Define Vulnerability
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made. I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much!
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Still Wednesday evening
When John stepped to the sofa he immediately realised Sherlock was breathing too fast for someone deep asleep, and his expression was tense. He was on his side now, facing into the room, his eyes closed tightly.
The doctor rested his flat hand on the side of Sherlock's head.
"You aren't sleeping any longer, are you?" he said in a low voice.
The head under his hand shook minutely.
"Did we wake you up?"
Another tiny shake.
Sherlock didn't open his eyes, and John assumed he was having a hard time or wanted their communication to stay private. His friend had shown increasing trust in him during the past week.
It had been an odd curve since his return. The first days John had stayed over the trust seemed to ebb away. Then there had been a struggle to regain some of it, and now they seemed to have managed re-establishing it.
Sherlock had really given over control of a small amount of aspects of his issues, like right now, when he just relaxed under John's hand, didn't shove it away, just took it in.
It seemed he had also needed quite some time to come back to London mentally. Maybe it was similar to what John had experienced, when he came back from the war.
What Sherlock had been through had been kind of war, he had failed to see that in the beginning.
The contrast between civil life and being out there fighting was so enormous and overwhelming, the sudden absence of threats and violence so unreal, that most soldiers experienced difficulties adjusting. John remembered very well how this had felt and how long it took to sense things normal again that used to be normal once.
Experiencing war changed people, and Sherlock was affected by his experiences.
The former army surgeon felt a light trembling under his hands, not the kind panic caused, but the kind produced by wrecked with tension.
"You need an override, don't you?"
John referred to a conversation they had earlier and was sure the other man knew what he meant. It was the opposite of an override to actually ask him, John was aware. But he felt he needed to give him kind of a warning he was about to decide he needed it.
As expected Sherlock didn't react, didn't refuse, didn't welcome the idea.
Sherlock needed rest, this latest episode had exhausted him, though it hadn't shaken him as bad as the two preceding ones.
As far as John understood his different behaviour this time was due to the fact that Sherlock had managed to observe the event unfold from some kind of a meta level.
Of course it had devastated him, but he had learned important things, too. And he had also not tried to escape any one's presence, as soon as he became aware of it.
Two minute later John gently helped Sherlock drink a few sips of water he had dozed thoroughly with a fast acting sleeping aid. It took Sherlock a lot of effort to even lift his head to drink.
To make sure this wasn't making things worse John stayed with his friend, sitting next to him and keeping a hand on his shoulder while waiting for him to fall asleep.
When he heard someone enter in his rear, he held up his hand without turning around, to signal either Mary or Mycroft to stop, stay away and stay silent.
They did, the door was closed silently.
Although they could be heard speaking softly in the kitchen.
It didn't take long until Sherlock's body surrendered and relaxed.
When he sank deeper into the seat of the sofa the enormous amount of tension poured out of him in a way so very visible it send horripilation over John's back.
Later, while John and Mary were eating, Mycroft sat with them in the kitchen and listened to John's reproduction of the events that had taken place in the abandoned plant.
There were carefully hidden signs of distress on Mycroft's side about what he heard, most of it was news to him.
In the end John suggested that Sherlock needed kind of closure about this and encouraged Mycroft to figure out who the dead homeless man was and if his body was still there.
Since the older Holmes didn't even know where the factory was, it would be a challenge. But John thought Mycroft should use his brain to make up for triggering the episode and should be actively involved in Sherlock's recovery, though he had no idea how knowing these facts would do anyone any good. But he'd make sure there'd be plenty of opportunities during Sherlock's reconvalescence for involving Mycroft and working on the issues, his friend needed all the help he could get right now, and with the British government's help certain things would be all so much easier.
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Thursday morning
When Sherlock woke up, the flat was quiet.
His eyes went through the room and found John, sleeping in his armchair, curled up.
It was an odd sight. He tried to remember if John had ever done that before.
A moment later the events of the past night came back, and he sat up with a horrified groan, shoving the blanket away and putting his feet on the ground.
The cold world wobbled.
Right, sleep aid, nasty stuff, but he had been embarrassingly glad to escape reality by sleep.
Frustration rose because by now he should be able to just endure the smell of blood, should have learned how to manage that. He was trying for weeks, but it didn't work to his satisfaction.
A better plan was needed.
Intensify practising and the exposure might be necessary.
On one hand, the fact that John and Mycroft had talked in his absence caused uneasiness,
on the other John had obviously kicked Mycroft's behind somehow; there was no other plausible explanation to why his brother's behaviour had changed so profoundly during the few minutes he had been alone in the bathroom desperately trying to wash of the odour.
The pure memory of yesterday's distress caused another wave of anguish rushing through his mind, dark blue and prickling.
He felt the dire need to mentally trample it down, and he did.
At least, this time he had been able to analyse the incident, catalogue what happened in succession of what, step by step. He had registered the inrush of thoughts and sensations; it was a first, at least with this level of accuracy.
