Everyone Loves John Watson
Time is a Terrible Healer

John Watson: is Different
Part One

With help from his boyfriends, John began the slow pace of getting better. He still refused to see another therapist because he knew they would offer no help in a case like this. Sherlock's suggestion still baffled him, but the proof that it was actually helping was hard to argue. He was never alone and while some people would feel smothered after a while, it was just what John needed while he got better. Even though he knew Moriarty and Moran were in Mycroft's possession and not about to go anywhere ever again, he couldn't help but feel anxious that one of them would appear out of nowhere and snatch him off the street again. He wasn't afraid of being kidnapped. He was afraid of being kidnapped by Jim Moriarty. There was a big difference. No one else could evoke the kind of fear in the little army man like Moriarty.

While Sherlock was with him nearly all of the time, Greg and Mycroft made a habit of dropping by as often as possible and it was a good thing, too, considering John's mind still had flashes of mistaken identity. No, Mycroft was not Sebastian Moran and didn't look, act, or even dress anything like him, but 'Richard' thought otherwise. The smell of smoke alone could make John panic. And no, as much as Moriarty claimed Sherlock was like him, he was not, but again, Richard thought otherwise. When John awoke in the middle of the night from a much too real nightmare with a foreign arm slung around his waist and warm breath on the back of his neck, John's reasonable answer was 'get him before he gets you'. Fortunately, Sherlock's face snapped him out of it, but that didn't always stop bruised hands and scratched wrist from forming when John was desperate to get them off of him. Greg didn't face these problems and when John was hit with an episode, the DI could always bring him down.

For the first month, things were taken slowly. No one dared to do anything not initiated by John and 'dates' consisted of two or three of them lounging on the couch in 221b. Slowly, John returned to some resemblance of the way he was before and before long, he fell back into his usual pattern, dates and all. He returned to his real job at the clinic, he went shopping, and helped Sherlock with his cases. His boyfriends fell back into their pattern, as well, but with less ferocity. Lestrade was right; they were much calmer when they weren't competing, even to the point that they could comfortably be in one another's company. John suspected that it the idea that he could be with no one put things into perspective for them. It was comfortable and John realized he had grown accustomed to being involved with all of them. So when Mycroft and Greg invited him to the same restaurant at the same time on the same day, he didn't think anything strange of it. It was great that they were getting along so well and it proved to make all of their lives a little easier.

Sherlock had left earlier that day on another case. John had quickly discovered that the man had put off nearly all of his cases for over a year so he could put his concentration and resources on finding John. Greg had been so stressed out that the Yard had to forcibly make him take a vacation. Anthea assured him, complained really, that Mycroft hadn't exactly concentrated on his work as much as he needed to. On the flip side of the coin, they were working twice as hard as they had been before he left. John's influence proved to be staggering in both the best and worst of ways.

John dressed appropriately for their restaurant of choice, armed himself, and left the flat with only minimum anxiety. It was nice getting out of the flat again. After overcoming his false agoraphobia, he wanted nothing more than to be outside all of the time. He wouldn't dare take a cab, but the little spot was within walking distance and John decided he could use the exercise anyways. Upon arriving, it was clear that his two boyfriends weren't getting off to a good start. Clear to him, at least. Anyone walking by probably had no idea considering Mycroft's poker face and Lestrade's fantastic ability to deal with Holmes. If Sherlock's complaining was anything to go by, Mycroft and Greg had formed some kind of friendship while he was gone.

"Is something wrong?" John questioned worriedly as he approached the pair. He checked his watch to make sure he wasn't running late. He wasn't.

"Not at all," Mycroft assured him at once. It was painfully clear all three of them were worried about making him unneededly upset. John was grateful for it, but he wasn't a fragile little doll. Of course, that may very well be the reason they were worried. Greg smiled but it appeared a little forced. John flinched at the little reminder of Moran's awkward show of teeth. It made the little man suspicious of his boyfriend's intentions instantly, but not nearly as much as he would have just two months ago. He was coming along well.

"Just a little misunderstanding," Lestrade admitted.

"Misunderstanding?" Surely he hadn't misunderstood. There wasn't exactly a lot to misunderstand, so John assumed it was between the two of them. Hopefully this wasn't going to go terribly. John was hoping that this wasn't a crude attempt at convincing motives against Sherlock. He would not be okay with that.

"We've sorted it out," Mycroft assured him and John put it out of his mind for now. He wanted to avoid conflict as much as possible. If being trapped with Moriarty had showed him anything, it was how terrible domestic abuse could be. The circumstances were drastically different, especially considering how likely it was Moran was a masochist and actually craved negative attention from the other, but John wasn't completely sure how well he would respond to head on conflict right now. He was led inside and the little hostess showed them to the table. Fortunately, it wasn't a booth and his boyfriends could sit to either side of him comfortable. This was nice. John would admit that he was more comfortable with this situation which was far more than he thought he would be.

