SPOILER ALERT: While the timeline of this story begins after the Blind Banker, there are many spoilers and references to all four seasons of the BBC Series, including The Abominable Bride. Readers should be familiar to some degree with these episodes.

Warning. Since the topic of suicide is discussed throughout, this story has an M rating.

88**88

**88**

BBC Sherlock: The Case of the Colonel Carruthers' Connection

Chapter 1: Storm

88**88

"My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built." - Holmes: The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge

88**88

88**88

"John?"

Images of bloody faces and maimed soldiers kaleidoscoped in his consciousness, but the insistent voice pushed through the nightmarish haze.

"John, John,"it urged. Then again, more loudly, "John!"

John sat up with a start, eyes wide and wild with visions of war. His heart thudded. Perspiration drenched his hair and t-shirt. He was tangled in his sheets. He scrubbed down his face and blinked, peering through the dark room as he became more oriented—beneath him was his comfortable bed—not a stretcher board awaiting a Medivac chopper. This was not a nightmarish battlefield but the flat he shared with Sherlock Holmes.

"John," Sherlock's calm voice came from the dark threshold of the upstairs bedroom in 221B Baker Street.

The clock on the bedside table read 3.17.

"Sherlock?" John squinted at the unexpected presence of his flat-mate—not an apparition—in the doorway. Sherlock had never before intervened during one of his PTSD episodes. John felt uncomfortable that the man was here now, seeing him like this.

"Awake now, then?" Sherlock's tone was clinical and detached, empty of empathy.

"Huh? Yeah," John grunted his surprise. His agitation must have been particularly alarming and loud to disturb his aloof flat-mate. He rubbed his eyes again and gawped at Sherlock's silhouette.

"Sorry, sorry," John frowned and punched his pillow. "It's nothing." Mortified, he turned over in bed, with his back to the door and pulled the top sheet over his head. He wanted to tell Sherlock to go away, but he muttered, "I'm fine," instead.

There was no reply. Curious, John thrust the sheet aside and glanced over his shoulder at the door. Sherlock had left.

The next morning John sauntered into the kitchen, dressed and ready for the surgery; Sherlock ignored him. This wasn't unusual when Sherlock was busy. From the state of the kitchen, it looked as though the detective had been working all night.

Wearing protective goggles and his lab coat, Sherlock stood over the kitchen table that he had monopolized with his equipment. Between systematically checking the contents of the test tube clamped over the Bunsen burner flame and intermittently jotting notes, Sherlock remained absorbed by his work and oblivious that John had joined him.

John watched silently, expecting a glance or a nod of acknowledgement from his flat-mate even if there would be no dialogue, but Sherlock kept his eyes averted. John felt he might as well have been invisible. This complete avoidance seemed odd, even for an occupied Sherlock.

Guess I missed that memo about chem lab in the kitchen today, John thought wryly, knowing he hadn't been given prior warning. Sherlock had mentioned something about obtaining and testing evidence crucial for a pending court case, he just hadn't mentioned when and how he would be carrying it out. Sometimes, his flat-mate was thoughtful about reserving a portion of the flat—the sitting room, the kitchen, the bathroom—for his work. More often, as this morning, Sherlock was as thoughtless as if he lived alone.

All right, thoughtless it is this morning. John shrugged it off. Familiar with Sherlock's signature Do-Not-Disturb body language, he made no further attempts to communicate. Moments later, John corrected himself. Sherlock had made their morning coffee. Maybe not so thoughtless.

The smell of the heated substance in the test tube mingled unpleasantly with the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. John had endured many offending fumes as an army surgeon; nothing Sherlock had cooked up so far was intolerable.

John poured himself a cup, sniffing to make sure it was not another of Sherlock's experiments. He made toast and slathered on Seville marmalade whilst keeping out of Sherlock's way. Leaning against the worktop, he sipped his coffee and munched his toast, casting curious glances at Sherlock and his experiment while checking the headlines of the morning paper. When finished, John washed his knife and plate, and took note of the time: 7.24. Sarah had asked him to be at the surgery by eight. With some spare time before he had to leave, John settled at the table in the sitting room with another cup of coffee to read the cricket scores.

Sherlock was in his own world. His grunts and soft asides as he took notes during the experiment were not meant to stimulate conversation and John was relieved. It seemed his early morning disturbance had been altogether forgotten. He preferred it that way.

At least his psychosomatic limp had abated. Several months ago, their first chase on a first case had been more therapeutic than John's sessions with his psychologist. However, the accumulated traumas of wars continued to affect his sleep and were proving more difficult to resolve. Vivid memories of bloodshed and loss had become a nightly event. Worse, these PTSD symptoms were beyond his control. He deemed it a weakness of character and another sign of how broken he had become since returning from Afghanistan. "Who'd want me for a flat-mate?" he had shrugged when Mike Stamford suggested investigating a flat-share in London.

