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Your face

Sherlock left John in the middle of an article on Egyptian abacuses, claiming she needed to "get evidence from the morgue" aka "harrass Molly to see the body". Poor Molly was probably going to have a thirty-minute lecture on Anderson's ineptitude. John ignored her in favour of trying to figure out what the hell he was reading.

He was halfway through the third page of his article - something about Egyptian abacuses being made of sand and stones and not being actual beaded abacuses at all - when something hit the wall behind him. John reacted on instinct, launching himself out of his chair, mindless of the laptop hitting the ground, and springing on the noisemaker. They both ended up crashing to the ground and grappling for a moment before John had his hand round the intruder's neck, carefully managing not to crush the windpipe but easily able to restrict the oxygen supply if necessary. The paradox of the doctor-soldier.

Detective Inspector Lestrade looked baffled underneath him, and John gulped. "Shit," he said in a whisper, pulling himself off the Inspector and curling up in a ball against the wall. "Sorry."

Lestrade gaped at him, opening and closing his mouth several times, allowing himself to take some deep breaths while he was at it. He had finally seemed to catch his breath and was about to say something - John was just grateful the policeman wasn't arresting him - when they were both interrupted by a high, shrieking voice.

"JOHN HAMISH WATSON!"

John groaned, putting his head in his hands. His arms were starting to shake, though his left hand was traitorously steady. Shit. Harry.

"You said you were all right! You said you were doing well! And instead you're falling apart! You didn't tell me anything, did you? You just figured let's leave Harry out of this, she's the one with issues, well, that's a bunch of BULLSHIT! You are going through some hell of a trauma and you just figure you can deal with this on your own? John Watson, you are coming home with me and I am going to get you some serious help, so help me god, because this is not okay, you are being too brave for your own good, and you haven't got any friends? This is -"

"I'm fine," Lestrade said, interrupting, bless him. John closed his eyes, rubbing them with the heel of his palms, wondering why he felt so out of focus. "I'm fine, it was my fault anyway, I should have knocked first. Any decent man would defend themselves if someone burst into their flat." God, John was going to owe the man so much after this. He was being nice after being practically assaulted. John realized Sherlock had probably done worse to the man, but still.

"It is not normal for people to go strangling people!" Harry shrieked, and John could feel his brain retract from the noise, putting his hands over his ears as protection as he tried to find a way to explain, even though, technically, she was right.

"I'm just low on sleep, Harry, that's all, I'm just -"

"Just nothing! You are getting some care, this isn't healthy, you need friends, I'm going to get you a psychic, or a psych-whatever-they-are that help with this army stuff, or a dream reader, or a bloody voodoo doctor because that would be far better than you sitting all crumpled and god, this is that post-traumatic-stress-whatzit, isn't it-"

"Ms. Watson, congratulations, you've managed to succesfully terrify a man who's previously been shot, would you please give my flatmate room to breathe?" a calm voice interrupted, and John almost took his hands off his ears, it was such a relief, and his mind latched onto the sound, the one speck of solid confidence in a room of chaos.

"How do you know who I am? Who are you to be in John's flat anyway? If you're his girlfriend, you aren't doing your bloody job taking care of him, I'm his ruddy sister, I have the right - did you say flatmate? You're the flatmate? John, who is-"

John winced, bracing himself for the torrent of deductions he knew would be heading Harry's way, and the resulting explosion. His eyes met with Lestrade's for a brief second, and he could see the same tension there as well.

But instead Lestrade left his view as Sherlock's face appeared in front of him.

"John, you need to breathe," she said calmly as Harry nattered on in the background. "In, come on."

John hadn't realized he was holding his breath. No wonder he'd felt out of it. He took a long breath in through his nose, like in combat training. Sherlock wasn't deducing his sister, this was good, this was workable, right.

"Right, good. Out again," Sherlock coached him, not touching him or moving closer than she was, kneeling about a foot away. To anyone who didn't know Sherlock, it might have looked uncaring, but John was relieved - he needed the space. "And, in," Sherlock ordered, and he found himself obeying, his mind clearing slowly as he fought to make his lungs remember their function. "You can take your hands off your ears, she's running out of things to say, now," she commented, and John found himself smiling as he obeyed.

"...and... and..." Harry faltered, and John realized that she'd kept talking, and he hadn't really understood a thing, he'd been so focused on Sherlock focusing on him, bringing him back to clarity.

"It was my fault, Sherlock, I didn't knock. Forgot you were sharing a flat now," Lestrade explained quietly, and Sherlock nodded. John braced his arms behind him, about to get up, but Sherlock reached out and put one finger on his shoulder, and he stopped.

"No. Sit. Stay," she ordered, almost as if he were some cocker spaniel. John would have taken offense, but then she brought him a cushion from the couch and said, "Sit on that," before disappearing into the kitchen, with another nod for the Detective Inspector. Lestrade seemed to take that as an order to look over at John, who smiled at him tenatively, suddenly feeling very tired. Lestrade got up after a moment, setting a hand on Harry's shoulder and gently steering her toward the door.

"I think we'd best leave John to get a bit of rest," he murmured to Harry as they were leaving, and John suddenly felt half of the tension in his back leave as they did, abruptly sagging back against the wall.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea, and John raised an eyebrow as she sat across from him, handing him one. "Is this safe for consumption?" he asked dryly, trying to ignore the slight unsteadyness in his voice.

Rolling her eyes, Sherlock replied with a simple, "I'm British, John, I am aware of how long is needed to steep your comfort drink."

"Right," John said after a moment, and took a sip. Not too sweet, not too bitter, not understeeped, and the warmth flowed out of the mug and into his fingers, the steam rising into his breath and loosening the tightness in his core. "Thanks," he said, and it was an understatement, and meant more than the tea.

"Need to talk?" Sherlock asked - and it was asking, not one of the orders like the one to breathe or sit still. John shook his head; what would he say? Sorry, I guess I just overreact when someone startles me, it comes from being woken by bullets and screaming. Yes, that sounded entirely sane, he totally wouldn't get kicked out of his flat.

Sherlock nodded in response, taking a sip of her own tea. "I'm surprised at the odds."

John frowned into his mug, watching the steam flow off the liquid. "Odds of what?" You getting stuck with a maniac?

"Me, getting a flatmate like you. I mean, most people would be dead after two minutes with me, and I end up with the fellow who can wrestle a man onto the floor within five seconds. It's rather -" Sherlock made a face - "insultingly perfect. Are you certain Mycroft didn't manipulate you here?"

John let a corner of his mouth twitch up. Only Sherlock could find the upside to PTSD. "Knowing your brother," he admitted, "I've no idea. But if he did, it was without my knowledge or consent."

Sherlock's eyes studied him a minute. "That'll do, I guess. Come help me look over the autopsy photos," and then she was getting up and flopping onto her traditional place on the sofa, and John had to laugh and get up, and things were back to normal.

Well, their kind of normal. The kind that had autopsies.