Please let me know what you think! Reviews keep me going :)

Trigger Warning: Self Harm

Sherlock ran out to the curb and hailed the first cab that he saw. He barked his address at the cabbie and then sat back in the seat, trying to calm down as he road back to Baker Street. His hands were still shaking and he felt his body warring between cold and hot temputure creating a sweaty, chilled effect. His stomach was on fire and he folded his arms in an attempt to calm it, though nothing helped. There was no fooling himself or John for that matter, that something was very wrong. But that didn't mean that he was willing to talk about it. He didn't know why the events of the past three years were now coming to him in such violent ways but talking about them was not going to make it better. He needed to ignore them, will his mind to bury them back where they had been since they had happened.

When the cab stopped at 221B Sherlock paid the cabbie hastily and ran into the flat. He went to his room, locking the door firmly behind him. He knew that John was not to be far behind him and the last thing that he wanted was to talk to him right now. If he talked about what he was seeing he couldn't forget it, ignore it, and that was all that was going to make it go away.

Sherlock's stomach rolled and burned and he went to ran to the wastebasket, willing himself to vomit; surely that would help him feel better. The only thing that came up was bile and all it did was make things worse; now his throat burned in addition to the burning in his stomach. He set the wastebasket aside and laid down on the floor beside it, pulling his legs up into a curled up position.

When he heard the sound of footsteps in the flat he knew that John was home. He resisted the urge to answer his calls; he had to stay firm and ignore these issues. He couldn't admit sickness and hurt; that would make it real. And he certainly couldn't let John see it. John saw him as strong; if he could see him curled up on the floor, desperate to stop hurting, he would no longer believe that.

John didn't rush back home; he knew that Sherlock wasn't going to talk to him, so he didn't need to hurry. He wished that Sherlock would talk to him; he could help him. He knew what it was like to experience the debilitating fear that he had seen in Sherlock's eyes and he wanted to help him. And he was becoming downright alarmed by his behavior as well; how he looked at John ad talked to him and then just dramatically switched his attitude seemed very off to him. He was afraid Sherlock might have a breakdown soon if someone didn't intervene. And who would intervene but him?

When he entered the flat he called out Sherlock's name, not expecting him to answer. After a few failed attempts, John gave up. He put the bag of take away on the kitchen table; he didn't have an appetite now. He went over to his computer and looked for something to distract himself from the worries in his head, keeping an ear out for any sound coming from Sherlock's room.

Sherlock pulled the small blade away from his skin and watched the slow trickle of blood gather on the cut before beginning to run down his arm. He allowed himself a few moments to watch it, breathing deeply and calming himself before he grabbed a towel and put it to the cut. He hated himself for it the second that he did it; John would not like it. But he couldn't take the pressure in his head. He absolutely had to find something to relive the crushing fear and anxiety. Sherlock pulled the towel back and looked at the small cut beside the few faint scars that dotted his arms; this one wouldn't leave a scar. He knew how to hide it better than he had when he had gotten those. He looked at the old wounds and thought about the events that had precipitated those for a few moments before he shook it out of his mind. He had enough to think about with his current problems. He was so tired but he didn't want to go to sleep; he was petrified of going to sleep. The nightmares, the fear, the terror…..

Sherlock cursed as he looked down at his arm and the cut that was now larger than he had meant to make it; he hadn't even remembered going back to it as his mind had drifted off towards the fear of sleep that he now hated to admit that he had. Sherlock cursed again as his bloody fingers grasped the towel and put pressure on the cut; now it was going to leave a scar.

Sherlock got off the floor where he was sitting and sat in his bed, learning against the headboard. The more he watched the calmer he became; by the time that the bleeding stopped he was feeling the calmest that he had in days. He still desperately didn't want to go to sleep but he felt calmer and that was a blessing.

Sherlock woke up within a second and could tell that something was different; someone was in the room and he could sense it. He opened his eyes which didn't produce much light for him. He laid against his bed, unmoving, eyes staring into the pitch blackness of the cheap motel room, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. After a minuet, his eyes adjusted and he had tuned his ears to the sound of the man that was standing by the window of the room, knife in hand, walking slowly toward the bed with murder on his mind. Sherlock knew that he was coming; he had been anticipating it for the past two weeks really. Looking over his shoulder, fearing when it would happen. And now the time had come; the man had obviously been hoping to catch him unaware but he underestimated Sherlock. Sherlock, who had been sleeping with one eye open for the past two years and who was wrapping his hand around a knife under his pillow in the darkness.

As the man crossed the room, Sherlock's heart was hammering against his chest but he forced himself to remain perfectly still, prepared to poise. As the man stood over Sherlock, raising the knife , Sherlock took his moment to act. In one strong movement Sherlock leaped from the bed, his hands meeting the neck of his attacker, pushing him down to the floor. The man fought wildly against Sherlock's grip; when he stabbed at Sherlock in the darkness, Sherlock felt the point contact the skin on his shoulder, digging painfully in for a fragment of a second before Sherlock pushed back, forcing the blade out of his flesh. Sherlock pushed back, but the man stabbed back with surprising force. Sherlock tried to roll out of the way in time but he was too late. The blade sliced painfully through his shoulder and Sherlock screamed…..

