A/N: I'm terribly sorry for the wait again... My muse didn't feel very motivated for some reason... But, here is the next chapter.

Thank you to those who have reviewed with ideas, as some of your feedback greatly inspired this next chapter. I hope you enjoy where I am taking this story, and I hope you aren't too mad with the turn of events.

Please review! The comments really inspire me as a writer and help me to keep going! Thank you so much!

Warning: PTSD, possible triggers, some arguing... the usual stuff.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock... because if I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction, that's for sure.

Chapter 10

The building was a tall brick structure, towering over the surrounding flats and making John feel small. He didn't stop to study it, stepping over the yellow caution tape and hurrying to catch up to the detective.

Sherlock was already coming up to the porch, his coat tail swishing behind him. He came to an abrupt stop when saw the woman standing on the porch in front of him, her busy brown hair pulled back from her smirking face.

Sally Donovan. Just what they needed.

"I'm not in the mood for your idiocy, so do us all a favor and stay silent," Sherlock snapped, brushing past her angrily.

Sally didn't look shocked, rolling her eyes. "What's wrong with everyone's least favorite psychopath today?"

"Leave it alone," John responded. There was something in the man's voice that made Sally pause, swallowing back the retort that had already risen to her lips. John didn't sound annoyed or angry. He sounded afraid.

She could see lines of worry etched on John's forehead, making the blogger look old and tired.

Before she could say anything more, John pushed past her, into the office building.

A blast of warm air met him when he opened the door, making his chest constrict and his eyes water. Lestrade stood in the lobby with his phone out, fingers furiously darting across the screen. Sherlock had already found the body, which was sprawled out across the white carpet, arms spread out like an eagle.

"Lestrade," John said, making the DI jump. Sherlock didn't react to John's voice, eyes fixed on the man on the floor.

The man had black, messy hair, which fell over his pale forehead and brushed his glassy blue eyes. His face was clean shaven, his mouth open in a silent scream. Blood soaked into the carpet, flowing outwards from his chest like bloody wings.

The heat was making Sherlock dizzy, and he had to press his hand to the ground in order to keep his body upright. There was something important here that he couldn't put to words, his brain foggy. He could feel the distant memories pressing against his consciousness.

Blood dripping down his back, out of his mouth to land on the floor beneath him.

He pushed out one hand, as if to push the memories back into the darkest corner of his mind. He could not lose control. He had to show John that he wasn't weak.

He pushed out the voices murmuring behind him and focused on the task at hand.

"I'm glad you and Sherlock could make it," Lestrade was saying to John, clicking his mobile off and shoving it back into his jacket pocket. "This man isn't in any database we have access to, and we are all completely baffled."

"Lestrade, Sherlock can't be here," John said. "I... He isn't ready for this, but he wont listen to me."

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked, his voice soft and kind.

"I'm... not at liberty to say exactly what is going on. That is something Sherlock can tell you later. But.. he went through some stuff while he was away and..."

John had to stop speaking, an invisible hand wrapping around his throat.

"What can I do?" Lestrade asked, but at that moment, a sound tore through the air, ripping through the superficial peace, a sound that was very familiar to John.

Gunfire.

Another shot rang through the air, this time closer and louder, quickly followed by a scream.

Sherlock froze, his breath catching in his throat as the calm demeanor he had weaved around himself began to slip. His mind was in two places at once, one part of him engulfed in the past.

Gunshots rang around him in the darkness as he ran, his bare feet slamming into the dirt. He couldn't stop running... had to get away... get away... get away.

John rushed into action, throwing himself over to his friend and placing a hand on the detective's shoulder.

"Sherlock!" he said softly, another gunshot echoing in from the outside. John was aware of Lestrade standing behind him, gun drawn, shouting orders into his phone.

"Sherlock, you have to listen to me..." the blogger said. "It's going to be just fine. You are not back in Serbia. You are here, in London, with me."

Sherlock's eyes were glassy and he was muttering something over and over, his lips barely moving. He gave no response to John's voice.