He perceived his hands were in his hair, pulling it.
Suddenly John sat up straight, he must have made some noise.
Sherlock froze, ashamed about last night… or something.
What made it bad was not really that John had witnessed it, it was that Mycroft and Mary had.
He buried his face in his hands, to have more time to think.
"Hey," some fingers briefly on the side of his knee.
When he looked up, John was hunched down in front of him.
Rings under his eyes, worried.
To his own surprise didn't know what to say - which didn't happen often. He couldn't think, his mind was muddled from the medication.
"Mycroft and Mary left for work."
His friend didn't ask how he was feeling. He knew him so well, it was relaxing to be able to dwell on the nearness, the understanding without the need for spoken words. He had missed that.
It had been very intense when John had touched his head last night, it had caused…? Feelings?
Still trying to plod though the sensations he suddenly met a sparkling dark smell of earl grey that entered his nostrils and he heard John return from the kitchen.
Not their usual brand.
"Drink."
Gratefully, he accepted the cup.
"It won't work, you know," John said.
"Pardon?"
John sat down in front of him.
What had happened to the rule about sitting on not-sitting-furniture?
Maybe they were beyond rules now.
"Confronting yourself with triggers to get accustomed to them won't work."
All of a sudden, Sherlock felt mentally stripped.
"That's what you did confront yourself with the smell, isn't it? Experimenting on yourself, creating your own version of exposure therapy?"
There was no way of denying it, that was exactly what he had done.
"It won't work… It's good for things like anxiety and for people who use avoidance as a coping strategy - as far as I know - but those are not your problems, Sherlock. Therefore, it's not the right strategy."
"Oh, I assume a suggestion of what is will follow?" Sherlock spit.
"Sorry, mate, didn't… Sorry. Can we talk about this without… I didn't mean to criticise. If you're honest with yourself, you know that it has done you no good. How long has this been going on?"
Sherlock felt his shoulders sag.
John was right.
But he had needed to fix this.
"Well, I guess, there's something we should do. I know this is hard, but for both our safety I want to ask you to help me make a list of things that are really distressing for you, or that have triggered something in the past weeks. Because for now we need to avoid those."
"Are you suggesting that I behave like a coward?"
"Er, Sherlock! This is not about being fainthearted, it's about healing and being safe. I need to be aware what they are."
"Avoiding them is gutless."
"No! We're not having this conversation. What you did here the past weeks, confronting yourself with blood, was a bit stupid. I know a trigger when I see one. I have data of years of shipping around mine. In order to handle them, we first need to find ways to work around them, later we can try to overwrite them. Don't get me wrong, I understand why you did it and why you expected it to work, and that there are some trauma therapists who think constant confrontation is a good idea."
Sherlock leaned back closing his eyes, obviously not happy about their topic.
"But the approach used today and by many good specialists is to respect those triggers and slowly remove them," John continued. "How to do that is a different topic, but for the moment it is important to be aware of them and evade them, because you happen to be confronted with certain things in your line of work and I think you need your work to get better."
"I…"
"Just listen," John interrupted him.
Sherlock shut his mouth with a disapproving grunt.
"I'll only go to cases with you if I know what I'm dealing with. So that I'll be able to protect both of us from you having a panic attack at Scotland Yard or a flashback while following a perpetrator. You understand why I think this is essential? I mean like in 'pure logic'?"
"Yes," Sherlock growled, he didn't like where this was going
"Good, then work with me here and help me make a list. I know this isn't easy, I really do, because I had to make such a list myself. Chances are high ugly memories will come up, but believe me, it'll be far worse if those come up at the wrong moment. I'm sure you don't want Sally to see you have a meltdown or something because you kicked yourself right into an episode after neglecting your body's warning signs. Which you are quite good at, I might add. You don't need to tell me in detail, you could just write them down on a sheet of paper, bullet point form. "
"No need to unnerve me further, I already said I understood."
"Right," John sadly smiled at him, "Let's do this tonight, after dinner."
"I won't eat before talking about anything like…"
John spoke when he didn't continue, "That bad, uh?"
"Hand me some paper."
"You want to do this now?"
"Certain aspects of wetness and blood, mainly smells, several physical sensations," Sherlock listed so fast John had trouble making out the words.
"Alright, then. As far as I know, trauma can… kind of accumulate… It doesn't necessarily need to be caused by one big event. It can be caused by an unconnected string of bad events, that share a common aspect. The initial event might be a really bad experience but not unmanageable, only moderately traumatic to the psyche. When something happens that then…"
"Understood."
Another white sheet appeared in front of Sherlock a moment later, together with a pen and a blotting pad, and he understood they would both make their own notes.
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A/N:
I will not discuss or describe EMDR or trauma therapy in this story since I am currently going through another round of it myself and it would do me no good to imagine/write about such scenarios.
This story triggered me a lot from the start, since it became kind of my home-made coping strategy it was allowed to, and I was aware it would.
Feedback welcome.