Meeting Sherlock had changed his bleak outlook, however. Not at first, of course. John had had to get past his initial, unsettling sense that Sherlock Holmes was a nutter. Brilliant, yes, but a nutter.

Once they had agreed to share the flat in Central London, John felt as though he was getting ahead of his PTSD for the first time. But now, after a few months of mild symptoms, his night terrors had returned and with an intensity that had destroyed the pleasant prospect of sleep. John now worried that Sherlock would reconsider their living arrangement. His own adjustment to Sherlock's propensity to play the violin at all hours or to not talk for days on end had required patience. John was less certain the punctilious detective had any store of patience with which to adjust to the "worst" about him.

John turned to look at Sherlock over the top of his lowered newspaper. Is this why you're avoiding me this morning? My wee-hours episode too much for you, Sherlock? Will you be asking me for my key? John checked his watch and shook off his disturbing insecurity: Time to go… to work.

Sherlock's sharp, "Where are you going?" ended the strained silence.

John grabbed his shooting jacket off the peg, "Locum work today …," and grinned at the goggled scientist staring at him from the kitchen table. "I told you this yesterday…," he said, stuffing his arms through the sleeves and hiking the jacket over his shoulders.

"You did," Sherlock nodded and resumed his work, as if he had not spoken at all.

"Later," John said, checking his wallet for his Oyster card. "Back about five…."

When Sherlock made no sign he had heard, John assumed this tidbit had also fallen on deaf ears.

88**88

Half-five, John returned, bringing with him the afternoon post Sherlock had not bothered to collect from the first-floor mail basket, along with a bulging plastic bag decorated with a smiley face. When he entered their flat, he immediately noted the kitchen table had been cleared and the scientific equipment meticulously cleaned and stored in the designated spot on the worktop.

"Oh! That's a surprise," John remarked, with the bob of his head that indicated the empty table.

Sherlock missed it. Seated in his chair with his laptop balanced on his raised knees, he replied without looking up from the screen. "Surprise, indeed. You said you'd be back by five."

"No, I meant the table is cleared. Yeah. Nevermind….Anyway," John corrected with a half-smile, "I believe I said about five. Stopped for takeaway. " He lifted the bag as proof. "Wasn't sure if the kitchen would be available for food prep."

"Insightful," Sherlock muttered and kept typing.

Hefting the bag onto the kitchen table, John dumped the mail alongside it, peeled off his jacket and hung it next to Sherlock's great coat on the pegs behind the door.

Sherlock tented his fingers and sniffed. "Thai. Green Chicken Curry infused with lemongrass, coconut milk, chilli, and ginger?"

"And Chilli Beef Jasmine Rice," John added, sorting the junk from the bills. "Enough for two—" He paused over a handwritten envelope addressed to him. He shivered in recognition—it was the third he had received in so many weeks—and like the first two, he intended to read it later in private.

"Third one, I see. Same sender—a Colonel Carruthers." From across the sitting room, Sherlock's laser stare fixed on the letter in John's hand. "Each time you receive one such missive, you have the same reaction. You grimace."

John was annoyed with himself for ignoring the quickly established need for discretion around his flat-mate. This was his personal mail, after all, and he need not explain it to Sherlock. "It's nothing…," he waved it dismissively, but tightened his hold on, as if unwilling to part with it. "I'm fine."

"You said the same thing this morning after your recurring nightmare," Sherlock pointed out, "but we both know, your sleep terrors have worsened over the past three weeks—"

John flushed and shook his head. "Look, I know…I know it's disturbing, but…I …,um… I'm um…" he stammered and stopped. He didn't know what to say.

"—The first letter from Colonel Carruthers arrived three weeks ago," Sherlock continued," Before then, your sleep was less disturbed and your PTSD seemed under control. Coincidence? I think not."

"Hardly your concern, is it?" John warned in a low voice. His clenched jaw and furrowed brow did nothing to hide his chagrin at Sherlock's insight.

"I disagree. It is my concern, more so, since you live here. It has occupied my mind all day." Despite his addressing the doctor, Sherlock's eyes remained focused on his laptop. "I saw no point in bringing it up during your breakfast this morning until I had had time to think it through."

"Explains the silent treatment this morning," John mumbled before countering, "Thought you were working on that important experiment all day?"

"I multitask," Sherlock smiled to himself while typing. "Besides, since I started the experiment last night, I was able to obtain my results by early afternoon."