"What is going on?" John asked softly.

"A few of my officers were fired on when they confronted a man exiting the building from the back," the DI said quickly. "He is missing and one of my men is dead."

Silence dragged out for a second, John gathering the edge of Sherlock's coat collar in his fingers, as if trying to hold the detective down to reality.

"You need to get him up and moving," Lestrade said.

"I'm bloody trying," John snapped back, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. "Come on, Sherlock... Please."

Sherlock didn't hear his friend, the gunshots still echoing in his skull, dark spots dancing through his vision.

He could see the stone walls of his cell around him, could feel the chains digging into his wrists. Someone was shouting at him, but he couldn't understand them through the cotton in his brain.

John saw the glassy look come over Sherlock's eyes, his heart falling. This was not good. Definitely not good.

Without waiting for Sherlock to snap out of it, he yanked his friend upright, pulling him to his feet. Sherlock jerked back and let out a little cry, pressing back against the wall and holding up his hands as if to defend himself.

"Sorry," John said. "This isn't going to be pleasant, Sherlock..."

But the blogger couldn't afford to be gentle to the broken man. He had to get Sherlock out of the building as fast as possible.

"Let's go," John said. Lestrade just gave a little nod, pushing the door open with his shoulder, gun held at the ready. he cautiously stepped out of the building, waiting to make sure it was clear before dashing to the police car that waited by the curb.

John pulled Sherlock behind him, muscles straining as Sherlock struggled, crying out loudly.

"Please... no! Please please please..." the detective gasped.

John did not stop moving, muttering apologies as he pushed Sherlock into the car.

A gunshot ripped through the air and John jumped, his heart flying into his mouth. He pulled the car door shut just in time, the bullet ripping through the door and burying itself into the leather seat next to his leg.

The car jerked into motion as Lestrade floored the gas pedal, the car jolting into motion.

"Backup is on the way," Lestrade said, rolling to a stop once they had rounded the corner, a safe distance away from the shouting and gunfire. "You wait here."

Before John could protest, the DI was gone, leaving the doctor and the detective alone in the car. Sherlock had said nothing, his eyes wide but unseeing.

"Sherlock..." John pushed his way closer to the man, grasping the coarse black fabric of his coat. "Listen to me, Sherlock... just take a breath."

Sherlock could hear the voice echoing around him, his brain unable to wrap around what the words meant. There was something familiar about the voice... something comforting and strong that made him want to move closer, to listen to every word it said even though he could not understand.

John felt Sherlock start to relax into his touch. "That's it, Sherlock... Take a few deep breaths and listen to my voice. You're with me, John Watson. You remember me? We met through Mike Stamford... you deduced everything about me through my mobile phone..."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, two of the words echoing around in his brain, bouncing off the walls of his mind palace. The lights, which had been black a second before, flared to life,

John Watson.

John Watson.

John.

"John." This time he said it aloud.

"There you go, Sherlock... you're okay," John said, a relieved smile spreading over his face.

"John," Sherlock repeated, leaning his head back against the headrest and clenching his eyes shut. John's hand rested on his shoulder and he focused his mind on that, the small touch keeping him grounded in reality.

"You alright?" John asked him after a minute of complete silence. Sherlock blinked back at him, sitting up straight. The detective's eyes were red and swollen, but had lost their glassy look.

Sherlock flinched back as the car door opened, his breath catching in his throat. John made a move forwards, blocking Sherlock from the door without thinking.

Lestrade stepped into the car, sitting down and running a hand through his cropped gray hair.

John relaxed, scooting back in his seat. There was an alarming few seconds in which Sherlock didn't breathe, unable to push air into his lungs.

"Just Lestrade," he whispered to his friend, his tone calm and soft.

"What happened?" John asked the DI once they had started moving forwards again.

"Lost him..."

John just shook his head, his hand still resting on Sherlock's arm, the detective making no attempt to remove it.

XXXXX

John walked up to the door of his flat, hands fumbling with his keys. Sherlock stood behind him, standing still with his eyes fixed on the floor.