Moriarty could be domestic and John knew that. It wasn't completely unusual for some of his traumatic experience to be not so traumatic. Technically, none of it was traumatic since he had thought it to be his average day. John faced complex feelings about the experience even now. Part of him still believed that Moriarty had been good to him. Talking usually helped, but it would take more than a couple months to break from the mindset of being someone else.

John couldn't recall a time when he had been around Greg and Mycroft like this. It was nice, though. Despite their 'misunderstanding', there wasn't any problem between them. Mycroft ordered wine and they discussed Sherlock's current case. Discussion trailed into some current events, of which Mycroft was more than happy to discuss, then into the sports John had missed, which Lestrade gladly informed him of, and finally why a single action revolver was still a perfectly acceptable weapon to use in the modern age, in which Mycroft and Lestrade pretended not to be worried about John's changed interest.

Only halfway through their dinner, and the bottle of wine, Sherlock appeared on complete accident. John wasn't completely surprised by his appearance, but Sherlock seemed to be. He hurried into the restaurant and instantly made himself look as nonchalant as possible. Pale blue-green eyes spotted them within seconds and before the hostess could speak to him, he was taking swift steps towards their table. He pulled up a chair between John and Lestrade, where he didn't fit, and forced a smile.

"John," he greeted, slightly out of breath. If John had to guess, he probably had been running. "Mycroft," Sherlock continued, lacking most of the malice he usually had towards his brother. John had definitely helped with that. "Lestrade," he finished and flickered a menu up to hid his face.

"Uh. Sherlock?" John questioned pointedly and onky mildly irritated. Sherlock peeked around the edge of the braided paper corner a little, but kept his face fairly well hidden. "What are you doing?"

"Just finishing up the case. That's all," Sherlock answered as if it were a perfectly safe and acceptable answer. He scooted a little closer to Lestrade to make conversation easier. "You're murderer is about to walk through that door. You're not doing anything important. Arrest him."

"Sherlock," Greg scolded him in a hushed tone. "I actually was in the middle of something."

"Well, okay, fine, but you weren't supposed to be. He has a gun, but I got the clip." Sherlock placed it on the table where it certainly shouldn't have been. "Just watch for the one in the chamber and you'll be fine."

"Sherlock," Lestrade snapped, more viciously. "Why would you lead him into a crowded restaurant? You're endangering the public."

"He's not all that dangerous. The likelihood of him actually hitting anyone with one shot is safely low," Sherlock promised, placing the menu down with open fingers. "I'm surprised he even managed to shoot her at close range."

"You really need to stop being so reckless," Mycroft sighed, swallowing down another drink of the deep red. With Sherlock catty cornered from the door, he was easily where the man could see. As it turned out, John didn't deal with conflict well. Knowing the man was armed and spotting him in the reflection of his glass, John reacted without thinking about it. Fortunately, it wasn't with his gun. He wasn't exactly going to shoot q man in front of two people that would be very upset over such a small thing. Instead, he grasped the edge of his plate firmly and when he saw the man reaching for his weapon, John cracked him hard in the side of the head with the ceramic piece.

Stupid cunt trying to sneak up on him like that. This man clearly had no idea who he was. Of course, at the moment John barely knew who he was. It didn't actually matter as he proceeded to break the man's nose and jaw along with possible skull fractures with nothing but his dinner plate. Fucking bastard ruining his nice dinner date. John removed his tie and wrapped it twice around the man's neck with a simple twist before tying each end to his wrist to leave him in a difficult bind. The more he struggled, the more he choked himself, as it ought to be. John puffed angrily, straightened out the collar of his shirt, and returned to his seat.

"Waitress, another bottle of wine."

It was then that Sherlock realized John was different. It was undeniable, but he had wanted it to be untrue so badly. Sherlock had known John was changed when he accidentally snuck up behind him, wrapped his arms around his recently returned amor and received a black eye for his efforts. No amount of time or healing would change John back now. He'd adapted, as any survivalist did, and perhaps it was better, but it wasn't John. The little army man had been nulled to violence before, but now he was desensitized and aggressive. His John, his sweet, brave little doctor, had just broken a man's, admittedly an armed, known murder of a man, face with a plate. Sherlock had no doubt he would have shot him dead if he hadn't been sitting with a DI and the Government. Why? Because that was what Moriarty and Moran would have done.

How could he have let Moriarty do such a thing?

It was then that Greg knew that John was different. That no amount of talking, or cuddling, or therapy would rid him of the laws that Moriarty had changed within him. John wasn't his kind, strong, polite soldier anymore. Of course, he should have known better to expect him to be after what he had been through. He should have known he was changed after he'd seen what the doctor had done to his tormentors. No one was the same after facing the little psychopath. Not even Sherlock had stepped away unscaved and he had twice the mental capacity of John. He had seen kidnap victims suffer worse, but John was strong. He wouldn't let them control him for any longer than needed and now he was different.