"So, how'd that go?" John hoped to divert the topic. "The experiment, I mean. It was for a court case, was it?"

Sherlock halted. Putting his laptop aside, he rose from his chair to join John in the kitchen. "I have proven beyond all doubt that Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, was indeed causing a plague-spot in the East-end, but don't change the subject, John. We have to address your problem. And soon. It cannot continue like this."

So this is it. John's spirits sank as Sherlock approached him. The sensitive topic he had been hoping to avoid was now in the open. Despite feeling both embarrassed and helpless about his problem, John swallowed his worry and faced Sherlock with his chin high. "Sorry. Not interested in your thoughts. I can handle this. I will handle this—"

"Handle this how? With your therapist?" Sherlock scoffed, his eyes pinned John. "Talk without action will prove ineffective. You must root out the cause of your problem, not mollycoddle it with psycho-babble platitudes."

"And you know the cause of my problem, do you?" John huffed.

Sherlock frowned and looked away. "Not exactly. But I have determined that your heightened parasomnia is recent. Uncontrolled, it can cause harm."

"What?" John recoiled, his eyes dark. "Parasomnia?" He flung the bills on the table watching them slide across the wooden tabletop. A few fell to the floor. John's left fist tightened, crumpling the Carruthers' letter while his right hand clutched at his chest. "That's what you think, is it? I'm dangerous and will harm you…?"

"Harm me? Don't be an idiot, John. You wouldn't win," Sherlock replied coolly, looking down at John. "More like harm yourself if you begin to sleep walk without an awareness of your surroundings. You should consider the stairs to your bedroom a serious problem, a sleep hazard. I deduce the contents of those Carruthers letters are exacerbating your symptoms of PTSD, causing you greater psychological stress, manifesting itself in the features of parasomnia: groaning, talking, grinding teeth, crying, screaming—"

"—the stairs to the bedroom are not my only serious problem, mate," John stated softly, clenching his fists and bowing his head. "Shut up, Sherlock."

"—accelerated heart-rate, sweating, skin flushing, confusion upon waking,…"

"Shut up now, Sherlock. You're crossing the line—"

"—exploding-head syndrome, sleep-related hallucinations, shouting, kicking …"

"Exploding-head syndrome?" John repeated, grinning with anger. "Do you even know what that is?"

"Of course. Exploding head is the condition when a person suddenly imagines violent noises just before falling asleep—"

"Sonofabitch!" John cocked his head in escalating anger and glared at his flat-mate. "Where do you get this stuff? Why not add bed wetting to your list? My God! How the bloody hell do you come off psychoanalyzing me?"

"It's not psychoanalysis, John, merely what I've observed since you took up residence here …" Sherlock paused for reflection. "Although, I have not observed any bed wetting…"

John barked a mirthless laugh and raised his eyes toward the ceiling. "Sod this. I'm going out…" before I punch you in the face, he added silently, grabbing his jacket and heading toward the door.

"What?" Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled by John's reaction and gestured toward the unpacked takeaway. "What about dinner?"

"You know?" John straightened his shoulders and inhaled deeply, "I'm not hungry right now." He paused at the threshold at the landing. "You are extraordinary, Sherlock, at being an annoying dick! So tell me again, what do people normally say after one of your uncanny deductions …?"

Sherlock recalled their conversation months earlier in the taxi. John had complimented him, called him amazing… extraordinary…. He had replied in surprise, "That's not what people normally say…."

Sherlock gave a single nod of his head and answered his flat-mate, now as he had then with, "Piss off!"

"Yeah!" John gave him a smug smile. "Wonder why?" He bounded down the stairs and slammed the front door behind him.

Sherlock crossed to the window overlooking Baker Street and watched John storm off—not for the first time and probably not for the last. The flicker of concern he was feeling was new to him. Unsettling. That the truth he had dispensed was unwelcome was not new to him. Grasping that he had mishandled the situation with his flat-mate, Sherlock now had to re-strategize if he was to eliminate the problem with John. He would need subtlety to allay John Watson's legitimate resentment as he dug deeper into the former army surgeon's connection with Colonel Carruthers.

**88**

Author's Note

Special thanks to my very knowledgeable Holmesian friend for not only warning me about the pitfalls of excessive sentiment but for taking the time to show me what she means. Even so, in this story, I may have been heavy handed in playing the angst card. Apologies!

And thanks to all my special FF friends, especially englishtutor, and readers who encourage me to continue writing with their comments and constancy.

I must again compliment the brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am always greatly indebted for the series' dialogues.

(All disclaimers apply. I claim no rights to the characters or storylines from the BBC show.)