Unbearable
Sherlock talks about his PTSD and seeks treatment for it.
TW: Torture & Cussing
Hi guys. I hope you enjoy the story. Please give as much feedback as you feel comfortable giving. This story is set during and after Serbia. I am planning on continuing this story as long as the reviewers want more.
-M
His arms were chained to opposite walls. The pain of being stretched across the room was enough to spill someone's deepest, darkest secret. But for Sherlock that and being whipped wasn't enough to spill his brother's many secrets. Then, before Sherlock could finish his thoughts, another whip came in contact with his back, and he screamed in agony. The torturer said, "Само ми реци зашто си провалио овде. Онда можете спавати. Запамтите спавање. Можда ћемо те чак и пустити." (Just tell me why you broke in here. Then, you can sleep. Remember sleep. We might even let you go.) Sherlock grit his teeth. "Никада" (Never). Then came whip after whip. It was never-ending. He tried not to cry. Trying not to show his opponent his weakness, but he could hold back the tears. He started screaming uncontrollably. "Sherlock? Sherlock!"
Then he woke. He had fallen from the couch onto the floor. It was all just a nightmare. It had been 2 months since he got back from Serbia, but PTSD, anxiety, and nightmares stayed with him. He hadn't slept in weeks. Afraid of the nightmares. John was looking at him with concern, "What just happened?" Sherlock shook his head and said, "Nothing, nothing, just a dream." John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I know when I see PTSD. What happened during those 2 years?" Sherlock put his hands in a surrendering position, "I c-can't t-tell you that r-right now." John sensed his friend's fragile state and backed off.
Then came a knock at the door. Lestrade entered. "I've got a case for you. It's a good one." He handed Sherlock the file. " Murder on the Heathrow Express. Just like that Agatha Christie book." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was the brother." "That's wonderful. How did you know that!? I gave you a picture of the body, the suitcase, the Heathrow Express log, and his family history. How could you possibly know it was the brother?!" Sherlock sighed. I was child's play in his mind.
"The suitcase, it had two different sizes of T-shirts. A few smalls, for the victim, and a few larges for the overweight brother in the history. It says that the brother hasn't been out of the country for 2 years. The airport tag says they're coming from LAX. Could be a friend. The log on the other hand has the name Sonja Cleo, an anagram of Jason Cole. The victim's older brother. Could be a coincidence, but…" He pulled out his phone. "The card used for 'Sonja Cleo' is a UK card. Meaning that 'Sonja Cleo is a permanent resident of the UK. A quick search through federal records shows that no one living in the UK is named Sonja Cleo. There, go make your little arrest." Sherlock waved his hands to make Lestrade go away and went back to sit in his chair. Lestrade's mouth was wide open. His eyes looked like they were about to pop out. "Um, okay. That was unexpected. I'll let you know when the next case pops around." He then left, still very surprised.
John looked at Sherlock, "We're not done talking." Sherlock sighed, "F-fine." John was worried Sherlock would never stutter. He was always sure of what he was going to say next. "So, when I w-was gone. Mycroft sent m-me on these overseas mi-m-missions. They all went well until I invaded this Serbian Factory. They found out I was the m-mole. Not only that, but they t-tor-tortured me until I told them the reason I was th-there. I never told them and Mycroft eventually g-got me out, but I still keep having these n-nightmares. I took pills for it, of course, but they don't seem to w-work very well."
John was shocked. He had no idea that his best friend had gone through all of that. I tried to keep his composure as his friend looked ashamed of his story. "Sherlock, can you show me what pills did you take?" His friend dragged himself to the bathroom. He pulled out two orange bottles and gave them to John. The first bottle was sertraline. A strong PTSD drug, much stronger than the one John used to have. The second bottle was benzodiazepine. The strongest anxiety drug there was. John was shocked. He knew that the trauma wasn't easy on his friend, but he didn't know that it was affecting him enough that he needed such strong medication.
Sherlock continued, "One of the physiatrists Mycroft hired prescribed me those. It was right before I came back to London." John then realized, "I would like for you to join me for my therapy session in an hour. Could come along?" John just wanted his friend to have someone he felt comfortable talking to. "Yeah, sure." While they waited, Sherlock played his violin, and right before they left, took an anxiety pill, and put the rest of the bottle in his pocket. "It's okay, you're going to be fine," John reassured Sherlock. John then said, "Grab the other bottle in case they ask what medication you're on." He nodded and grabbed the bottle.
They hailed a taxi downtown to a large company with physiatrists and therapists. John had come here many times, after his tour in Afghanistan and when Sherlock faked his death. He walked up to the counter. "Hi, I have a session under the name John Watson. Over the phone, I said that the patient is Sherlock Holmes." The receptionist looked up, bearing a warm smile. "Alright, it looks like you will be in room 621 with Dr. Shepard. The elevators are to the right." He and Sherlock went up to the 6th floor. Sherlock popped another pill right before entering. In the chair sat Dr. Shepard. "Mr. Holmes take a seat please." "It's Sherlock". John nudged his arm, reminding him not to be rude. Sherlock took a seat in the chair facing Dr. Shepard. John took a seat on the couch behind them. "What brings you here today Sherlock?"
I hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is always welcome. The next chapter should be out in the next 3-5 days depending on how busy I am. Thank you for reading.
-M