How could he have let Moriarty do such a thing?

It was then that Mycroft realized Moriarty had won. If he couldn't have what he wanted, he was going to take what was most important to them. They hadn't been quick enough. He'd given up looking for John and he shouldn't have. He let Moriarty change John. He let him make him different and John didn't even know. He just sat there as if the blood spatter on his face was normal and the pained noises the bound man made didn't bother him. It was; they didn't. They couldn't fix that. Even if he could, how would he explain to John 'there's nothing wrong with you, but you need to be afraid of more things'. How far would this go? How much damage would John do when provoked and how many people would be stupid enough to provoke him, unknowing of wrath they would invoke? How long until John had to be taken into custody?

How could he have let Moriarty do such a thing?

John was aware of his boyfriends watching him with a certain kind of weariness, and guilt if he did say so, but he wasn't completely sure why. He incapacitated their murderer without getting anyone killed. Easy enough. John wiped a bit of the blood off of his hands with his cloth, dipping it in the icy water to rid his skin of the sticky residue. Greg awkwardly stood, reaching for his mobile with a small murmur.

"I'll call the Yard. Have them come pick him up," he assured them quietly before leaving the table. He spoke with the manager and helpful removed the murderer from the restaurant. Sherlock poised himself in the DI's chair, clearly intent on joining their date.

"Are you okay, John?" Mycroft questioned with a small press of the lips. John glanced to him with beige eyes, not completely sure of the question.

"Of course." There wasn't any reason he wouldn't be.

"Good job doing - that," Sherlock offered up awkwardly. John shot him a glare.

"Please stop bringing murderers, or any variation of, to my dates."

"I didn't know you'd be here. I thought you were going to be with Mycroft in some damp place," he scoffed, pouring himself a spot of the wine as well. Mycroft frowned.

"Gregory and I had some poor communication," he admitted.

"I see. You had to postpone your date from yesterday, clearly. Lestrade didn't know. By some infinity impossible coincidence, the two of you choose the same place and John made the logical assumption that he was meeting both of you," Sherlock flourished shamelessly. John frowned. Now that he thought about it, it did seem a little strange.

"Thank you, Sherlock. However, Gregory and I made the reasonable decision to not make a scene of it needlessly."

"Great. Then you won't mind if I join you. I did just solve my third case this week," Sherlock invited himself to stay and Mycroft only sighed minutely. There wasn't much harm in it now, was there? His original plan for the night had already gone out the window. Fortunately, it wasn't exactly a bad thing. John, despite seeming to have a flash of violence, was okay with this. He supposed there was no reason he shouldn't be.

Lestrade returned and quietly took the seat opposite to John. It simply wasn't worth arguing with Sherlock at the moment, and it didn't seem wise to make John uncomfortable at the moment, either. No one wanted to mention John's sudden lack of impulse control. He had been very easy to anger before, but John had always had a hold on it.

John placed his cup down pointedly and frowned a slightly worrisome, unJohn frown.

"Alright. Someone tell me what's going on," he insisted sharply, the very idea that they were planning something behind him back causing all kind of walls to go up and alerts to go off in his head. Sherlock, of course, managed to bring up delicate manners delicately.

"You destroyed that man's face with your plate."

"He had a gun. He had a gun that he was going to use to shoot you. Unless I have understood this situation wrong," John scowled.

"That's not the problem, John," Mycroft assured him swiftly.

"It's just- you usually don't resort to violence," Lestrade murmured with a worried grimace.

"Since when?" John bristled. "I can assure you I'm not what you thought I was."

"False," Sherlock snapped, irrate.

"If this is going to be a problem for you, any of you, then stop me." This was bad. Silence fell over the table, complex emotions causing internal debates with no 'best' answers. Fortunately, they all stayed internal. John seemed to skip back in thought.

"Oh god," he drowned the rest of his wine, much to his boyfriends' dismay. "That was terrible. I- That just came out of my mouth." The little blonde man rubbed his forehead with his fingers, pressing away the headache that his stress was bringing on.

"God. I - Fuck I'm broken," John murmured with a mouthful of distress and depression. He dropped his head onto the table.

"It'll be okay, John," Mycroft patted the back of his head softly.

"The more you realize it's wrong, the better we can help you and you can help yourself," Greg quietly tacked on, brushing his foot against his boyfriend's. Sherlock didn't offer a reply, though. He filled John's glass again. He didn't care if John was broken. John was here. He was here and he was safe. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to be greedy enough for more. There were only two possibilities when walking away from Moriarty: Dead or alive.

John was very much alive.

As it went, however, he wasn't alone in that notion.