Chapter 7

John gasped as Sherlock let out a horrifying shriek and the pale arm was wrenched from his grip. The detective scrambled away, pushing himself over the arm of the sofa in his panic. He landed on the wooden floor with a thud but was on his feet again quicker than humanly possible, stumbling backwards until his back hit the bookshelf behind him with a soft thump. He stood stock still, both hands pressed flat against the bookshelf, and his shoulders rising and falling in sharp jolts as he breathed. His open eyes were fearful but totally unfocused, staring off at something deep inside his mind.

John had seen all this before and, as an Army Medic, he knew the symptoms of a flashback. They were normally caused by past traumatic experiences, which made them a common problem for soldiers, and were often triggered by situations or movements at the time. This worried John, Sherlock had obviously reacted to the pulling on his arm and he didn't want to think of what that could mean for his best friend's past.

His attention was drawn back to the room by a sudden gasp from Sherlock as he drew his arms up to his chest his left hand clasped around his right wrist. He screwed his eyes tightly, his face crumpling as if in pain as a single tear made a salty track down his cheek. A soft whimper left his lips and he shuffled back again as if in fright, the bookshelf clunking against the wall with the pressure. His mouth opened silently, revealing his perfectly white teeth and he paused for a second before uttering a single word.

Mycroft threw himself from the sofa as the youngest Holmes called his childhood name, a word that he hadn't heard said aloud since before he had left for university. He tried to run forwards, desperate to get to the aid of his now trembling brother but a hand around his arm held him back. The grip wasn't strong and he could easily break it but as he turned to the army doctor beside him the message was clear; he was not to touch his brother. There had to be a reason, that much was obvious, but it did not stop the overwhelming feeling of helplessness when the younger man whimpered again, a barely audible plea escaping his lips.

John had treated flashback victims hundreds, even thousands of times before but this, this was different, this was Sherlock. He held onto the elder Holmes, at first to stop him running to his brother as that could just cause Sherlock to panic again, but then he held on just for moral support as his best friend begged to the imaginary tormenters inside his head. He felt Mycroft stiffen as Sherlock begged again, his voice filled with even more desperation than before, and was suddenly pleased of the grip that comforted them both.

Sherlock's breathing was speeding again, his shoulders moving in uneven juddery movements as more tears had followed the glistening trail down his cheeks. Both John and Mycroft held their breath, letting the room fill solely with Sherlock's own panicked gasps. John knew the man was hyperventilating, but there was nothing that he could do to stop it and to calm his friend without possibly harming him further. It was only a matter of time before the lack of oxygen in Sherlock's brain caught up with him and he staggered forward, sagging as his knees gave way beneath him.

The reactions in the room were instantaneous and the two men raced forwards, determined to catch the unconscious detective before he hit the ground. The distance was short but gravity was quicker and John only just managed to catch Sherlock's head before it collided with the wooden floor of their flat. He knelt beside the man and carefully rolled him onto his back, glad that his doctoring nature had not completely failed him.

As if on instinct he checked Sherlock's pulse before resting a hand over the younger man's heart, relaxing visibly when the strong, quick rhythm pounded beneath his palm. He nodded, more to himself than to anyone else and a fragment of the tension left his heart. Mycroft must have seen the nod as he dropped to his knees beside his brother's head and carefully moved aside the single dark curl that rested on his forehead. John let his eyes rest on Sherlock's pale face, thinking about what he had just witnessed as the yellowing light of the room glistened in the tears that clung to his best friend's lashes like a lifeline.

He glanced up at Mycroft, only noticing then that the elder Holmes had shut his eyes, a hand still running through his little brother's locks. Feeling somewhat embarrassed and self-conscious for the brief show of emotion from the normally cold British Government John tore his gaze away, letting it drop to the wooden floor and Sherlock's right hand that rested there. The hand was still pale, but was considerably pinker than the last time he had looked at it. With careful hands John picked it up, noticing as he did how much straighter the wrist was and the warmth he felt on his fingers as he searched for the pulse. He found it easily, resting his fingers over the artery and holding on to the thready beat much longer than necessary before gently resting it on his friend's chest.

