "A man like Sir Edmund could have his choice of women to marry. He is wealthy and handsome. He has been perfectly happy to live the bachelor lifestyle, but he's getting older. Finally starting to realize it's time to settle down."

John nodded, following along. "And…."

Sally rolled her eyes. "A man like that won't consider marrying a consort as an option. He would face the disapproval of most of polite society, maybe lose connections by being with her."

"Yes… and…" John prompted.

"He has to want her badly enough to consider dealing with all that. So, she's showing him how much other men want her, limiting his contact with her…" Mrs. Hudson explained.

"Because the harder it is to get something, the more you want it." Greg finished, lifting his glass. The other senior staff clicked their glasses against his, and they downed their drinks.

Chuckling, Sally stood up, only wobbling a little. "Well, it's been fun. I'll send you all a list of the candidates. Time for work."

Greg and Mrs. Hudson joined her, saying their goodbyes as they headed out the door.

"What about you?" John looked at Sherlock, his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand.

Sherlock scoffed, standing up and almost tripping. "I have ages before I have to go to work. Come on, entertain me."

Ignoring the oversized drunk brat, John got up, using his cane to get to the washroom. His symptoms had faded over the course of the day, and his leg was bearing his weight better. He was relieved at being able to move around on his own, even if it wasn't without the cane yet. By the time he got back to the living room, he sunk down on the sofa, feeling tired.

Stretching out lengthwise, John reclined back, a thick blanket covering him. This was really a great sofa. Would Sherlock notice if John had it moved to his office?

"You look all comfy on there." Sherlock pouted. "Shift over."

"Hey! Watch it!" John sat up, pushing at the large man about to sit on him. Sherlock swung his long legs up on the sofa to lie down, almost kicking John in the face in the process. They ended up lying side by side on the wide sofa, their heads at opposite ends.

Sherlock pulled on the blanket until it was over him as well. "There, that's better." He looked quite pleased with himself.

A week ago, John would have never thought he would be sharing a blanket and a sofa with his boss. But this was hardly the weirdest thing that had happened in the last 24 hours, so John let it go.

"Sherlock… that thing that Greg said at the end. Do you think it's true?"

"Hmmmm….?" Sherlock moved a pillow behind his head to prop it up to a better angle to look at John. "Oh, the hard-to-get thing? Absolutely."

John chuckled at the certainty in his tone. "How can you be so sure?"

Sherlock grinned. "Years of the concept in action. It's kind of the motto of the house. We have the best consorts, but it's incredibly expensive to see them. Even the rich have to wait weeks for an appointment."

"Simple supply and demand?"

"Yup." Sherlock closed his eyes, looking very relaxed. John thought he might actually even fall asleep, he looked so peaceful.

But then those light green eyes opened, pinning John with surprising sobriety. "John, what happened yesterday? You were fine, dealing with my fire and everything, and then you…weren't."

John shifted under that steady gaze, feeling uncomfortable. "I…um…I talked with Mike about it this morning. He seems to think a stressful situation like that was an echo of something I experienced on the battlefield. And that my body involuntarily reacted to the perceived danger."

"Do you agree with his theory?"

John looked away from those perceptive eyes, thinking. Could he talk about this? Should he? Maybe now was the best time, when Sherlock was a little drunk. Maybe he would just listen like a good friend for John, and not really remember it much tomorrow.

Looking up at the ceiling, John bit his lip, thinking back on that time. It seemed like a lifetime ago, in some ways, but thinking about it brought it right back. Vivid.

"There was a young gunner, barely nineteen or so, both hands blown off by a jammed shell. Blood everywhere, his cries of pain, artillery fire still going off all around us. I was doing my best to patch him up enough to move him, keep him from bleeding out. I have a pretty strong stomach, having seen everything over the years, but that… that…" John closed his eyes, turning his face towards the back of the sofa.

There was a shifting beside him, Sherlock rested a hand on his lower leg. He didn't press, just being there, a quiet presence. Giving John the time he needed.

John took several slow, deep breaths. "The explosion caused a lot of damage, but the thing that really got to me…" He paused, swallowing hard, knowing he had to push on, get through this. "…he got burned a little. And as I worked on him, trying to stay focused, but that smell of his burnt hair…" Just thinking about it now, John could feel his stomach react, and he tried to push the feeling down.

"My robe…" Sherlock sat up, his eyes locked on John's, understanding.

Somehow, it helped a little. Knowing he got it. John nodded, and closed his eyes. Concentrated on the long, slow breaths that sometimes helped.

There was more shifting and pulling on the blanket. Sherlock had shifted on the sofa so he was lying on his side, his head near John's. And having him there, helped even more.

John wasn't sure how long they laid like that, close, but not touching. He could feel Sherlock's body heat, feel his presence, smell his sandalwood soap. Also, he felt a sense of peace spreading through his body.

Almost asleep, a bell jangling roused him. "What's that sound?" John said softly.

Sherlock sat up. "Sally's signal that my client is here. Time to get to work." He got up, and leaned down to give John's shoulder a squeeze before he left.


-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: There… a nice looooong chapter for you. Thanks for reading. :D

-Fun Facts:

-PTSD: Symptoms can include paralysis, blindness, deafness, mutism, limping, nightmares, insomnia, heart palpitations, nausea, dizziness, depression and disorientation.

-Sherlock's violin piece. I'm in love with this currently. Google Johann Sebastian Bach's 'Chaconne, Partita No. 2' played by Hilary Hahn.

-Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849) An American who is best known for his poems, and macabre short stories like 'The Masque of the Red Death" (1842).

-Injured Gunner: In my research, I found pictures of American Civil War (1861-1865) injured veterans, and based John's gunner on one of them. Private Samuel Decker was loading an artillery gun when the shell exploded. He lost half his right forearm, and somewhat less of the left. His face and chest were badly burned. Five hours later, both forearms were amputated. Three months later, the stumps were healed, and he started experiments for making himself artificial limbs. It took years, but eventually with his contraptions he could write legibly, pick up small objects (like a pin!), carry packages of ordinary weight, feed and clothe himself and in his work as a doorkeeper at the House of Representatives, handled a few instances of disorder. Google him for some great pictures of his incredible, artificial arms.