…..

John woke up to the same blood curdling scream that he heard a few nights ago and instantly was on his feet. His head rushed from the blood that was trying to go there quickly from his sudden jump up. John walked quickly through the cold flat, feeling the coolness of the flat sinking into his skin and going deep. He knew whatever he found in Sherlock's room and whatever was causing Sherlock to scream this way was not good; it was horrible and terrifying and John couldn't do anything to stop it.

John threw open Sherlock's bedroom door and rushed over to his bed. Almost as if sensing his presence, Sherlock stopped his blood curdling screaming when John entered the room. It was replaced by a whimpering, crying sound that scared John more than the screaming. He crossed the room so that he could see Sherlock's face. He was pale, sweat covering his face which was contorted in pain. The sounds that were coming out of his mouth didn't even sound natural; they sounded so small and scared, like a child. It was the opposite of the way that John thought of his flat mate. It was just as fragile and hurt as the look that he had seen earlier when Sherlock had been having his flashback. John was torn between waking Sherlock and letting him sleep; if he woke him, he would just shut down and hold the hurt in, but if he let him sleep, he would continue to be tormented by the images in his head.

Sherlock's whimpering was becoming quieter and quieter, and John had decided to leave Sherlock asleep when he noticed he noticed how tangled Sherlock was in his sheets, his very wet sheets. Oh God….

John thought about just leaving; Sherlock would be beyond mortified when he woke up and probably lash out at John because of his embarrassment. But he couldn't just leave him like that either. This wasn't normal, not even for the most extreme nightmares, and John was becoming extremely concerned that Sherlock was very, very sick.

Feeling his stomach twist with concern and bracing for Sherlock's lashing out at him, John shook the sleeping man gently. Sherlock jerked awake more animated than necessary with how gentle John had been and looked around in confusion. When he noticed John standing there, he squinted his eyes groggily. "John, what are you doing in here?" he asked.

It was strange for John to see Sherlock so sleepy and dazed. He rarely slept and when he did, he woke up quickly and alert. "You were having a nightmare" John said cautiously. "You were screaming"

Sherlock's eyes were still half glazed over. "Oh…"he said distantly, eyelids drooping. "Well, just let me sleep….I'm fine" he said.

Sherlock really was out of it; he didn't even notice. John shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I woke you because you….um, really need to change your clothes I think" he said delicately, feeling his own face burn with embarrassment.

Sherlock's eyes shifted around lazily before he looked down and the lights came on in his eyes. Sherlock's pale face turned scarlet and he wouldn't look at John.

"Its okay, you know…" John said uncomfortably, feeling the need to say something. "It happens, no big deal" Even though it kind of was.

Sherlock didn't say anything; he didn't look at John. He practically leapt from the bed with surprising energy now and was out the door before John could say anything. John wasn't surprised, not in the least. He sighed deeply and let Sherlock go, knowing he could do nothing for his friend right now.

Sherlock walked to the bathroom quickly, the uncomfortableness of his condition very apparent as he walked. The second that he shut the door he stripped all his clothes off and threw them off in disgust. He turned the water on in the shower and climbed in quickly, wanting to be rid of the dirty feeling he had.

Sherlock leaned against the back on the shower and sunk down, sitting in the tub as the water fell upon his head. He pulled his knees up and rested his head on them; his stomach burned so much he could hardly move and his heart still hammered inside his chest from the nightmare. These physical symptoms were bad enough but combined with this embarrassing new development, it was unacceptable. John had been nice about it, but Sherlock's cheeks still burned with embarrassment at what had happened. Nothing like this had happened since he was pre-teen but the embarrassment he felt in childhood now was coming back to him with force; nightmares and wet clothes was an almost every night occurrence then and he refused to think that this was again about to the be the case. This was totally unacceptable.

Sherlock could feel the cut on arm beginning to sting again and he looked at it to see that the water had caused it to begin to bleed again. He watched the water on his arm become pink as it ran down his pale skin and felt something inside him becoming undone. He could feel an unpleasant sting in his eyes as tears collected in them; the fear and terror that was beginning to characteristic his days and nights, the pain in his body but mostly the crushing loneliness and sadness that weighed on him was becoming too much.

Sherlock kept his head down in the shower and began to sob; it had been a long time since he had given himself over to such tears. Even when the events that he was reliving now had actually occurred he hadn't often cried or become overwhelmed by them. The only time that he had given over to such a display of emotion in recent memory was when John had been in the hospital dying.

Sherlock continued to cry even though it was beginning to make him feel physically worse, not better. He put his hand over his mouth as he cried, trying to muffle the sound but part of him wanting John to know how much he hurt.