John heard Mycroft's breathing jolt and he glimpsed back up at the elder Holmes brother. He still had his eyes shut but the hand had stopped moving in Sherlock's hair and his breathing was deeper than before, more measured, as if he were fighting to keep control of his emotions. He was shaking slightly too, just miniscule tremors that rippled through his body, hardly noticeable yet still clearly showing the fear and worry normally hidden behind the mask. John's eyes dropped back to his own hands, the left in particular, the hand which had shaken so fiercely when he had first returned from the war. The hand was steady now, they both were.

"Mycroft?" John asked softly, looking back up at the elder Holmes brother. His eyes snapped open almost instantly, only holding a look of surprise for a second before they grew cold and empty once more. John sighed mentally; he knew it could only last for so long anyway. Mycroft blinked once, twice, before pulling his hand free from where it had still been entwined in Sherlock's hair and pushing himself to his feet. He turned sharply on the spot and walked to the other side of the room where he rested his hands on the window ledge and gazed out, the streetlamps glowing orange in his eyes.

John felt his eyebrows furrow as he watched in confusion. He knew neither Holmes son believed in emotions and sentiment, although more so with Sherlock, but why try so hard to cover up the care the Mycroft was so obviously feeling, and for his baby brother of all people. The army medic sighed; he simply didn't understand it. His family had never been big on emotions but both he and Harry had cried at their mother's funeral and later at their father's when they were left with only each other as family. Maybe that was why Harry wanted them to stay in touch so much?

"John," began Mycroft suddenly and John ducked his head, realising he had been staring at the elder Holmes for quite some time. He looked down at his friend, embarrassed to have been caught in the act. The room filled with an uncomfortable silence, both men waiting for the other before Mycroft finally sighed and spoke again, his voice once more icy and professional.

"John, don't know what you think about my relationship with my brother but-" he cut off mid-sentence as Sherlock's breathing hitched and his eyebrows furrowing as if in confusion. He let out a soft groan and brought his left hand to his head, rubbing his forehead and eyes as if to rid himself of a headache.

Mycroft stood by the window watching his brother carefully, a cold, hard look in his eyes. He didn't come over to Sherlock as John had expected him to, choosing instead to watch from a distance. John sighed again mentally; this Holmes relationship was becoming more confusing by the minute.

He was distracted back to his friend when Sherlock groaned again and his eyelids slipped open. They closed again almost instantly and the detective dropped his left arm over his eyes, protecting them from the yellowy brightness in the room. He waited a couple of seconds before opening them again, gazing up at John through squinted eyes as he tried to deduce why he was on the floor.

"Ugh, this is becoming repetitive," moaned Sherlock mere seconds later as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position with a wince. John shuffled back slightly as he chuckled in relief, resting back on his haunches as he did so. He hadn't known what to expect, not after seeing different soldiers come back from flashbacks in various stages of mental health in the past. This was Sherlock though, brilliant, clever, amazing Sherlock. Of course he would be okay.

John glanced over at Mycroft, who raised his eyebrows in apparent amusement at his brother's comment, his arms now clasped behind his back and a faint smirk growing on his lips. It looked forced though, as if to push away the obvious worry he had held for his brother minutes before. John knew that the hands clamped behind Mycroft's back was probably just to hide they were still shaking, a habit he was guilty of himself when he had returned from the war.

Sherlock must have noticed his lingering gaze as he twisted his head around so as to look behind himself. The glance was short though, his head turning back to John with an eye-roll and a huff, obviously still not pleased of his brother's presence in the flat. Mycroft's eyebrows rose higher at his brother's obnoxious behaviour but he crossed the room unfazed, sitting back on the sofa his eyes still focused on the youngest Holmes as he sat on the floor.