The blogger was exhausted. After the adrenaline had left him, he had just wanted to fall over and sleep for years, his hands trembling and his legs feeling like jelly.

He finally got the key into the lock and he pushed the door open with his shoulder. The flat was dark and quiet, John automatically flipping the light on.

A note was on the counter, Mary's flowing script visible on the crumpled paper.

Out for the day- something came up at work. Hope you and Sherlock are doing well... May not be back till late.

XXXX Mary

He smiled and set the note back down, but the feeling lasted only a second, dissolving as Sherlock stumbled across the room after him. The detective was still wobbly on his feet, unable to walk in a straight line and swaying as if he were a drunkard.

"Sherlock..." John said, seeing the man struggling with his coat buttons.

Sherlock didn't look up, his fingers unable to grasp the top button. He could feel John's eyes on him, analyzing his every move.

"Sherlock, stop... take a minute... you need to sit down," John pleaded, taking a step forwards.

"I don't need your help!"

The words were harsh and unexpected, ringing around the empty flat and echoing in John's skull. Sherlock had backed up a few paces, his hands held up defensively in front of his face. Nobody moved for a moment, everything frozen in place, a fabricated peace before an onslaught of emotion.

Suddenly, the emptiness was shattered, John meeting Sherlock's pale face with his own steely gaze. Unbridled anger flamed deep in his chest, fueled by the fear and panic he had experienced earlier that day.

"Sherlock, why won't you just let me help you?" John couldn't keep the bite out of his voice, fury sweeping through his body in place of the sadness and shock that had been present before. "I don't understand why!"

"I. Don't. Need. You!" Sherlock was yelling now, his voice cracking on the last word, his heart thundering in his chest.

The words he didn't speak were heavy in the air, words that swirled around in his mind like a hurricane.

I do need you.

Please don't leave me.

I'm scared, John.

"Why wont you listen to me? None of this would have happened if you had just listened to me in the first place, Sherlock! I told you not to take the case!" John's right hand clenched into a fist and he took a breath, trying to calm down.

"I needed to try, John! I needed a case to distract myself!" Sherlock's voice had not lost volume, but some of the intensity had bled out of him, sinking slowly into the carpet.

"You don't need a distraction, Sherlock! We've been over this. That is hiding from the problem!" John ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"It was supposed to make it better," Sherlock responded weakly.

"It. Made. It. WORSE, SHERLOCK! WORSE!" John was screaming now. Something deep inside him knew that he had to stop, but he couldn't, the fear and anger that had built up over the last few days exploding out at him all at once.

"I NEEDED A RELEASE, JOHN. I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" Sherlock yelled back, his body fully backed into the corner.

"YOU COULD HAVE TALKED TO ME."

Silence.

Both men were standing facing each other, neither one moving for several long moments. Each one was unable to speak , unable to say everything they wanted to, everything they needed to.

I want to help you, Sherlock. You scared me today, Sherlock. You could have died and I can't live without you, Sherlock. Please talk to me.

I'm falling apart, John. I'm afraid of what is happening to me, John. I'm going crazy, John. I don't know how to tell you I want it to all stop, no matter what the cost is.

But, anger still coursed through John's veins that masked his fear, that made him unable to think rationally. He spun on his heel and out the door.

"I'm going out for a bit," he managed to squeeze out through clenched teeth.

Sherlock watched the blogger go, sliding down with his back to the wall, sitting on the floor and pulling his legs up to his chest. There was a ringing in his skull, and he brought his hands up, pressing them to his ears, fingers pulling at his hair, nails digging into his skin.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop the voices

John is gone. And he is never coming back.

TBC

A/N: That was tense… Writing arguments is always hard for me, and I hope I got across all of the raw emotion that I felt as I was writing this. Please, dear reader, do not be angry at John.. He was acting out of a flash of fear and anger. He wanted to help his friend, but couldn't and that was causing extreme frustration. I hope I got across to you that he did not intend to be mean or hurt Sherlock in any way.

Anyways, please review and thank you all so much for reading!

-Dawn