Sherlock obviously disliked being below his brother as he quite suddenly pushed himself to his feet, swaying ever so slightly as he did so. John rushed after him, determined not to let his best friend fall again but his help was neither needed nor wanted by the detective who strode across the room in obvious annoyance and threw himself into his arm chair, albeit a little less vigorously than normal. With a slight wince he drew up his legs, folding in on himself until he sat curled in his chair, his left hand wrapped around his legs and his right cradled to his stomach. He leant his head back and shut his eyes, sighing deeply as he did so.

John stood motionless unsure of what to do. He couldn't sit down as his chair was still occupied by Mycroft's laptop and sitting next to the elder Holmes brother was just plain awkward. His eyes skimmed the room, carefully avoiding staring at Sherlock, a trait hated by the detective. Mycroft apparently didn't care about making his stares obvious and John was completely aware of Mycroft's eyes that bored into his back. He didn't look round, determined not to give in to the elder Holmes' intimidation.

Eventually he turned back to his friend, unable to avoid looking at him any longer without making it obvious. Sherlock was still sitting in almost the exact same pose he was in when John had looked away, with his legs curled up in front of him, his back straight and his right arm pinned between his stomach and knees. However, Sherlock was now holding his head up straight and his face was hardened with the pain that had now so obviously returned.

"Do you need anything?" he asked abruptly, his voice startlingly loud in the silent room. "For the pain, I mean," he added somewhat hesitantly, already knowing what the response would be. Sherlock looked round, a flash of confusion in his eyes before it was quickly replaced with the defiance Sherlock so often kept there whenever he was offered help.

"What? No, nothing. I'm fine," Sherlock mumbled hurriedly, before turning back to stare straight ahead. He shut his eyes, as if trying to block out the room and everybody in there. John knew this friend was trying to behave as his normal emotionless and stubborn self but was finding it near impossible to do; he had been in the exact same situation when he had returned from the war, the diagnosis of his PTSD fresh in the minds of family and friends alike.

Suddenly John felt the eyes behind him vanish and he turned to see that Mycroft had brought his phone from his pocket and was typing away furiously, the tiny buttons clicking under his fingers. He was pressing the 'backspace' key more often that would be considered normal. This left two options; either Mycroft was simply awful at typing –unlikely- or he was under a lot of pressure. John glanced up at the elder Holmes' forehead, noticing the wrinkles between his eyebrows. Defiantly stressed, but from whatever he was doing on his phone or from the problems in Baker street? He never could tell with Mycroft.

When he could finally bear the silence no longer he stumbled past the two men and into the kitchen, muttering something about tea as he went. It was a stupid excuse to leave the room and he knew it but the option of staying in there was gone. He flicked the button on the kettle and put a tea bag in each of the three mugs he pulled from the cupboard labelled 'for eating purposes only'. Sherlock had objected to this label, pointing out that nobody ate from a mug anyway.

He smiled sadly to himself as he leant against the worktop, watching at the blue bubbles danced inside the kettle. As much of a pain that Sherlock had always been around the flat or during life in general John hoped that wasn't all about to change. But if it was he knew he could accept that and he would help his friend get over whatever had happened to him during his childhood, no matter how long it took.

He glanced back into the living room, signing when he noticed Sherlock still had his eyes tight shut, his top teeth biting into his lower lip. Mycroft was just out of sight from where he stood but the tapping that filtered in from the silent room, only just audible over the kettle, was evidence enough of his presence.

John turned round, leaning back against the worktop with his head in his hands as the kettle boiled beside him, casing blue shadows around the small room. The shadows were dim and twisted by the lack of light just as they had been in Sherlock's room earlier that evening. He was a doctor, an army doctor, and he had seen difficult patients so many times before but none of that prepared him for what he had witnessed that night. He thought of Sherlock sitting in his curled-up ball of terror as he shook and muttered under his breath, his right arm broken and bent.

John was so glad when Mycroft had arrived and had saved his brother from his mind, knowing exactly what to do in a way John would never have guessed. He had explained everything too, shown him Sherlock's past and childhood, the grinning little boy with a missing front tooth he had once been. He had never seen love between the two brothers before, making it all the more difficult when he had held Mycroft back whilst his brother withered in the corner, tormented by the flashbacks of his past.

The kettle pinged, startling John from his thoughts as it turned itself off, the bubbles slowing in their darkened dance. He opened his eyes, trying to remember when he had shut them and turned back to his tea, pouring the water into the mugs. It was darker in the kitchen now that the kettle had lost its glow but John didn't care when he watched the browning water as it brewed.

Silently he retrieved the milk from the fridge, rationing out the dregs between the mugs. He added sugar, two spoons to Sherlock's and one to Mycroft's, stirring mindlessly for much longer than necessary until he could put off going back to the silent room no longer. He grabbed the mugs, two in his left hand and the others in his right, not caring when they clinked together, drips of the hot brown liquid running onto his hand.

He turned back towards the bright yellow glow of the living room, leaping back when he noticed Sherlock staring at him from the chair. The detective grinned slightly at John's reaction, but the doctor stood still, wondering how long his friend had been watching him as the sloshed tea dripped from his hands and onto the tiles below.

Eventually he sighed, half in annoyance for his friend and half in relief that the man was laughing again. He shuffled carefully forward, not wanting to spill ant more of the quickly diminishing tea and moved out into the living room. Mycroft had stopped texting, his hands still holding the phone but now gently resting in his lap. He looked confused, an expression that didn't suit him at all, as he studied his chuckling brother. John grinned as he carefully handed the elder Holmes a mug, ignoring the raised eyebrow he got in return.

He turned back to Sherlock who was still sitting in his chair although now his legs were crossed, his arms resting in his lap. His face was relaxed again, his gaze soft as he gently accepted the warm mug of tea from his friend. He took a sip, the mug held somewhat shakily in his left hand and the right resting on his crossed legs. John sighed slightly as left his mug on the floor then quickly darted back into the kitchen to rinse the drying tea from his hands.

He hurried back through, shaking his hands dry as he went. He scooped the tea up from the ground and took a large gulp, momentarily forgetting how hot it would be. He grimaced, glaring at his tea as he glanced around the room once again left without a seat. Eventually he simply moved to stand beside the fireplace as though examining the skull and the letters that were pinned there. He heard a slight hiss of pain behind him but didn't look around, knowing he needed to give Sherlock the space he wanted.

The room drifted into silence and John wandered over to the window gazing out at the first pink rays of sun as they claimed the sky. He glanced at his watch which confirmed it was nearly morning, a fact which didn't surprise him when he noticed how tired he was. He watched as the occasional cars drove below the window and a lone man with a dog meandered across the road.

"John, do you know where my phone is?" asked Sherlock suddenly, watching as his friend tore himself away from the window. He thought back, trying to remember when he had last seen the BlackBerry, scanning the room as if for inspiration as he did so.

"No," he replied eventually, crossing the room back to the fireplace where he sat down his now empty mug. "Last time I saw it was yesterday evening, when I was um, examining your arm" he spoke slowly, carefully, his reluctance to mention the incidence last night obvious in his tone as if he were worried what would happen if he spoke of it.

Sherlock looked down at his arm, the throbbing returning at full force now that his mind thought of it. He turned it over, watching as his limp fingers curled unresponsively, their feeling still cut off. He swallowed, the noise loud in his ears as he felt the prolonged gazes of both his brother and John as they watched him. He remembered falling now, when he had been on that case, and coming home to rest his arm in the bath of cold water in his desperation to keep it all a secret from John. He remembered being sat down on the sofa as John had examined the limb and then fragments of scenes later on but it was enough, he knew what had happened.

"Sherlock, you need to go to the hospital," said John eventually watching as Sherlock's head jolted up to look at him. He had been unwilling to break the brief moment of semi-normality in the flat but he was unable to ignore the fact that the longer the wrist was left untreated, the less likely a full recovery would be. Sherlock seemed to know this too as he only waited a couple of seconds before speaking.

"I know," he admitted quietly, looking up into the calm, worry-filled eyes of his friend.